Page 12 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
“I see your knowledge of construction extends to rope placement,” the words slips out of my mouth before I can think better of them.
I freeze. He’s quiet for a beat too long, the air growing thicker in the shop. Then Dane clears his throat and taps the wall. “You’re gonna want insulation back here. Winter’s brutal by the lake.”
I nod, grateful for the shift.
“You’re not so bad,” I say as he packs up the drill.
He raises a brow. “Don’t let that get out.”
“I won’t. Scout’s honor.”
“You weren’t a scout.”
“I was a Brownie for three months. It counts.”
He snorts. And then—he smiles. Just a little.
“You’re trouble,” he says.
“Only the fun kind.”
He heads for the door, pauses in the frame. Turns back.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to check the brackets. And don’t forget to reinforce that bottom shelf. Or I’ll do it and charge you double.”
“Yes, sir,” I say with a mocking salute.
His eyes flicker with something almost playful.
Then he’s gone.
And I’m left standing in the middle of my almost-candy shop with my heart thudding and my cheeks warm and a stack of reinforced shelves that feel like they might actually hold something real, and not just a shadow of a dream long-abandoned dream.
Chapter seven
Cam
The scent of butter and sugar wraps around me like a blanket.
It’s late—past dinnertime, definitely—and the little kitchen in Gram’s house is a whirlwind of bowls, spoons, and half-measured ingredients. There’s powdered sugar on my cheek, raspberry puree on the stove, and a forgotten pot of honey just beginning to bubble too high.
“Shoot!” I yelp, rushing to pull it off the heat. I swirl the pan, willing it to calm down, the amber liquid sloshing with sticky menace. “Calm, calm, calm…”
The honey settles—barely—and I exhale like I just defused a bomb.
I’ve been in the kitchen for hours, testing old recipes, adjusting them slightly, trying to recreate something from memory and heartache. The raspberry-lavender chews are too tart, the salted caramel isn’t silky enough, and the honey crunch? Well, that one’s always been temperamental. Zae’s recipe, of course. She called it her “chaos candy.” Said it had mood swings. It either turned out perfectly or burned into oblivion.
I stir the honey carefully, listening to the soft tick of the clock above the sink, the crickets outside, the occasional creak of the old floorboards. The house smells like childhood and dreams deferred. Like home.
That’s when I hear the knock.
It’s soft—two light raps—and a voice follows a second later. “Cam?”
Jamie.
I wipe my hands on a towel, eyeing the honey pan like it might misbehave again the second I look away. “Come in!” I call.
The back door creaks as it opens, and Jamie steps in with a cautious smile, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting or rescuing me.
