Page 9 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
“As soon as I’m back,” he corrects himself, still grumbling.
“Can’t wait.” I sip from a glass of water—cold from the fridge, crisp and clean—and lean back against the counter, perfectly casual.
Dane squints at me. “Why are you so smug?”
“Me? Smug? Never.”
Theo sighs and drops into a chair, brushing sawdust from his jeans. The chair groans under him, but he makes it look like an invitation to relax. “You smell way better than usual. Did she make lemon bars?”
“Nope. Her grandmother did.”
“Damn.”
There’s a beat of quiet, broken only by the sound of Dane muttering as he reopens the lease. The overhead fan ticks lazily above us, the late sun turning the edge of the kitchen table to gold.
Dane is still grumbling at the lease, so I hand him and Theo a beer and sit down on the couch, smiling.
They’ll see soon enough.
And judging by the way Cam looked when she signed that lease, like she was finally stepping into something she thought she'd lost... I think they’ll understand.
Eventually.
Chapter six
Cam
The shop smells like fresh paint, sawdust, and the ghosts of a hundred dreams.
Mine and Zae’s, mostly.
I’m standing in the middle of the front room, arms crossed, trying to decide if the display table should be angled slightly to the left or if I’ve lost my mind entirely. The sunlight filters through the huge front windows, catching on specks of dust still floating from the weekend’s sanding and painting. The walls are a warm buttery cream now—after three test swatches and a minor existential crisis—and the trim is a soft rose gold that’s just shy of being too much.
It’s beautiful.
And terrifying.
The back room smells of pine from the new counters Jamie helped me source, and the beginnings of a kitchen space that isn’t quite real yet. I have lists—so many lists—and a vision, and approximately an ounce of chill left to my name.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, holding a labeled jar up to the light. “Gummies here. Fudge there. The retro bin wall can go...” I trail off, then spin in a slow circle. “...somewhere.”
I sink to the floor, my legs folding under me like I’ve done this exact motion a thousand times before. Which I have. Just not here. Not since Zae.
The folder of old sketches and plans lies open next to me, a polaroid half-tucked between the pages. She’s in it, beaming, holding up a tray of laughably lumpy bonbons like they were Olympic gold. We were sixteen. My handwriting in the corner reads:Zae's Disaster Truffles – 7/14.
I touch the edge of the photo and feel the burn in my chest tighten.
“You’d be laughing at me right now,” I whisper. “Or calling me a genius. Or both.”
The tears start before I can stop them. Quiet, salty, inevitable.
It’s been five years. But this is the first time I’ve tried to do it alone. To follow the dream I’d buried with her.
I press the heel of my hand to my eyes. I just need a second. Just a second to breathe and regroup and—
The bell over the door jingles.
I freeze. Heart in my throat. I swipe at my eyes and scramble to my feet, tucking the photo under the nearest jar.
