Page 79 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
“Yes,” I gasp out, his already swollen knot fighting for entry. He doesn’t need more permission and pushes me down. I cry as it enters me and fills me. As it completes me.
When the tide crests, it is not a jagged thing. It’s a long, bright arc that leaves me shaking and laughing into his shoulder, folded over, all the fear washed thinner than I thought possible. He wraps his arms around me and holds me until my breathing evens, gently stroking my hair and my back.
“Still okay?” he says at last, hushed.
I nod against him. “More than okay.”
“Good,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to my temple like he’s sealing something.
We lie there waiting for his knot to shrink, the breeze combing over us, the sea’s salt somewhere far and kind. My heartbeat slows. His does, too.
“Do you want water?” he asks after a while, the caretaker slipping back into his voice.
“In a minute,” I murmur. “Just… this first.”
“Just this,” he agrees, and we let the quiet have us again.
When I finally sit up, he reaches for the mug before I can, scolding my attempt at independence with an arch look that makes me grin. He sips first, makes a face, and declares the tea undrinkable at its current temperature. I tell him he’s become a diva since nearly being crushed by a building. He says he prefers “connoisseur.” I say I prefer “alive.”
He sobers at that, eyes shining in the thin light. “Me too.”
We tidy nothing. We promise nothing. We build small, ordinary moments and stack them like smooth stones on a windowsill: a shared laugh; a quiet breath; his fingers smoothing my hair behind my ear; my hand over his, thumb tracing the scar near his knuckle. Outside, gulls wheel and complain. Inside, the floor creaks a question and the breeze answers.
The heat is still there, banked and warm. It feels less like a thing that will break me and more like a thing I can meet, especially with someone who makes the word help feel like I’m the one offering it back.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean a hundred things.
He squeezes my hand. “Anytime.”
I insist we move to the lounger. I’m worried about his leg, and I know he has to keep it elevated. I dress and help him back there, and curl beside him once he’s comfortable. He covers me with the blanket and holds me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And, right now, it is.
The tide has ebbed away from me, and he’sthe nest I currently need.
Chapter fifty-seven
Jamie
Cam’s breathing has evened out into that soft, slow rhythm that means she’s gone under. Her head is tucked against my chest, her hair a tangle of silk under my chin, and one arm is curled between us like she’s afraid I might slip away if she doesn’t keep me anchored. The lounger creaks every time I shift, but I’m careful not to. If she’s comfortable here, that’s where we stay.
The blanket’s one of the thicker ones from the linen cupboard—soft, a little worn at the edges, smelling faintly of cedar and sunshine. I pulled it over her when her shoulders twitched in her sleep. Her scent’s mellowed since earlier, still warm but calmer, more settled. It threads through the salt of the sea breeze and the faint tang of the herbal tea she had before drifting off.
I’ve got the best seat in the world.
By the time Theo and Dane step in from the back door, arms full of canvas bags, my body’s half-asleep with her weight. They’re talking over each other—something about the boat engine and whether it’s getting cranky again—but the momentthey spot us, Theo’s mouth curls into a knowing grin. Dane tries for subtle, fails instantly.
“Glad to see you kept busy,” Theo says in that too-innocent tone that’s never actually innocent.
I tilt my head without dislodging Cam. “Busy holding down the fort,” I reply in a whisper. “It’s an important job.”
Dane smirks as he sets a bag on the counter. “Mm. Fort smells… interesting.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no bite to it. “Maybe that’s just your cooking supplies.”
“We brought good stuff,” Theo chimes in, ignoring the jab. He starts unpacking bread, cheese, some cured meats, and a jar of something that looks suspiciously like peach preserves. “And sent a message on the radio so her Gram wouldn’t worry.”
I glance down at Cam. Still out, her face smoothed into that rare, unguarded softness she doesn’t let many people see. My chest does something inconvenient and warm. “She’ll be glad to hear that,” I say quietly.
Dane’s already got a skillet heating on the stove. “We figured we’d make something hot before it gets too late. You eat yet?”
