Page 19 of Penalty Kiss
I turn my back on him. The hurt curdles into something darker, more satisfying. Petty. Deliciously, vindictively petty.
Fine. If Cam Wilder wants to treat me like just another pretty waitress, then Cam Wilder gets exactly what he deserves—a nice, hot cup of disappointment disguised as Colombian roast.
I grab a mug, then—with a furtive glance toward Mrs. Whitmore, busy at the grill—swap it for the decaf carafe. The liquid smells like treason.
Perfect.
I pour it into Cam’s mug, watching the steam rise. Here’s a dash of cold water. Two sugars? Absolutely. I grabthreepackets, rip them open with unnecessary force, and dump the contents into the lukewarm decaf. Stirring like it’s an act of war.
Enjoy your sugar bomb, superstar.
“Order up for Table Five!” Mrs. Whitmore calls from the pass, sliding a plate of golden pancakes toward me.
“Be right there!” I call back, grabbing Cam’s mug of petty sabotage. The bell jingles again, but I’m focused on my target. Revenge is a dish best served caffeinated… or not.
I deliver the pancakes to Table Five with my best smile, then pivot toward Cam’s booth. He’s scrolling on his phone, looking effortlessly gorgeous and completely relaxed. The sight fuels my resolve.
I walk the travesty of a beverage with meticulous care, my movements sharp, precise. The decaf smells like betrayal. The excessive sugar feels like justice. I place the mug on the table with a decisive clink, sliding it towards him with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Here’s your coffee,Sweetheart.” My smile could freeze hell.
Let’s see how Mr. NHL likes his sugar-rushed edge now.
“Thanks, gorgeous.” He flashes another grin, lifting the mug without looking closely.
I linger, pretending to straighten the salt and pepper shakers, watching him take that first sip.
He sips and lets out a moan—a low, appreciative sound that does absolutely nothing helpful to my blood pressure or the situation between my thighs. His eyes closing briefly in apparent satisfaction. “Perfect,” he sighs, opening his eyes and giving me that megawatt smile again. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Urgh!I want to dump the entire pot of coffee over his perfectly styled head.
The sheer, oblivious audacity of it is staggering. He thinks I’m beingnice. He thinks this is service with a smile, not a declaration of war served in a ceramic mug.
He chuckles and stretches, the sound rich and warm. My eyes noticing his Henley pulling tight across those strong shoulders.
Memories flood back in vivid detail: His hands fisting in my shirt, the rough brick scraping my back as he pressed me against the wall. The way he groaned when I rolled my hips—low and desperate like I was killing him slowly. The thick, hard length of him grinding against me, making me forget every reason why it was a bad idea.
And now? Nothing. Just charming indifference.
I return to the pass with a huff.
"Everything okay, hon?" Mrs. Whitmore pauses beside me, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She follows my gaze to Cam's booth. "Ah. The hockey star. Levi said he was coming to town. Causing a stir already, I see."
"He's just a customer, Mrs. W," I say, feigning nonchalance. "Like any other."
She snorts softly, wiping her hands on her ever-present apron. "Honey, that man is not like any other. But if he gives you any trouble, you let me know. We run a respectable establishment."
Then she whispers with a knowing look. "And if he doesn't give you trouble... well, you let me know that too."
I stick out my tongue at her.
But I’m still feeling hot. The endearment. The easy charm. The absolute gall of him lounging like a smug cat, while my insides knot like over-spun taffy.
I need to take him down a notch.
Time for a reality check, waitress-style.
So, I stroll back to his table, lean in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper laced with venomous sweetness. "Actually, it's decaf." I watch the smile freeze on his face. "With three sugars. And I added a splash of lukewarm water for good measure. Enjoy."
