Page 7 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
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Later, when Jamie’s gone and the kitchen is quiet again, I linger at the table with my fingers curled around a second cup of tea that’s long since gone cold.
The lease sits in front of me like proof that something new is possible.
I trace the curve of my signature with one finger. It still doesn’t feel real.
“Gram,” I call, not turning around.
“Yes, baby?” she answers from the living room, where the soft murmur of a game show plays.
“Did you mean for this to happen?”
A pause. Then: “You mean Jamie? Or the shop?”
“Both.”
She chuckles. “I meant to give you a little push toward things youactuallywant. That’s all.”
I smile, then press my forehead to the heel of my hand. “It’s a big push.”
“That’s because I believe in you, Camellia Rose.”
Tears sneak up again, but I blink them away.
I stand and drift back upstairs to the room I slept in as a girl. It’s smaller than I remember, or maybe I’m just heavier with life now.
I sit on the bed and open the old candy shop notebook Zae and I used to scribble in—recipes, sketches, names. Her handwriting is bubbly, mine more rigid. We had no idea what we were doing, but we were so sure it would happen someday.
I press my palm to the page and whisper, “I’m doing it, Zae. We’re doing it.”
And for the first time in years, I feel like maybe I’m not floating.
I’m landing.
Right where I’m supposed to be.
Chapter five
Jamie
The scent of lemon bars still clings to my hoodie.
I’m halfway home before I realize it, one hand on the wheel and the other tapping an idle rhythm against the dash, the signed lease folder riding shotgun like a trophy. Camellia Rose Vale—tenant of 2 Waterfront Lane.
She signed it with a hand that trembled a little but didn’t flinch.
That courage? Yeah. It’s sticking with me.
So is the way her voice cracked just a bit when she said thank you. Or how she looked when her Gram started humming the wedding march like it was a casual Tuesday.
By the time I pull into the long gravel driveway, the lakeside house comes into view—our house. Not just mine. It’s home base for three alpha idiots who somehow became responsible landlords and semi-functional adults.
The place rises out of the trees like it’s grown there. Weathered cedar siding, deep porches, and windows that catch the lake light in the late afternoon like they were made for it. There’s always a smell of pine and wood smoke in the air out here, even insummer, and today there’s something else too—something faint and sugary and stubbornly clinging to me.
The porch light is already on even though there’s still plenty of daylight. Theo’s work boots are by the stairs, and I can hear the gentle hum of his sander through the open garage. Dane’s truck is parked crooked, which means he’s either in a rush or in a mood. Possibly both.
Inside, the house hums with quiet life. The entry smells like cedar and old books, the floorboards creaking in welcome under my boots. There’s a trail of receipts on the entry table, a half-built birdhouse on the arm of the couch, and an unopened package of smoke alarms on the kitchen counter. The air carries traces of roasted coffee, lemon oil, and the unmistakable scent of Theo’s pine tar hand balm.
