Chapter 9
Overtime Heat
Cam
The drive to Sugar Mill Lofts isn’t long, but my head makes it feel like a three-day road trip.
Seventy-two hours ago, I was a concussed hockey player hoping a small town hideaway in Cedar Falls would heal my brain.
Then, I find myself playing bodyguard to a beautiful woman of mystery.
And now I’m a concussed hockey player completely gone for a runaway heiress who’s screwing with my head in ways no doctor warned me about. Obsessed, smitten, enamored—whatever the synonym, it’s giving me a whole new kind of headache.
Call it an upgrade. Or maybe just my downfall.
"Quit staring at me like that," Tara says without looking up from her phone. "It's unnerving."
"Like what?"
She rolls her eyes, but the slight flush climbing her neck tells me everything her sharp tongue won't.
After cooking for the bistro staff yesterday, we went back to her place, tension crackling between us. But we'd kept our hands to ourselves, playing this ridiculous game of chicken where neither of us wants to be the first to break. Teammates, right?
My phone buzzes. Text from Luke, because my little brother has the worst timing in professional sports.
I pull over—the mild head-float hits, then passes.
Luke: Dad wants to know if you're eating actual food or surviving on gas station hot dogs. Also, are you taking your meds?
Me: Close. Made Korean corn dogs from scratch yesterday. Whole kitchen staff can vouch. Also, yes, Mom.
Luke: Smart-ass. Seriously though, how's the head?
I pause, considering. My head's been clearer today. Maybe it's being off the ice, maybe it's having something to focus on besides my scrambled neurons. Maybe it's Tara.
Me: Getting better. Cedar Falls is good for me.
Luke: And the local waitress?
Trust Luke to cut straight to the point. I glance over at Tara, who's laughing at something on her phone.
Me: Also good for me.
Luke: Dad's going to want details.
Me: Tell Dad I'm eating vegetables and taking my vitamins like a good boy. Everything else is classified.
I pocket the phone and restart the convertible.
Arriving at Sugar Mill Lofts, the late afternoon sun catches in Tara’s hair, turning the brown to burnished gold.
"So," I say, forcing myself to focus on practical matters, "Glad we’re swinging by Sugar Mill Lofts to grab my stuff. Can't keep living like some kind of vagrant.”
“You know. Clothes, toiletries, that fancy hair product that keeps this magnificent mane looking effortless." I run a hand through said mane, grinning when she rolls her eyes.
"Cam, you don't have to—"
"Move in with you? Too late, sweetheart. That train left the station the night when you agreed to let me camp on your couch."
"That was supposed to be temporary."
I turn my body to study her face. There's something in her expression—not quite panic, but close. Like the reality of having me in her space for more than one night is hitting her.
"Hey." I reach over to squeeze her hand, catching that vanilla scent that's becoming as familiar as my own heartbeat. "What's really bothering you?"
She shrugs, a gesture I'm learning means she's feeling vulnerable. "It's just... I've been on my own for three years. Complete independence. No one to answer to, no one to consider when I make decisions."
"And now you've got a six-foot-four hockey player cluttering up your living room."
"Exactly." Her smile is rueful. "It's an adjustment."
I lean against the armrest, giving her space but staying close enough that she knows I'm not going anywhere. "That sounds familiar."
"What?"
"I've never lived with anyone since college. Not really. Hotel rooms, teammates' couches, my parents' place when I'm visiting. But never... this. Never someone I actually want to wake up next to."
Her breath catches, and I see the exact moment my words hit home.
"Cam..."
"I'm not going to crowd you, Tara. I'm not going to rearrange your furniture or leave dirty dishes in the sink or hog the remote." I pause, letting a grin tug at my mouth. "Okay, I might hog the remote a little. But only during motocross races."
That gets a laugh out of her, the sound loosening something tight in my chest.
"Besides," I add, opening the car door, "teammates share space all the time. Locker rooms, hotels, that awful team bus Coach insisted on for road games in juniors. This is just... extended team bonding."
She slides out of the passenger seat, shaking her head. "Everything's a hockey metaphor with you, isn't it?"
"When you've spent twenty years of your life on the ice, yeah, pretty much." I glance over at her. "You got a problem with that, Rookie?"
