Page 47 of Penalty Kiss
Chapter 9
Overtime Heat
Cam
The drive to Sugar Mill Lofts isn’t long, but my head makes it feel like a three-day road trip.
Seventy-two hours ago, I was a concussed hockey player hoping a small town hideaway in Cedar Falls would heal my brain.
Then, I find myself playing bodyguard to a beautiful woman of mystery.
And now I’m a concussed hockey player completely gone for a runaway heiress who’s screwing with my head in ways no doctor warned me about. Obsessed, smitten, enamored—whatever the synonym, it’s giving me a whole new kind of headache.
Call it an upgrade. Or maybe just my downfall.
"Quit staring at me like that," Tara says without looking up from her phone. "It's unnerving."
"Like what?"
She rolls her eyes, but the slight flush climbing her neck tells me everything her sharp tongue won't.
After cooking for the bistro staff yesterday, we went back to her place, tension crackling between us. But we'd kept our hands to ourselves, playing this ridiculous game of chickenwhere neither of us wants to be the first to break.Teammates, right?
My phone buzzes. Text from Luke, because my little brother has the worst timing in professional sports.
I pull over—the mild head-float hits, then passes.
Luke: Dad wants to know if you're eating actual food or surviving on gas station hot dogs. Also, are you taking your meds?
Me: Close. Made Korean corn dogs from scratch yesterday. Whole kitchen staff can vouch. Also, yes, Mom.
Luke: Smart-ass. Seriously though, how's the head?
I pause, considering. My head's been clearer today. Maybe it's being off the ice, maybe it's having something to focus on besides my scrambled neurons. Maybe it's Tara.
Me: Getting better. Cedar Falls is good for me.
Luke: And the local waitress?
Trust Luke to cut straight to the point. I glance over at Tara, who's laughing at something on her phone.
Me: Also good for me.
Luke: Dad's going to want details.
Me: Tell Dad I'm eating vegetables and taking my vitamins like a good boy. Everything else is classified.
I pocket the phone and restart the convertible.
Arriving at Sugar Mill Lofts, the late afternoon sun catches in Tara’s hair, turning the brown to burnished gold.
"So," I say, forcing myself to focus on practical matters, "Glad we’re swinging by Sugar Mill Lofts to grab my stuff. Can't keep living like some kind of vagrant.”
“You know. Clothes, toiletries, that fancy hair product that keeps this magnificent mane looking effortless." I run a hand through said mane, grinning when she rolls her eyes.
"Cam, you don't have to—"
"Move in with you? Too late, sweetheart. That train left the station the night when you agreed to let me camp on your couch."
