Page 28 of Penalty Kiss
Relief washes over me so hard it makes me slightly dizzy—though that might just be the concussion. This is my chance. My shot to prove I'm not the idiot who forgot the best kiss of his life.
The crowd filters out, crockpot squad schedules in their hands. Tara braces against the fire truck in resignation.
I plant a hand on the fire truck beside her head. She folds her arms tight, chin tipped like she’s ready for a fight.
“I know you’re not happy about this,” I say, because stating the obvious seems like a good place to start.
“That’s the understatement of the century,” she mutters, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. It makes her look younger, more vulnerable.
She still won’t quite look at me, and I can see the war flickering across her face—anger, fear, frustration.
“Look,” I say quietly, “I’m not the jovial, jokey guy all the time. Not when it matters. About forgetting last night—I'm sorry for making you think it didn't matter.”
"This isn't a game, Cam," she says quietly, and there's a weight in her voice that tells me she knows exactly how serious this is.
"I know." I step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of vanilla and something uniquely her. "I'll be good. Model houseguest. Quiet, non-concussed human scarecrow. You won't even know I'm there."
She lets out a small, skeptical snort, "I highly doubt that."
“You declared me your jurisdiction,” she adds, eyes snapping fire.
“Correction.” I dip closer to the space only she can hear. “I declared that no one touches you while I’m breathing. Big difference.”
Her lips press tight, but her pulse flutters at the base of her throat. I see it. Feel it in the heat radiating off her.
“You can’t just move into my house,” she tries again, though it comes out thinner this time.
“Like everyone said —and like you promised your town. I can move onto your couch. Which is happening.”
Her chin tips higher, defiant.
Heat coils low in my gut.
The air between us tightens like every ounce of Cedar Falls gossip just funneled into this one square foot of space.
“You’re not my savior, Wilder. You’re a temporary inconvenience with memory problems.”
I dip my face until there’s barely an inch between us, close enough to breathe in that warm vanilla on her skin. Her pupils flare. Her lips part—then snap shut like she’s caught herself.
“Is that what I am?” I murmur, my mouth almost brushing hers.
“That’s exactly what you are.” But her voice betrays her—husky, thinned out, like she already knows she’s lying.
I edge closer, let my breath skim her cheek.
“Temporary? No, Darling, I’m the kind of inconvenience that sticks. And a patient one, if that’s what you need. Becausewhat I really want—” I pause, let the weight of it settle between us.
“—is to kiss you again. To kiss you until you forget your own name. To taste every sound you make, feel you unravel under my hands. To bury myself so deep inside you that neither of us remembers why we were fighting.”
Her pupils blow wide. Her thighs press together, a restless shift she probably doesn’t even realize she’s making. And in that heartbeat, I see it again—that alley desire from last night. Her wanting me as much as I want her.
My blood’s already surging south when her phone buzzes, shattering the moment.
She jerks, glances down—and all the color drains from her face.
I catch the screen:Made a new friend?
Attached: a photo of us inside the bistro this morning—shot from across the street.
