Chapter 13 #2
She threads her fingers through mine, thumb tracing slow circles that settle something deep in my chest. "They were blind," she says simply. "I can't imagine anyone looking at you and seeing anything less than the star."
Then the corner of her mouth tips. "And 'soy sauce'? Please. You're clearly sriracha."
That pulls a real laugh out of me, the kind that eases my shoulders. "Sriracha, huh?"
"Hot. Addictive. Goes with everything." Her gaze doesn't waver. "And you belong, Cam. Everywhere you choose."
The words land like a hand on the small of my back, steadying me forward.
My phone buzzes. Text from Luke.
Luke: Flight's on time. Looking forward to seeing how you're doing. Really doing.
I show Tara the message, and she winces. "That sounds ominous."
"That's Luke-speak for 'prepare for a full neurological assessment disguised as brotherly concern.'"
But the adrenaline from the phone call is finally ebbing, leaving me wrung out and overstimulated.
A hot shower sounds like exactly what I need to reset my brain before tomorrow's family invasion.
I stand up, suddenly restless. "I need a shower before I say yes to every one of their blood tests."
I'm halfway to the bathroom when I hear her footsteps behind me.
"Cam?"
I turn, and she's holding my t-shirt—the one she was wearing—dangling it from her finger like a hostage flag. She's still got on her jeans, but the loss of the shirt means she's in just her bra, and my brain immediately forgets all about the shower.
"Don't look at me like that." She twirls the shirt, not moving closer but not backing away either. "This t-shirt of yours—which is now legally mine under the girlfriend acquisition laws of Colorado—could be persuaded to return to its homeland. But my terms are steep."
I drag a hand over my face, half tortured, half alive again. "Terms?"
"Dinner tomorrow that doesn't require a fire department," she says, deadpan.
I groan. "Cruel."
"You love me for it."
I don't argue. Because it's true. I love her sharp wit, her perfect timing, the way she can defuse my spiral with nothing but sass and skin. I love that she makes me laugh even when I'm drowning in family pressure and self-doubt.
"Fine," I say, backing toward the bathroom. "But you're keeping that shirt hostage at your own risk."
Her smile turns absolutely feline. "I like risk."
"We'll see how much when my family shows up tomorrow and starts asking pointed questions about sleeping arrangements."
"I'll tell them we're very thorough about your recovery. Now, go shower." she sing-songs as I disappear into the bathroom.
The hot water pounds across my shoulders, but it doesn't do much to clear the image of her from my mind. Or the warmth in her voice when she promised to stand by me tomorrow.
I’ve muscled six-foot-five forwards out of the crease without breaking stride. I've played through injuries that would sideline most people. But the thought of my father and brother descending on Cedar Falls with their medical degrees and their concerned expressions?
That terrifies me.
Not because I don't love them. But because I know what they'll see when they look at me: their patient. Their responsibility. The son and brother who can't be trusted to take care of himself. Even at thirty-two.
What they won’t see is who I’m turning into here.
A man who fights for more than the next shift.
A man who doesn’t tap out when things get messy.
Who finally understands that growing up isn’t just taking punches—it’s standing your ground, letting people in, and staying put when something’s worth it.
The hot water now feels like salvation on my tense shoulders, and I can actually breathe.
Then the bathroom door opens.
"Tara?" I call through the steam. "Everything okay?"
"Mm-hmm," comes her voice, closer than I expected. "Just thought you might want some company."
I turn to see her silhouette through the glass shower door, and my brain short-circuits completely. She's naked—curves I've memorized in loving detail backlit by the bathroom light—and moving with deliberate, predatory grace.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out rough, already affected.
"Helping you relax," she says, sliding the shower door open and stepping inside like she owns the space. Like she owns me.
The sight of her—water cascading over her perfect breasts, hair darkening as it gets wet, eyes hot with intent—makes every rational thought flee my damaged brain.
"I thought we agreed on early bedtime tonight," I manage, even as my hands move to span her waist without conscious permission. "Rest before the family inquisition."
"This is rest," she says, pressing closer until her slick skin slides against mine. "Very... thorough rest."
Her hand wraps around my rapidly hardening cock, and I groan despite myself. "Tara—"
"Shhh," she whispers against my ear, her grip tightening in that way that makes me see stars. "Let me take care of you."
It should be impossible to think about sex right now, with everything hanging over us tomorrow.
But Tara has this way of pulling me completely into the present moment, making everything else—family pressure, medical concerns, my own spiraling anxiety—fade to static.
Her mouth finds mine in a kiss that's all heat and possession, her tongue sliding against mine while her hand works me with expert precision. I'm already lost, already hers, the hot water and steam creating a cocoon around us that feels separate from the rest of the world.
