Page 17 of Penalty Kiss
"Just refilled, ladies. Patricia, I told Ruth she shouldn't tease you about your prize-winning dahlias. Everyone knows size matters in horticulture."
Ruth chokes on her tea while Patricia preens. "Exactly! Thank you, Tara dear. At least someone here understands the importance of proper cultivation."
I wink and keep moving, my brain automatically cataloging the room: Table Three needs ketchup. Mrs. Kline's almond milk latte is ready at the counter. The new couple in the corner booth—tourists by their matching "I Heart Cedar Falls" sweatshirts—are debating pancakes versus waffles with the intensity of UN peace negotiators.
All perfectly normal. Predictable. Safe.
Last night's "so-hungry-you-could-eat-a-horse" challenge at Mane Street Bistro was chaos perfected. I should be riding thathigh this morning. Instead, my brain is stuck on replay, dissecting every second of that alley.
Last night happened. The kiss happened. The dry-humping-a-hockey-legend-in-a-dark-alley happened.
Hall of Fame for bad life choices? Nominated.
I feel a flush blooming.
My lips feel swollen. My skin too tight. Every nerve ending is apparently filing a formal complaint about the lack of follow-through.
I slept maybe two hours. The rest of the night was spent staring at my ceiling mirror, replaying every second of Cameron Wilder's mouth on mine, his hands pulling me against him, the way he felt pressed against me—hard and wanting and so perfectly big... And how I literally ran away.
Like a coward. Or a sane person. Jury's still out.
Who does that? Who brazenly kisses a super-hot guy in the middle of an alley—like a starving woman grabbing the first dessert tray that passes—just because she’s frustrated and reckless?
Me. Apparently.
Mrs. Whitmore, the Mane Street Bistro's owner, my boss and my surrogate mother figure, flurries past me, her arms laden with clean coffee mugs.
"Earth to Tara," she calls, setting the mugs down with a clatter. Her sharp eyes miss nothing, especially not the way I'm staring blankly at the espresso machine instead of prepping another round of morning brew.
"You planning on joining us today, sweetheart, or are you gonna make latte hearts at that steam wand all morning?"
I jerk back to reality. "Just… strategizing the caffeine distribution," I blatantly lie, earning a chortle from her.
"Priority status: Mrs. Henderson gets her latte before she starts interrogating the Mayor about property taxes again."
"Good plan. Though if anyone can keep Roy Lewis in line, it's Edna Henderson and her cane." She eyesme, her gaze softening. "You alright? You look like you wrestled a bear last night and lost."
"Just a weird dream," I deflect, turning my back to fiddle unnecessarily with the coffee grinder.
The truth is too tangled.
Taralyn Delacroix doesn't get rescued in alleys by charming athletes.
Tara Haynes serves coffee, blueberry muffins, with a listening ear on the side. That's the script.
Last night is… off-book.
"You know how it is. Just the heat from the kitchen, breakfast rush and all." The clock on the wall reads nine-fifteen AM. "It'll calm down soon enough."
I take a deep breath, pulling the familiar cloak of 'Tara the Unflappable Waitress' around me. Shoulders back, smile ready, memory sharp. This is my stage.
Then the bell above the door jingles.
My spine straightens. My nipples tingle.
Six-foot-four Korean-Danish hockey god, Cameron Wilder, just strides in like a natural disaster in designer jeans—thighs built to ruin a girl's resolve.
He fills the doorway like he owns the building, sunlight striking the sharp angles of his face. Muscles and mischief, dark hair tousled, that infamous grin already dialed up to “charming menace” as he scans the room.
