Page 97 of Penalty Kiss
Pastor Green, still in his clerical collar, lifts a hand. “Tara, we’re not defined by where we came from. We’re defined by who we show up for. And you’ve shown up for this town again and again.”
“Besides,” Karla pipes up, tiara slipping further down her forehead, “if you think a fancy name is gonna get you out of helping me clean up after this party, think again.”
"Yah, we don't care if your family owns half of Wall Street. You're our Tara."
The room breaks into chuckles and murmurs of agreement.
They're looking at me like I'm still just Tara.
"Besides," Scott adds with that irrepressible grin that got him in trouble through all twelve grades, "it's not like we don't have experience with billionaire drama." He gestures toward Levi, who raises his beer bottle in rueful acknowledgment.
"Wait, what?" gasps Maria Santos from the florist shop, nearly choking on her cake. "Levi's a billionaire too? How many rich people are hiding in this town?"
"Apparently more than you'd think," Chief Alvarez says dryly, but her dark eyes are warm when they meet mine. "Though for what it's worth, Tara, the Delacroix name means nothing to me compared to the fact that you helped coordinate traffic control during the flash flood warnings without being asked."
The scent of Hana's bulgogi drifts from the kitchen, mixing with the vanilla candles Karla lit for atmosphere, and something about that combination—foreign spices and familiar warmth—makes my chest tight with gratitude.
"Are you in some kind of trouble, sweetie?" asks Laura Wolff, our town librarian, whose kindness has impressed me more than once. I remember lingering at her counter, trading dog-eared romance paperbacks and laughing over our favorite tropes until the library closed. That easy bond is etched into my memory as clearly as the spines we stacked. Now her pretty voice is steady and certain. "Because if you need help, this town has your back."
"That's what we're here for," adds Tom from the post office, his usually quiet voice carrying surprising steel. "We take care of our own."
One by one, the people I've served and laughed with and worried about step forward.
Even shy Rebecca from the bookshop manages to catch my eye and mouths "we love you" with fierce sincerity.
The room fills with overlapping voices—questions about my safety, offers of help, gentle jokes that ease the tension without minimizing the moment. Someone starts clearing dishes with purposeful efficiency. I catch sight of Cam's parents in the corner, Hana wiping her eyes while Erik holds her close, his mind probably calculating protection strategies.
"Welcome to the rumor mill," Lily says finally, squeezing my free hand while baby Linden babbles contentedly against her shoulder. "We'll set it straight."
The simple acceptance in her voice—in all their voices—threatens to completely undo me. I've spent three years running from a name that felt like a cage, only to discover that home isn't about what you're called.
It's about who shows up when you finally tell the truth.
Cam’s thumb strokes slow circles against my spine through my thin sweater.He knew, I think.He knew they’d catch me.
By the time the evening winds down, my throat is sore from talking, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my heart feels so full I'm surprised it fits in my chest.
But as we're cleaning up, as the last of our friends head home with promises to spread the "official" story before any rumors can take root, I catch Cam watching me with an expression that makes my pulse skip.
“What?” I ask, my voice suddenly unsteady. The fluorescent kitchen lights hum overhead, bleaching the warmth from the room, leaving only the stark intimacy of this shared space. I’m hyper-aware of the strength of his forearm, the way his worn t-shirt stretches across the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the focused intensity of his gaze stripping me bare.
“You realize what you’ve been doing all evening?” His breath caresses my skin when he moves closer, his presence shrinkingthe room until there’s only the counter at my back and the heat rolling off him in waves.
"Revealing my secret identity? Having emotional breakthroughs? Nearly crying into Mrs. Henderson's bourbon cake?"
"Touching me." His voice drops to that low timbre that makes my insides molten. "Every chance you get. Like you can't help yourself."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I haven't been—"
"Your hand on my back when we were talking to Chief Alvarez. Fingers on my wrist when you were explaining the Delacroix situation. The way you keep finding reasons to brush against me while we’re clearing these damn plates.” His gaze dips to my mouth, lingers. “Like you need it.”
He’s right. All day, through the nerve-wracking Zoom call, the chaotic relocation of his family, the terrifying reveal to the town, my body has sought his—a grounding touch, a silent plea for reassurance.
It was unconscious, instinctive. Necessary. Now, laid bare by his observation, it feels shockingly intimate. “Maybe I just…” I swallow, my throat dry. “Maybe I needed the contact. For comfort.”
“Maybe.” The corner of his mouth lifts, a slow, devastating curve. He braces one hand on the counter beside my hip, caging me without touching. His other hand rises, fingertips hovering near my jaw. “Or maybe my girl is finally letting herself want what she wants.” The possessive rumble in his voice liquefies my bones. “Without apology. Without holding back.”
Cam…His name is a silent plea on my lips. He leans in, his breath warm against my temple. “I see you, Taralyn.” The whisper strokes my skin, intimate as a caress. “All of you. The heiress. The waitress. The woman brave enough to stop running.” His knuckles brush my cheekbone, a feather-light touch that makes me shudder. “And I want every single piece.”
