Page 14 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
He’s still watching me, steady and sure. Like he’s not afraid of the mess—of me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I will be,” I say. “Eventually.”
“Good.” He offers a small smile. “Because I’m expecting to see this shop filled with people and kids and pastel jars full of chaos candy.”
I huff a soft laugh. “That’s the goal.”
We clean up side-by-side—he dries while I wash, our movements syncing like we’ve done this before. Like it’s easy.
Eventually, the kitchen is calm again. Still scented with sugar and lemon and lavender. Still full of ghosts, but... a little warmer now.
We sit at the kitchen table afterward, both nursing warm mugs of tea Gram left steeping in her favorite rosebud china pot. I didn’t plan on company, but I don’t want to ask him to leave. Jamie rests his elbow on the table and leans his chin into his hand, watching the steam curl from his cup.
“She used to sneak candy into school,” I say suddenly. “Zae. Stuffed it in her boots like a little outlaw. She said no test was ever hard when you had lemon drops in your socks.”
Jamie grins. “She sounds like a menace.”
“The best kind,” I say, smiling.
We fall quiet again. It’s a still sort of silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. The kind you can lean into.
Jamie doesn’t fidget or press. He just exists beside me, solid and safe, and it’s honestly more comforting than I expected.
After a while, I whisper, “I miss her so much.”
“I can tell. And from the little you’ve told me, I get why.”
I nod, and my fingers brush the edge of the folded recipe page on the table.
“This was her dream, too. I just want this to be good enough,” I add. “For her. For me. For this town.”
“It will be.” Jamie’s voice is low but sure. “Because it matters to you.”
I glance at him then, heart pinching.
He sees me. And maybe even believes in me more than I do.
The clock ticks gently. The tea cools. I don’t want to move.
But eventually I set down my cup.
“I should find more recipes,” I say quietly. “Try again tomorrow.”
Jamie stands, stretching slowly. “Want me to stay and help?”
I hesitate.
“No,” I say, soft but grateful. “But thank you. Really.”
He nods. Then pulls out a notepad from his back pocket and scribbles something, tearing it off and handing it to me.
“My number,” he says. “My personal one.”
I take it carefully. “Thanks.”
“If you need help. Or someone to try more heartbreak candy.”
