Page 30 of Penalty Kiss
Mortification floods me—not because of the pajamas, but because I just gave him a full-onWelcome to Your Life, Cam Wilderpresentation like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Still, when his gaze drags lower, I can’t help following it. Cotton shorts. An oversizedBooks Are My Happy Placetee. A questionable stain near the hem. Nothing remotely seductive—yet the way his eyes are lingering makes me feel like I'm wearing nothing at all.
"Hi! Glad you remember… err, good morning to you, sunshine," I blurt, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Sleep well on my torture device of a couch?"
He stretches, a long, lazy movement that makes every muscle in his torso shift and flex. The blanket slips lower, revealing the line of dark hair that disappears beneath the cotton. My mouth goes dry.
"Best sleep I've had in weeks," he says, and there's something in his tone—warm, intimate—that makes me wonder if he's talking about more than just the furniture.
I turn back to the coffee maker, needing the distraction. "That's good. You needed the rest."
"Tara."
In the quiet of my kitchen, the way he says my name feels too intimate, like he’s claiming the space—and me—with two syllables.
I keep my back to him, hands busy with mugs I don't need to arrange. "What?"
"Look at me."
The request is quiet, but it carries weight. I take a breath and turn around.
He's sitting up now, blanket pooled around his waist, studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to hide. Or step closer. I can't decide which.
"We need to talk," he says. "About last night. About what's happening here."
My stomach clenches. He’s going to swear he’s all in—insist on making me his project, pledging himself to a job I never asked him to take.
"Cam," I say quickly, before he can continue. "You’ve already done too much with the guarding, couch camping, and door-checking. We’ve reported this to the police. You don’t need to do any of this. You should go back to your real life."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe even hurt. "My real life?"
I wave a hand vaguely. "You know. NHL stuff. Recovery. Whatever you need to do that doesn't involve babysitting me."
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Is that what you think this is? Babysitting?"
The coffee maker beeps, filling the silence. I busy myself pouring two mugs, adding sugar to his the way I remember from yesterday. When I turn back, he's standing.
Holy. He's big. Even rumpled and half-asleep, he commands the space like he was born to it. The cotton shorts I gave him last night—a pair I'd bought for a boyfriend I never had—hang low on his hips, revealing the cut of muscle at his lower abdomen.
"Here," I say, holding out his mug like an offering to the gods.
Instead of taking it, he steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the warm, sleepy scent of his skin. Close enough that I have to tip my head way back to meet his eyes.
"You think I stayed here last night because I felt sorry for you?" he asks quietly.
"D… Didn't you?" I stammer.
His laugh is soft, rueful. "Sweetheart, if pity was my motivation, I'd have gone back to Sugar Mill Lofts after I called the police."
I blink up at him, confused. "Then why—"
"Because seeing that photo made me want to hunt down whoever took it and introduce them to my stick." His voice deepens lower, rougher. "Because the idea of someone watching you, following you, makes me want to tear this town apart until I find them."
The mug trembles in my hands. "Cam—"
"Because," he continues, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from my face, “like I told you last night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I remembered our alley kiss. Because even when I couldn’t pull your name and face, I remembered how you tasted. How you felt pressed against me.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My entire body. “You felt bad forgetting, so…you don’t have to say that.”