"Rookie," she repeats, and there's something different in her voice. Softer. "When did that become my nickname?"
I slam the car door, considering. "First time I saw you handle that creep in the alley. You fought like someone who'd been scrapping her whole life, but there was something... I don't know. Like you were figuring out who you could be in the fight."
Her fingers toy with the hem of her shirt. "I like it. The nickname, I mean."
"Good. Because it's sticking."
"Come, let’s head up. See where I was supposed to be recovering in peace and quiet before I got distracted by a certain beautiful server with a talent for coffee sabotage?"
She gives me a playful push. "Lead the way."
The loft is exactly as I left it—pristine and sterile. Tara wanders around the space while I gather my things, her fingers trailing over the expensive furniture, the untouched kitchen, the bed I slept in for exactly one night.
"It's nice," she says, but there's something careful in her tone.
"It's a hotel room with a better kitchen," I correct, stuffing clothes into my duffel bag. "Lily did a great job but it feels a bit of a lavish waiting room."
"And my place doesn't?"
I pause in my packing to look at her. She's standing by the window, backlit by the golden afternoon light, and the sight of her in this space makes me realize something I hadn't articulated before.
"Your place feels like home."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. She turns from the window, her expression unreadable.
"Cam—"
"Not just because you're there," I clarify quickly, though that's a big part of it.
"But because it's lived-in. Real. There are coffee rings on the counter and books stacked everywhere and those mirrors in your bedroom that makes me think all kinds of inappropriate thoughts."
Her cheeks flush pink. "You noticed the mirrors?"
"Darling, I'm concussed, not blind." I zip up the duffel and sling it over my shoulder "Those mirrors have been giving me ideas since the moment I saw them."
"Ideas?"
I cross to where she's standing, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes. "Ideas about what you'd look like watching yourself come apart in my hands. What I'd look like worshipping every inch of that gorgeous body while you watch."
Her lips part, and I watch her pupils dilate. "That's..."
"That's what?" I prompt, my voice grows huskier.
"Obscene."
"Yeah. Just the way I like it." I smirk, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, letting my thumb linger against her cheek.
"You want to get out of here? Or should I show you what I had in mind?”
She nods, then shakes her head half-heartedly, not trusting her voice, and I have to bite back a groan at the way she looks right now—flushed and wanting and trying so hard to pretend she's not affected.
"Come on then, Rookie. Let’s stop for groceries on the way home."
The grocery store is a revelation.
Not because Cedar Falls Market is particularly impressive—it's standard small-town fare, complete with hand-written sale signs and a checkout counter that doubles as the local gossip hub.
It's a revelation because watching Tara navigate the aisles is like watching a master class in memory management.
She doesn't use a list. She doesn't pause to think about what she needs. She just moves through the store with fluid efficiency, grabbing items with the precision of someone who has the entire inventory mapped in her head.
"Tomatoes, but not those—they were delivered Tuesday, which means they're already overripe," she murmurs, selecting different ones from the display. "Bread from the bakery section, but only if Janet made it today. Her Saturday loaves are always better than her Friday ones."
I trail behind her with the cart, equal parts impressed and aroused by her competence.
"How do you know when the tomatoes were delivered?" I ask.
"I work at the bistro. I see the delivery trucks." She adds pasta to the cart, then glances at me. "Is this weird? The memory thing?"
"It's amazing," I tell her honestly. "You've got a supercomputer in that beautiful head of yours, and you use it to make perfect grocery selections."
She flushes, pleased by the compliment. "It's not always useful. Sometimes I remember things I'd rather forget."
Like her cousin pushing her down the stairs. Like whatever else her family did to make her run.
I push that thought down and focus on the present moment.
Tara reaching for something on a high shelf, her shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of pale skin. The way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating. How she automatically moves closer to me when other people pass in the aisle.
She might be trying to convince herself we're "teammates," but her body knows better.
“Hey, I told you we’re not getting any more lemons.” Tara playfully swats at my hand.
I blink, uncertainty rushing in. Did she tell me? Were there lemons in the fridge this morning? The memory—if it was ever there—dances just out of reach.
“I was going to grab these ginger and garlic.” I nod at the nearest produce next to the lemons.
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."