Chapter 8 Sugar-Dusted Sentinel
Sugar-Dusted Sentinel
Tara
The bistro, normally a haven of predictable rhythms, becomes a stage for the Cameron Wilder Show, while my pulse keeps its own drumline under the applause.
Every laugh he coaxes from the crowd is a distraction, a bright, dangerous flare against the chilling shadow of my stalker situation.
But…it’s impressive to see how Cam becomes a performance, a shield, a walking, talking distraction for both of us.
He doesn’t serve tables, of course. He’s too large, too… present for the delicate art of navigating crowded aisles with steaming plates. Instead, he “helps.”
This means he sweeps through the dining room like a well-meaning tornado, greeting regulars with boisterous cheer, making children shriek with laughter by pretending to trip over his own feet, and charming the new customers until they are practically eating out of his enormous, capable hands.
Mrs. Whitmore clutches her order pad at the register like it’s a rosary made of receipt paper.
“Wilder,” she hisses under her breath as he breezes by again, “you are not insured.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. W.” He taps the Stanley Cup ring on his finger, gleaming under the lights. “I’ve got the balance of a figure skater.”
Balance is… debatable. But charisma? He could sell hot cocoa in the Sahara.
Phones tilt toward him like sunflowers. He’s a one-man photo op—guests lean in, capturing smiles between bites and sips of local Cabernet Franc.
Laughter rolls from one booth to the next. He’s good with strangers in a way that’s almost unfair—listening as if every person is the most interesting human he’s met all week, then pinging that attention back to me between tables, like I’m his North Star.
I hate that my skin notices. I also hate that a darker thought pricks the back of my mind—how easy it would be for one of those tilted phones to not be snapping a fun photo, but something shadier.
Cam seems to know it too; every wink toward me feels like more than showmanship, like he’s marking me safe under his orbit.
I push the unease down, letting myself watch as Cam stops at Patricia Peterson’s booth, easing a hip against the seat like he’s posing for a vintage ad. Patricia is in her seventies, sharp eyes, sharper tongue.
“Patricia,” he says, lowering his voice mischievously, “serious question. Do I look like a man who would steer you wrong?”
She eyes him over her glasses. “Young man, you look like a man who could sell a bridge to a mermaid.”
“Correct,” he concedes cheerfully. “Which is why I feel morally obligated to suggest the steak sandwich. It’s a spiritual experience.”
“Spiritual?” she repeats, fighting a smile. “Is that what they call it?”
“It comes with caramelized onions and house sauce,” he whispers, like he’s revealing state secrets. “It’s also the most expensive non-seafood item on the menu, and I need to hit a ‘quota’.”
Patricia shoots Mrs. Whitmore a look and decides to play along. “Too bad you’re not a Chippendale. You’d make a fortune.”
Without missing a beat, Cam gives her the cleanest, cheekiest hip roll I’ve ever seen, finishes with a quick flex that makes his bicep pop beneath the sleeve of his henley.
The dining room erupts. Patricia fans herself with the menu and says, “Fine. Steak it is. And bring extra napkins for my daughters—so they can wipe their tears when I tell them I was flirted into lunch by a hockey player.”
“The sexiest.” He winks with a salute.
Mrs. Whitmore looks like she might pass out. I’m just mortified—this man redefines himself with every hip wiggle. He’s an adorable, dangerous idiot, and my heart is doing Olympic-gold-worthy gymnastics it never signed up for.
I catch his eye once as he delivers a water pitcher with the dramatic flourish of a sommelier presenting a rare vintage.
He winks, a tiny, subtle shift in his expression that somehow makes it feel like we are sharing a secret, a private joke in a room full of unsuspecting witnesses. My cheeks warm, a tell I hate.
But watching him work this room—watching him tip the energy toward light—does something low and warm under my ribs that feels dangerously like ease.
Around two o’clock, after the lunch rush ebbs into a comfortable lull, leaving only a few lingering patrons, Cam straightens from where he’s been demonstrating an air-hockey move with a breadstick for a giggling toddler.
He claps his hands together, the sound echoing a little too loudly in the quieter space.
“Alright, team!” he booms, turning to face the open kitchen pass-through. “Operation: Feed the Crew is a go! Who’s hungry for something… different?”
Mrs. W hurries out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Cameron, dear, the kitchen staff are just starting their break. Tyler can bring you a menu, if you’re peckish.”
Cam flashes her a smile, the kind that could get a man out of a five-minute major penalty.
“Boss, put me in,” he tells Mrs. Whitmore, voice all sunshine.
"You are not touching my line," she replies, but her voice has gone all honey.