"I love how you respond to me," she murmurs, lips trailing down my throat. "The way you just... let go."
She's right. With her, I don't have to be the performer or the patient. I can just be Cameron—the man who's completely gone for the woman currently driving him out of his mind with her talented hands.
"Turn around," I growl, need overtaking restraint.
"No," she says firmly, pushing me back against the tile wall. "My show tonight."
Before I can protest, she's sinking to her knees, and the sight of her kneeling in front of me, water running down her gorgeous body, is enough to make my knees buckle.
"Tara," I warn, but she just smiles up at me with wicked intent.
"Relax, superstar," she says, her hand still stroking me slowly. "Tomorrow you face the family firing squad. Tonight, you're mine."
And then her mouth is on me, hot and wet and perfect, and I completely lose the ability to form coherent thoughts. All I can do is grip the tile behind me and try not to embarrass myself too quickly while the woman I love proceeds to worship me like I'm something precious.
This is what love looks like, I think dimly as she works me with lips and tongue and gentle teeth. Not just the soft moments or the grand gestures, but this—her taking control when I need it most, grounding me in pleasure and connection when my mind won't stop racing.
By the time she's finished reducing me to a trembling, satisfied mess, I can barely remember what I was worried about in the first place.
"Better?" she asks, standing and pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
"Much," I manage, gathering her close. "But now I'm going to return the favor."
"Tomorrow," she says, stepping out of the shower with a teasing smile. "Tonight you need sleep. Doctor's orders."
I watch her wrap herself in a towel, admiring the view and marveling at how she manages to be both incredibly sexy and perfectly practical.
"You know," I call after her, "for someone without medical training, you give excellent prescriptions."
Her laugh echoes through the bathroom. "I have hidden talents."
As I finish my shower, I realize she's accomplished exactly what she set out to do. My shoulders are loose, my mind is clear, and instead of dreading tomorrow's family confrontation, I'm looking forward to showing them the woman who's become my anchor.
Let them question my recovery. Let them worry about my cognitive function. They'll see what I see—that whatever's wrong with my brain, my heart is working just fine.
And Tara will be right there beside me, proving that some things are worth fighting for, broken brain and all.
By the time I get out of the shower, Tara's made herself at home on the bed, wearing the shirt again and scrolling through her phone. She looks up when I emerge with a towel around my waist.
"Weather's good for flying tomorrow," she says casually. "And I made us a reservation at Cedar Grounds for breakfast. Figured neutral territory might help."
I stare at her. "You already made breakfast reservations?"
"Among other things." She shows me her phone screen, which displays what looks like a detailed battle plan. "I ordered flowers for your mom, and also texted Lily to give her a heads up that you'll have family in town, or would you rather they check in at the Skyridge Hotel?”
"I would prefer they put up at Skyridge; definitely not staying across from us. And my mom's not coming. Tara, did you finally forget something?" I tease.
"Of course, I remember. The flowers are being delivered to her in Texas with a note saying you're thinking of her.
" She sets the phone aside and looks at me seriously.
"Your family's worried about you, which means they love you.
But they're also going to judge everything they see tomorrow—your living situation, your support system, your recovery progress.
So we're going to show them the best version of your life here. "
My throat goes tight. "We?"
"We." She pats the bed beside her. "Now come here and let me distract you from overthinking this."
I don't need to be asked twice. I drop the towel and slide into bed beside her, pulling her against my chest. She fits perfectly, like she was designed to be right here.
"What if they don't like you?" I ask quietly.
"Then they have terrible taste." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "But they won't. I'm very likeable."
"What if they think I'm getting worse instead of better?"
"Then we show them you're not."
"What if—"
She silences me with a kiss, soft and sure and exactly what I need. When she pulls back, her eyes are serious.
"Cam. You're going to be fine. We're going to be fine. And if your family can't see how much you've grown since you've been here, then that's their loss."
I want to believe her. And lying here in the dark, with her warm weight against my chest and the steady rhythm of her breathing, I almost do.
Tomorrow, the Wilder medical brigade descends on Cedar Falls. Tomorrow, I'll have to prove I'm not broken beyond repair.
But tonight, I have this. I have her. And for now, that's enough.
"Thank you," I whisper into her hair.
"For what?"
"For not running when things get complicated."
She lifts her head to look at me, and there's something fierce in her expression. "I don't run anymore, remember? I fight."
And looking at her—this brilliant, beautiful, dangerous woman who chose me—I almost feel sorry for anyone who tries to come between us.
Almost.