Page 40 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
“Sounds poetic.”
“Or made up.”
He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, thoughtful. “Well, if anyone in Starling Grove could help decode it, maybe the library has something. Old cookbooks? Botanical references?”
I tilt my head. “You think so?”
“Definitely worth a shot. Besides,” he says, pushing off the frame, “I’ve got a soft spot for culinary mysteries. Especially if they involve sugar.”
I smile, feeling the warmth of his enthusiasm spark something inside me. “Alright. Let’s go.”
As we step onto the sidewalk, I slip my arm through his without thinking, our pace syncing easily. We walk like that—connected and just a little too close for comfort—until I realize what I’ve done.
I glance down, startled by how natural it felt. He doesn’t seem to mind.
Neither do I.
Chapter twenty-five
Theo
Cam’s arm slips into mine like it belongs there. The warmth of her, the light scent of sugar and citrus that clings to her skin—it’s distracting in the best and worst ways. I try not to think too much about how natural it feels. About how badly I want to lean into it.
She points ahead. “That’s it. Starling Grove’s library.”
I follow her gaze. The building rises like something out of time. Grand, three stories high, with climbing ivy across its stone facade. Wide steps stretch out in front, worn smooth from decades of feet. Pillars frame a massive oak door inlaid with stained glass. The whole place smells faintly of books, pine, and waxed wood—even from outside.
“It’s gorgeous,” she murmurs.
“And older than most of the town,” I say. “I used to come here just to stare at the ceiling.”
She grins. “That sounds like something a broody child would do.”
“I was a charmingly serious teenager, thank you.”
We climb the stairs together. Inside, the place is warm and hushed. Sunlight filters through high windows, casting gold over rows and rows of shelves. The air smells like paper and quiet magic.
As we cross into the main hall, Cam gently slips her arm from mine. The absence of her touch is immediate. A small ache. I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from reaching back.
We spread out across different sections, starting with cookbooks and botanical references. She pulls out a hefty book titledSweets Through the Ageswhile I comb throughBotanical Additives in Historic Cooking. We sit at one of the long oak tables, flipping pages and taking notes. She mumbles to herself while reading, completely absorbed. I find it endearing.
“Anything yet?” I ask.
She blows a curl out of her face. “Lots of weird ingredients, but nothing about petal sugar. It’s like it doesn’t exist.”
“Maybe it has another name,” I suggest. “Or maybe it’s a regional thing. Try the index for floral sweets.”
We swap books and keep going. She leans over my shoulder to glance at a botanical illustration, and I catch a hint of lavender and vanilla from her hair. My heart stutters.
“Still nothing,” she mutters after another ten minutes. “Either Zae made it up or it’s so old it predates digital records.”
“Or,” I say, standing, “it’s in the basement archive.”
She looks up, curious. “Basement?”
“Yep. Come on.”
We make our way to the desk where an older librarian with steel-grey hair looks up and smiles. I worked here for a year before college, and knew my way around the place.
