Page 48 of Penalty Kiss
"That was supposed to be temporary."
I turn my body to study her face. There's something in her expression—not quite panic, but close. Like the reality of having me in her space for more than one night is hitting her.
"Hey." I reach over to squeeze her hand, catching that vanilla scent that's becoming as familiar as my own heartbeat. "What's really bothering you?"
She shrugs, a gesture I'm learning means she's feeling vulnerable. "It's just... I've been on my own for three years. Complete independence. No one to answer to, no one to consider when I make decisions."
"And now you've got a six-foot-four hockey player cluttering up your living room."
"Exactly." Her smile is rueful. "It's an adjustment."
I lean against the armrest, giving her space but staying close enough that she knows I'm not going anywhere. "That sounds familiar."
"What?"
"I've never lived with anyone since college. Not really. Hotel rooms, teammates' couches, my parents' place when I'm visiting. But never... this. Never someone I actually want to wake up next to."
Her breath catches, and I see the exact moment my words hit home.
"Cam..."
"I'm not going to crowd you, Tara. I'm not going to rearrange your furniture or leave dirty dishes in the sink or hog the remote." I pause, letting a grin tug at my mouth. "Okay, I might hog the remote a little. But only during motocross races."
That gets a laugh out of her, the sound loosening something tight in my chest.
"Besides," I add, opening the car door, "teammates share space all the time. Locker rooms, hotels, that awful team bus Coach insisted on for road games in juniors. This is just... extended team bonding."
She slides out of the passenger seat, shaking her head. "Everything's a hockey metaphor with you, isn't it?"
"When you've spent twenty years of your life on the ice, yeah, pretty much." I glance over at her. "You got a problem with that, Rookie?"
"Rookie," she repeats, and there's something different in her voice. Softer. "When did that become my nickname?"
I slam the car door, considering. "First time I saw you handle that creep in the alley. You fought like someone who'd been scrapping her whole life, but there was something... I don't know. Like you were figuring out who you could be in the fight."
Her fingers toy with the hem of her shirt. "I like it. The nickname, I mean."
"Good. Because it's sticking."
"Come, let’s head up. See where I was supposed to be recovering in peace and quiet before I got distracted by a certain beautiful server with a talent for coffee sabotage?"
She gives me a playful push. "Lead the way."
The loft is exactly as I left it—pristine and sterile. Tara wanders around the space while I gather my things, her fingers trailing over the expensive furniture, the untouched kitchen, the bed I slept in for exactly one night.
"It's nice," she says, but there's something careful in her tone.
"It's a hotel room with a better kitchen," I correct, stuffing clothes into my duffel bag. "Lily did a great job but it feels a bit of a lavish waiting room."
"And my place doesn't?"
I pause in my packing to look at her. She's standing by the window, backlit by the golden afternoon light, and the sight of her in this space makes me realize something I hadn't articulated before.
"Your place feels like home."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. She turns from the window, her expression unreadable.
"Cam—"
