Page 17 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
Dane just nods, but there’s satisfaction in the tilt of his head.
I stretch my arms over the back of the couch, trying to ignore the weird flutter in my chest.
It’s just a job. A good deed. A distraction.
But I already know it won’t be just that. Not with the way those two idiots are acting.
Chapter nine
Cam
Icrouch by the front window, attempting to measure for the third time whether this display shelf will even fit the way I envisioned. My tape measure refuses to cooperate, and my hair keeps falling into my eyes despite the messy bun I twisted it into hours ago.
I huff and squint at the corner, trying to see if I miscalculated again. “This shelf is mocking me,” I mutter.
The door chimes behind me.
I shoot up so fast I smack my elbow against the side of the shelf. “Ow—!”
“Need a hand?” a low, calm voice says.
I turn, clutching my elbow and trying not to look completely flustered. Standing just inside the doorway is an alpha who could’ve walked straight off a movie poster for “Tall, Dark, and Moody.” Dark jeans, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, dark hair that curls just slightly at the ends, and those eyes—deep and quiet, like he’s seen too much and doesn’t want to admit it.
He’s not smiling. Not unfriendly, just… still.
“I’m Theo,” he says, stepping forward. “Jamie and Dane mentioned you might need help.”
I blink. “Oh. Uh, yeah—maybe. This shelf is determined to ruin me.”
He nods once, stepping closer, and I instinctively back up, aware of his scent—woodsmoke and something earthy. Not overwhelming, just... grounding. Distracting. The kind of scent that slides under your skin and settles there like it’s always belonged.
“I can handle it if you’re busy,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to keep you.”
“I’m here,” he says simply. “Let’s get it done.”
And just like that, he rolls up his sleeves and kneels down beside the base of the shelf. I watch him move—methodical, precise—and then feel ridiculous for just standing there like a stunned squirrel.
I kneel beside him. “I’m Cam, by the way.”
“I know,” he says. “I remember you.”
That catches me off guard. “From where?”
“Back in the day,” he says. “You and your sister used to sneak candy into the library, where I worked. Zae would distract the head librarian while you set up a trading post behind the biography section.”
My mouth opens. Then closes. “We were very enterprising.”
A faint twitch of a smile. Barely there—but it counts.
We settle into a rhythm. I hand him tools. He anchors the base. We measure twice, drill once. And somewhere between debating shelf height and which direction looks less crooked, the silence between us shifts into something almost comfortable.
“You’ve done this before,” I say.
He glances over. “I’ve built worse things with worse tools in worse weather.”
I snort. “That sounds encouraging.”
“I mean it as a compliment.”
