Page 65 of Penalty Kiss
"Cam, wait—"
“No waiting." His tone is flat steel. “We put this on record. Your cousin doesn’t get to stalk and scare you withoutconsequence. And I’m locking this place down with a security system before nightfall.”
He grabs his phone, already dialing, and I watch him pace my living room like a caged predator. When Alvarez answers, his voice is crisp, professional.
“Chief, it's Cam Wilder. We need to talk. Now... Yes, it's about Tara... We have proof that someone's been stalking her.”
His voice transforms—no jokes, no charm, just lethal focus. This is the man who's taken hits from guys who could bench-press small cars. Watching him “take charge” is stupidly attractive.
I sink onto my couch, still in my robe, and watch the man I'm falling in love with mobilize to protect me. His broad shoulders fill the space, his voice calm and authoritative as he explains the situation to the police chief.
Erik’s question still echoes.Do I love Cam?
I’m in—heart, skin, every breath. Love isn’t up for debate. I already do. Completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly.
What comes next is figuring out how to keep it safe. Because Erik is right—Cam will step in front of anything headed my way.
Chapter 11
Leash & Chain
Tara
"Don't encourage him, Mrs. Henderson. His ego's already bigger than the state of Colorado."
"Hey now," Cam protests, catching my wrist gently as I move to the next table. "My ego is perfectly proportioned, thank you very much."
The brief contact sends heat shooting up my arm, and his eyes darken like he feels it too.
You’d think I’d be used to it—after letting this so-called bodyguard into my bed (and sometimes not even bothering with the bed) and learning just how creative those calloused hockey hands can be. But no—I still spark like a live wire at the smallest touch.
I pull away before I do something unprofessional, like kiss him in front of half the town.
The afternoon crowd thins to just a few lingerers when Cam slides up to the counter where I'm restocking napkin holders.
"Okay, new memory anchor," he says, leaning against the counter with that casual confidence that makes my pulse skip. "Tell me about the first time you felt truly happy."
The question catches me off guard. It's more intimate than his usual memory exercises, which tend to focus on practical details—my coffee preferences, how I like my eggs, the way I fold my clothes.
"That's awfully philosophical for someone who spent the morning trying to teach Mrs. Henderson's cat to fetch," I deflect, but my hands have gone still.
"Humor me, Rookie."
"Hmm…Happy?" I repeat, stalling for time.
"Yes. Happy. Not content. Not satisfied. Truly, deeply happy. The kind of happiness that changes something inside you."
I set down the napkin holder, my hands suddenly unsteady. I think and feel the memory. Happiness. With startling clarity, vivid as a photograph.
"I was seventeen. Paris. College. My father pulled me out of Microeconomics for what he called ‘educational exposure’ at the Hôtel du Louvre. It was May twelfth—I remember the date printed on the itinerary, the Helvetica font, the way the paper curled slightly at the edges. The presenter wore a mustard yellow tie, hideous and fraying near the knot. The man next to me clicked his pen like a metronome—three clicks, pause, three clicks again. I counted.
Cam leans in, giving me his full attention. It’s one of the things I love about him—when you speak, the rest of the world goes quiet.
"I slipped out. No plan. I walked until I found the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève. The door was heavy, brass handle cool despite the sun. Inside, it smelled like old paper and rain-soaked wool. I found a corner table by a tall window, and at exactly 2:17 p.m., it started raining. I remember the clock above the reference desk ticking loud enough to mark it."
I pause, the memory unfolding in layers.
"I sat there for hours. No one knew where I was. No one needed me to recite GDP figures or smile on cue. I was just a girl in a library, reading Colette in fractured French while the rain traced patterns down the glass. I remember the sentence Istumbled over—‘Il faut aimer la solitude pour être écrivain.’You have to love solitude to be a writer."
