Chapter 5 Operations Human Shield
Operations Human Shield
Cam
Second night in Cedar Falls and somehow I’m at the fire station instead of a bar. Place reeks of burnt coffee and smoke. I expected testosterone—axes, engine oil, flexed biceps—but what’s filling the Community Room is pure mother-hen energy thick enough to choke out the diesel.
The chair groans under me like it’s filing a formal protest, and the whole room thrums with that small-town protectiveness that kicks in when they pick a cause—subtle as a cross-check in overtime. First time seeing it up close, and yeah… it’s an eye-opener.
The whiteboard at the front reads Monthly Public Safety Forum, but no one’s talking about brushfire drills or highway patrol updates. Tonight’s agenda has been hijacked: PROJECT PROTECT TARA.
Two feet away, Tara sits ramrod straight.
I don’t like the distance.
Chief Alvarez, posture crisp in her dark uniform, looks around the crowded community room. She’s not amused, not exasperated—just steady. The kind of woman who can calm a room without raising her voice.
“For the record,” she says, “we already have both of your statements at the Police HQ this morning.” She glances at Tara, then me.
“But since most of us here weren’t in the room earlier, here’s the summary: last night, a man followed Ms. Tara Haynes and cornered her in the alley behind Mane Street Bistro.
Cam Wilder intervened. The stalker fled. Tara, do you confirm that account?”
Tara nods, her hands wrapped around that mug like it’s armor. “Yes. That’s what happened.”
“Some creepy guy,” she adds with a shrug, like she’s describing a wrong pizza delivery. “Could’ve been worse if Cam hadn’t shown up.”
I choke on my coffee. “Could’ve been worse? Tara, the guy had you cornered—and the only reason you walked away is because you went full Mortal Kombat and fly-kicked him in the balls.”
Her mouth curves, “Best two points I ever scored.”
But her eyes cut to mine, sharp as a blade: the look that says drop it.
I don’t. Instead, I hook the leg of her chair with my boot and drag her half a foot closer, until her thigh presses against mine. The scrape of metal on concrete makes everyone glance over.
Her head snaps toward me, eyes flashing. “Cam—”
“Sit closer,” I murmur, leaning down so my breath hits her ear. “Makes it easier for me to guard you.”
The room clocks it instantly. An older woman at the end of the table arches a brow like a teacher catching you mid-note-passing. Behind her, a female voice whispers, “Oh, this is better than Netflix.”
Tara shifts an inch, but I press my knee lightly against hers, holding the line.
She glares, cheeks flushed, lips tight—but she doesn’t move away.
“It was handled,” she addresses the room firmly, though her voice carries a note of strain. Her jaw is set, but her eyes flick toward the crowd with something closer to apology.
“I appreciate everyone showing up tonight, I do. But I don’t need the entire town rearranging their lives because some creep followed me home. It was scary, yes, but I got out of it. I’m okay.”
She squeezes her mug, “I just don’t want to turn this into a circus. Cedar Falls has bigger things to worry about than me.”
Then she tilts her head toward me, voice low, fire aimed squarely at my chest. “And you—stop making it sound like I barely survived. I handled it.”
For them she’s calm, careful. For me, she’s fire. And hell if I don’t like it. Makes me wonder if she’ll still have that bite in bed—nails down my back, teeth catching my shoulder—or if she only saves it for me in public.
The chatter spikes again—half a dozen voices at once. My brain lags, words jumbling together. Too much, too fast. Static.
I catch fragments—locks, buddy system, spare key—until one phrase slices through clean.
“Attack geese.”
I almost laugh into my coffee. Out of all the noise, that’s the one thing my concussed brain can hold onto.
“He could walk her to and from work!”“Check her locks every night!”“He could just glower on her porch!”
Ah, they’re talking about me.
I bite back a laugh, because if I’m glowering, it’s not at porch traffic—it’s at her walking past me in nothing but one of my shirts. Forget the stalker, the whole damn block will know she’s off-limits.
But beside me, Tara is bristling. “This is ridiculous. Cam Wilder’s not going to be my bodyguard.”
Her voice cuts the room to silence.
"He has a brain injury," she continues, her protective instincts apparently extending to me, the guy she served decaf to this morning.
"The doctor said he needs rest, not security detail.
What if he gets dizzy? What if this guy comes back with friends and Cam's not at one hundred percent? It's a terrible idea."
