Page 26 of Penalty Kiss
I almost laugh into my coffee. Out of all the noise, that’s the one thing my concussed brain can hold onto.
“He could walk her to and from work!”“Check her locks every night!”“He could just glower on her porch!”
Ah, they’re talking about me.
I bite back a laugh, because if I’m glowering, it’s not at porch traffic—it’s at her walking past me in nothing but one of my shirts. Forget the stalker, thewhole damn block will know she’s off-limits.
But beside me, Tara is bristling. “This is ridiculous. Cam Wilder’snotgoing to be my bodyguard.”
Her voice cuts the room to silence.
"He has a brain injury," she continues, her protective instincts apparently extending to me, the guy she served decaf to this morning. "The doctor said he needs rest, notsecurity detail. What if he gets dizzy? What if this guy comes back with friends and Cam's not at one hundred percent? It's a terrible idea."
Her logic is sound. Her concern feels genuine.
Then the murmurs start again, lower, sharper.
“He’s concussed. How long before he forgets something important?”“Protection’s no good if his reflexes are shot.”“He looks steady now, but what happens if he tips over?”
My jaw locks.I’m right here. I’m steady.
Then Levi, the human gasoline can on a megaphone, leans forward.
"Well," he says with a conspiratorial grin that tells me I'm about to be thrown under the bus, "his memory was sharp enough to recall a certain kiss in an alley last night."
The room goes dead silent. You could hear a puck drop in the parking lot.
Tara's face flames a spectacular shade of crimson that matches her mortification. I suddenly find the dregs of my coffee intensely fascinating, like there might be lottery numbers in the bottom of the mug.
"Is that so?" Mrs. Henderson addresses the room at large with the gleeful energy of someone who just stumbled onto the best gossip of the decade.
"Well, the boy's got a concussion, but Lord knows he didn't skip arm day. Are those biceps as good as they look, dear?"
So, the discussion shifts—concern sliding into something else entirely.
“Concussion or not, look at those shoulders. He could block a door with them.”
“Block a door? Honey, he could blockme.”
Laughter ripples.
“Did you see the way he yanked her chair closer earlier? That’s not bodyguard current. That’s bedroom energy.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. For once, it’s not just about safety—it’s the whole damn town openly thirsting. And Tara’s caught in the middle, cheeks flaming, while my brain short-circuits with equal parts fury and arousal.
I can’t stop thinking how good it felt to have her pressed against me. How easy it’d be to clear this room, put her against the nearest wall, and show her exactly what all their thirsty comments are hinting at.
The lights above flicker, stabbing behind my eyes. A pulse of dizziness tugs at me, the world tilting for half a second. I lock my knees, blink it away. Ninety percent. Not perfect. Butmyninety is still enough.
I push to my feet.
The noise cuts instantly, like someone hit mute.
“Police handle crime scenes,” I say, my voice carrying low, steady. “Firefighters handle fires.”
I let it hang a beat, then sweep the room with my gaze, landing square on Tara.
“And anyone stupid enough to touch her? They answer to me. Anyone who so much as looks at her the wrong way. Trust me—I'm a lot more creative off the ice than on it.”