He leans in conspiratorially, his voice falling just enough to carry to us, but not to the few remaining customers.
“Don't know if you know this. My Korean mother has a small chain of banchan shops in Dallas, Texas—Korean side dishes.
I helped her when it was just her and her own shop, until hockey got serious around middle school.
.. and she would disown me if I let a good kitchen go unused when people are hungry. "
“Besides, I think some of our… friends out there might be wondering what kind of pet I really am. Time to show them a new trick.”
The last part is for me, his dark eyes locking onto mine, a challenge and a promise simmering beneath the charm.
He isn’t just talking about the stalkers, I realized, but also about the “pet” comment.
He’s going to use this, use his cultural identity, use his talent, to prove he’s far more than anyone’s plaything.
Mrs. Whitmore, bless her heart, is no match for a motivated Cam Wilder. She throws her hands up in good-natured defeat. “Just… try not to burn anything down, dear. And no raw fish, please. Our health inspector is a terror.”
“My word is my castle, Mrs. W!” Cam grins like he’s just been awarded first line minutes, already striding toward the kitchen, his broad shoulders easily filling the narrow doorway.
I follow him, propelled by a curiosity I can’t deny. Cam Wilder is a force, an undeniable magnetic presence, and I can't tear my gaze away. How can anyone, especially me, a woman who thrives on anonymity, not be affected by such showmanship?
Inside the kitchen, he stands at the prep counter like he owns it, sleeves shoved to his elbows, sinewy forearms cabled. He smiles at the line cooks who are taking him in with the collective skepticism of professionals who don’t have time for antics.
“Alright, crew! Today, you get Seoul street food—Korean corn dogs. Hot dog and cheese, battered, rolled in potato and crunch, fried, sugar-dusted.”
Mrs. W appears behind me, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s seen this movie before and already regrets the popcorn. “We do not have Korean groceries, Wilder.”
“Don’t need ‘em,” he says. “I’ll improvise. It’s what champions do.”
“Korean corn dogs?” Tyler asks, eyes wide. “Like, hot dogs?”
“Exactly! But better. With cheese. And hash browns. And a batter that’ll make you forget every corn dog you’ve ever had.”
He winks at Tyler, who looks utterly captivated.
“So, a little backstory. My team and I had these on a pre-season tour in South Korea, and we fell in love. Replicated them back home, even got the approval of the grumpiest on the team. Just ask Levi if you don’t believe.”
Cam moves with a confidence that shouldn’t look this good in a bistro kitchen. Flour. Sugar. Salt. Packet of yeast lifted like a magician’s reveal. He hunts, finds a rectangular hotel pan, and starts whisking like a man with a mission.
Cam glances at me, catches my eye, and something softens across his mouth. He narrates for me, not the room.
“Okay, Rookie, I can’t do this without you. Here’s your playbook.”
I’m half worried that he doesn’t remember the recipe exactly, but he builds it like a memory game, each step anchored to an image I won’t forget.
“Batter first. Three cups flour, two tablespoons sugar, half teaspoon salt, and one-and-a-half teaspoons yeast.” He winks. “Or cheat with pancake mix if you’re starving.”
“Water?” I ask, despite myself.
“Lukewarm,” he answers, pouring. “One and three quarters cups, give or take. You want it thick, sticky. Rise it an hour. Cold rest if you’ve got time.” He taps the pan. “Hotel pan for easy dipping. Trust me.”
He happily drags a tray of mozzarella sticks from the walk-in refrigerator.
“Low-moisture mozz—bistro staple.” he says. “Cut ‘em into sticks. Pat them dry.” He points at the hot dogs. “Halve those.”
I follow exactly.
“Now, skewer time—cheese-only, dog-only, or half-and-half with cheese on top so it melts over the dog.”
“Skewers?” Mrs. W echoes faintly.
“Metal or wooden, both work.”
I find myself automatically pointing to the pantry. “Top shelf.”
He grins. “That’s my girl.” His voice is low, for me alone, making my heart flutter.
"Now, this batter needs to rise. Mrs. W, got a warm spot around here? Maybe near the oven? An hour, just for it to get puffy. Or, if we want it thicker, we'll refrigerate it after it rises." He turns to me. "What do you think, Tara? Thick or fluffy?"
"Fluffy," I say, my voice softer than I intend. The way he asked, seeking my opinion, makes it feel important.
He nods decisively. "Fluffy it is. My halmeoni, grandma, always says the best things in life need time to rise." His eyes dance with mischief.
Then he pauses, looking around. "And hash browns. We need hash browns."
Tyler pipes up. "We have frozen shredded hash browns in the freezer, Mr. Wilder!"