Page 42 of Penalty Kiss
But as she glides off to another table, I realize just sitting here—watching, waiting—feels like a penalty kill with no stick. Too static. Too obvious.
Watching her move, knowing my PCS will drop details if I try to track everything, gnaws at me. If I really want to keep eyes on her, if I want to send a message to whoever’s watching, I need to bein the game.
I straighten in my chair, smirk tugging at my mouth as the idea forms.
When Tara circles back, I catch her wrist, lean in with a grin that she knows spells trouble.
“New plan, Rookie. I’m done sitting pretty in the corner.”
Her brows draw together. “Cam… what are you—”
“You’ll see.”
Chapter 8
Sugar-Dusted Sentinel
Tara
The bistro, normally a haven of predictable rhythms, becomes a stage for theCameron Wilder Show, while my pulse keeps its own drumline under the applause.
Every laugh he coaxes from the crowd is a distraction, a bright, dangerous flare against the chilling shadow of my stalker situation.
But…it’s impressive to see how Cam becomes a performance, a shield, a walking, talking distraction for both of us.
He doesn’t serve tables, of course. He’s too large, too…presentfor the delicate art of navigating crowded aisles with steaming plates. Instead, he “helps.”
This means he sweeps through the dining room like a well-meaning tornado, greeting regulars with boisterous cheer, making children shriek with laughter by pretending to trip over his own feet, and charming the new customers until they are practically eating out of his enormous, capable hands.
Mrs. Whitmore clutches her order pad at the register like it’s a rosary made of receipt paper.
“Wilder,” she hisses under her breath as he breezes by again, “you are not insured.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. W.” He taps the Stanley Cup ring on his finger, gleaming under the lights. “I’ve got the balance of a figure skater.”
Balance is… debatable. But charisma? He could sell hot cocoa in the Sahara.
Phones tilt toward him like sunflowers. He’s a one-man photo op—guests lean in, capturing smiles between bites and sips of local Cabernet Franc.
Laughter rolls from one booth to the next. He’s good with strangers in a way that’s almost unfair—listening as if every person is the most interesting human he’s met all week, then pinging that attention back to me between tables, like I’m his North Star.
I hate that my skin notices. I also hate that a darker thought pricks the back of my mind—how easy it would be for one of those tilted phones to not be snapping a fun photo, but something shadier. Cam seems to know it too; every wink toward me feels like more than showmanship, like he’s marking me safe under his orbit.
I push the unease down, letting myself watch as Cam stops at Patricia Peterson’s booth, easing a hip against the seat like he’s posing for a vintage ad. Patricia is in her seventies, sharp eyes, sharper tongue.
“Patricia,” he says, lowering his voice mischievously, “serious question. Do I look like a man who would steer you wrong?”
She eyes him over her glasses. “Young man, you look like a man who could sell a bridge to a mermaid.”
“Correct,” he concedes cheerfully. “Which is why I feel morally obligated to suggest the steak sandwich. It’s a spiritual experience.”
“Spiritual?” she repeats, fighting a smile. “Is that what they call it?”
“It comes with caramelized onions and house sauce,” he whispers, like he’s revealing state secrets. “It’s also the mostexpensive non-seafood item on the menu, and I need to hit a ‘quota’.”
Patricia shoots Mrs. Whitmore a look and decides to play along. “Too bad you’re not a Chippendale. You’d make a fortune.”
Without missing a beat, Cam gives her the cleanest, cheekiest hip roll I’ve ever seen, finishes with a quick flex that makes his bicep pop beneath the sleeve of his henley.
