Chapter 6 Secrets & Confessions
Secrets he established a forward operating base. It’s absolutely ridiculous. And utterly hot.
He's got his phone charger primed like a weapon, keys strategically placed.
.. it's a freaking tactical operation in my living room. His whole body was positioned like a watch dog, giving him a clear sightline to the front door and the hallway to my bedroom. At one point he even grinned and said, “If I had my stick, I’d be golden. Guess your broom will have to do.”
Then he'd looked at me with those maple-warm eyes and said, "Try to get some sleep, roommate. I've got this."
A man this competent and in charge had no business being so distracting. He was doing unholy things to my insides. All I could think was how good it would feel to let him keep me safe… and how much more I wanted him to do things that were anything but restful with me.
I'd locked my bedroom door. Not because I feared him—but because I didn’t trust myself.
Every time he’d moved through my space, checking windows and testing locks, I’d imagined what it would feel like to wake up tangled in his arms instead of alone in my mirror-walled bedroom.
He’d noticed those mirrors, of course—threw me a grin and said, “Careful, angel. Mirrors and I have a history. I tend to steam them up.” I’d laughed like it was nothing, but my cheeks burned hot enough to give me away.
Which is why I twisted the bedroom lock hard after. A virgin doesn’t survive comments like that unscathed. Not when every nerve in her body is begging for things she’s only ever read about.
Damn those Emma Bloom paperbacks.
Now, watching him sleep, the want hits me like a physical ache.
His chest rises and falls in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and there's something boyish about his relaxed features that makes my heart do complicated things. He looks peaceful. Safe. Like he belongs here.
Whoa. Careful, Tara.
A soft sound escapes his throat—not quite a snore, more like a contented rumble—and his eyes flutter open. For a moment, he's completely still, pupils adjusting to the light. Then his gaze finds mine across the small space, and his expression remains utterly, devastatingly blank.
My smile quickly evaporates. He’s looking right through me.
Oh no. His PCS. He’s woken up with his brain completely wiped. Does he even remember his own name? Do I have to teach him how to use a fork?
I lean forward, flapping my hands like a frantic crossing guard, my voice shooting up into a squeaky, too-cheerful register.
“Hi! Good morning! You’re Cam! I’m Tara!
You’re in my house in Cedar Falls! This is not a kidnapping!
And we definitely did not have a one-night stand.
You were just, um, standing guard because of a stalker, which is a whole other thing, and then you fell asleep on my couch. Totally normal! See? Fine! Normal!”
He blinks once. Twice. Letting my frantic babbling hang in the air for a torturous second. Then, a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.
"Well, well, well." His voice is rough with sleep, gravelly in a way that sends heat spiraling through me. "If it isn't my favorite coffee saboteur, looking like sin in pajamas."
Mortification floods me—not because of the pajamas, but because I just gave him a full-on Welcome to Your Life, Cam Wilder presentation like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Still, when his gaze drags lower, I can’t help following it. Cotton shorts. An oversized Books Are My Happy Place tee. A questionable stain near the hem. Nothing remotely seductive—yet the way his eyes are lingering makes me feel like I'm wearing nothing at all.
"Hi! Glad you remember… err, good morning to you, sunshine," I blurt, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Sleep well on my torture device of a couch?"
He stretches, a long, lazy movement that makes every muscle in his torso shift and flex. The blanket slips lower, revealing the line of dark hair that disappears beneath the cotton. My mouth goes dry.
"Best sleep I've had in weeks," he says, and there's something in his tone—warm, intimate—that makes me wonder if he's talking about more than just the furniture.
I turn back to the coffee maker, needing the distraction. "That's good. You needed the rest."
"Tara."
In the quiet of my kitchen, the way he says my name feels too intimate, like he’s claiming the space—and me—with two syllables.
I keep my back to him, hands busy with mugs I don't need to arrange. "What?"
"Look at me."
The request is quiet, but it carries weight. I take a breath and turn around.
He's sitting up now, blanket pooled around his waist, studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to hide. Or step closer. I can't decide which.
"We need to talk," he says. "About last night. About what's happening here."
My stomach clenches. He’s going to swear he’s all in—insist on making me his project, pledging himself to a job I never asked him to take.
"Cam," I say quickly, before he can continue. "You’ve already done too much with the guarding, couch camping, and door-checking. We’ve reported this to the police. You don’t need to do any of this. You should go back to your real life."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe even hurt. "My real life?"
I wave a hand vaguely. "You know. NHL stuff. Recovery. Whatever you need to do that doesn't involve babysitting me."
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Is that what you think this is? Babysitting?"
The coffee maker beeps, filling the silence. I busy myself pouring two mugs, adding sugar to his the way I remember from yesterday. When I turn back, he's standing.
Holy. He's big. Even rumpled and half-asleep, he commands the space like he was born to it. The cotton shorts I gave him last night—a pair I'd bought for a boyfriend I never had—hang low on his hips, revealing the cut of muscle at his lower abdomen.
"Here," I say, holding out his mug like an offering to the gods.
Instead of taking it, he steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the warm, sleepy scent of his skin. Close enough that I have to tip my head way back to meet his eyes.
"You think I stayed here last night because I felt sorry for you?" he asks quietly.
"D… Didn't you?" I stammer.
His laugh is soft, rueful. "Sweetheart, if pity was my motivation, I'd have gone back to Sugar Mill Lofts after I called the police."
I blink up at him, confused. "Then why—"
"Because seeing that photo made me want to hunt down whoever took it and introduce them to my stick." His voice deepens lower, rougher. "Because the idea of someone watching you, following you, makes me want to tear this town apart until I find them."
The mug trembles in my hands. "Cam—"
"Because," he continues, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from my face, “like I told you last night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I remembered our alley kiss. Because even when I couldn’t pull your name and face, I remembered how you tasted. How you felt pressed against me.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My entire body. “You felt bad forgetting, so…you don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to.” His thumb drags along my jaw, and a shiver races through me. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
The mug wobbles in my nervous grip, seconds from disaster. His hand closes over mine before it can slip, big and warm, swallowing my fingers around the handle. He doesn’t just steady it—he takes over, guiding both my hand and the mug back onto the counter in one smooth motion.
Only he doesn’t let go. His palm stays over mine, his body crowding close with the counter at my back… and he’s everywhere else. Bare chest level with my face, all heat and muscle. I breathe him in—soap, skin, him—and suddenly nothing separates us except the thrum of my pulse against his grip.
"There's something else," he says, and now his voice carries a different note. Hesitation. "Something I need to tell you."
My heart stops. "What?"