Page 50 of Penalty Kiss
She laughs, the sound light and unguarded. I push the cart alongside her, narrating her choices in an exaggerated announcer voice.
"And rookie Haynes goes for the black seedless grapes—bold move in the third! The crowd is on their feet as she approaches the bell peppers."
"You're ridiculous," she says, but she's fighting a smile.
"Part of my charm." I bump her hip with mine. "Now, serious question. How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?"
"Positive, as long as it doesn't involve you destroying my kitchen."
"Me? Destroy?" I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. "I'm a culinary artist. You saw me work magic with corn dogs the other day."
"I also saw the absolute wreckage you left behind. Three different whisks, Cam. For corn dogs."
"Each whisk serves a purpose, Rookie. It's like hockey sticks—different flex for different plays."
She rolls her eyes, but there's fondness there now, not just exasperation. We move through the store, adding eggs, pancake mix, bacon, and more to our haul. I grab chocolate chips without comment, and she pretends not to notice, but I catch the tiny smile that says she approves.
"Cam Wilder?"
I turn to find a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes approaching us. She's got that look—the one that says she's about to either ask for an autograph or lecture me about something.
"Yes, ma'am," I say, automatically shifting into charm mode.
"I'm Janet Morrison. I run the bakery section." She glances at Tara, then back to me. "I wanted to thank you."
"Thank me?"
"For what you did at the fire station meeting last night. Taking care of our Tara." Her smile is warm, genuine. "That girl's been nothing but kindness to this town since she arrived. She deserves someone looking out for her for a change."
Beside me, Tara makes a small sound of embarrassment. "Janet, you don't need to—"
"Hush," Janet says firmly. "I'm talking to your young man."
Your young man.I like the sound of that.
"It's my pleasure, ma'am," I tell Janet. "Tara's pretty special."
"That she is." Janet reaches into her apron and pulls out a small paper bag. "Fresh cinnamon rolls. Still warm. Consider it a thank-you gift."
She presses the bag into my hands, then leans closer.
"Also," she says quietly, "there was a man in the black suit who was asking questions about Tara early this morning? I told him she'd moved to Denver last month. Don’t think he bought it but I figured you should know."
Ice water floods my veins. "Black suit?"
Every protective instinct I've ever had goes live-wire dangerous.
"Came in around six-thirty. Said he was an old friend looking to reconnect." Janet's expression hardens. "But friends don't usually offer money for information.”
“Janet, did he pay with a card?”
“Didn’t see him with any purchase.”
Tara goes rigid beside me. I put a protective arm around her waist, pulling her closer.
"Did he say what kind of friend?" I ask.
"He didn’t say. But Tara's never mentioned family nor friends, and in two years, no one's ever come looking for her." Janet's gaze flicks between us. "I may be old, but I'm not stupid. That man wasn't here for a friendly reunion."