Her logic is sound. Her concern feels genuine.
Then the murmurs start again, lower, sharper.
“He’s concussed. How long before he forgets something important?”“Protection’s no good if his reflexes are shot.”“He looks steady now, but what happens if he tips over?”
My jaw locks. I’m right here. I’m steady.
Then Levi, the human gasoline can on a megaphone, leans forward.
"Well," he says with a conspiratorial grin that tells me I'm about to be thrown under the bus, "his memory was sharp enough to recall a certain kiss in an alley last night."
The room goes dead silent. You could hear a puck drop in the parking lot.
Tara's face flames a spectacular shade of crimson that matches her mortification. I suddenly find the dregs of my coffee intensely fascinating, like there might be lottery numbers in the bottom of the mug.
"Is that so?" Mrs. Henderson addresses the room at large with the gleeful energy of someone who just stumbled onto the best gossip of the decade.
"Well, the boy's got a concussion, but Lord knows he didn't skip arm day. Are those biceps as good as they look, dear?"
So, the discussion shifts—concern sliding into something else entirely.
“Concussion or not, look at those shoulders. He could block a door with them.”
“Block a door? Honey, he could block me.”
Laughter ripples.
“Did you see the way he yanked her chair closer earlier? That’s not bodyguard current. That’s bedroom energy.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. For once, it’s not just about safety—it’s the whole damn town openly thirsting. And Tara’s caught in the middle, cheeks flaming, while my brain short-circuits with equal parts fury and arousal.
I can’t stop thinking how good it felt to have her pressed against me. How easy it’d be to clear this room, put her against the nearest wall, and show her exactly what all their thirsty comments are hinting at.
The lights above flicker, stabbing behind my eyes. A pulse of dizziness tugs at me, the world tilting for half a second. I lock my knees, blink it away. Ninety percent. Not perfect. But my ninety is still enough.
I push to my feet.
The noise cuts instantly, like someone hit mute.
“Police handle crime scenes,” I say, my voice carrying low, steady. “Firefighters handle fires.”
I let it hang a beat, then sweep the room with my gaze, landing square on Tara.
“And anyone stupid enough to touch her? They answer to me. Anyone who so much as looks at her the wrong way. Trust me—I'm a lot more creative off the ice than on it.”
Someone lets out a startled gasp. Another woman mutters, “Lord help us,” but her tone’s more swoon than warning.
"Yes, I'm on medical leave. But that means I've got nothing but time. When she's at work, I can be there. When she leaves, I'm her shadow." I let my gaze sweep the room, making sure everyone understands exactly what I'm promising.
"The only person who should be worried about my concussion is the coward who touched her."
I watch Tara—she’s staring at me like she wants to drag me out of here by my collar—to shut me up.
And judging by the heat in the room, half of them would gladly hold the door… so we could leave and make out.
Then a chair squeaks, a firefighter clears his throat.
“Wilder’s right,” the hero says, nodding solemnly. “He can at least intimate—” He winces. “Sorry, I mean intimidate.”
The women laugh, shameless, openly staring like they’re picturing me shirtless with a shotgun. I’m not sure if I want to growl or grin.
Tara sits rigid beside me, lips pressed into a tight line, color high on her cheeks. She’s cornered by kindness. Cornered by me.
An older man wearing a ‘Cedar Crest Customs’ T-shirt stands up to speak. "Tara, that cottage of yours is isolated. All we're saying is, it wouldn't hurt to have a six-foot-four hockey player drinking coffee on your porch for a few days. Send a message."
"A message that I'm living with a man I barely know?" Tara counters, her voice rising slightly.
“No… a message that you’re not alone. And Cam Wilder could chase off a stalker just by standing there breathing.” Someone volunteers from the crowd.
“Breathing? That chest alone is a security system.”
“If that man stands guard on my porch, I’d leave him cookies.”
“Cookies? I’d leave him a key.”
The discussion is veering off the rails again. Tara’s cheeks flame hotter. My pulse hammers at my throat.
I lean back in my chair, let them look, let them weigh. Because the truth is—I don’t mind being their damn security system if it keeps her safe.
The room hums with an unstoppable wave of small-town strategy.
“My nephew’s got binoculars—he’ll loan them.”
“Binoculars? Please. My sister’s got a drone.”
Tara’s head swivels, caught between gratitude and horror.
“This is not happening,” she hisses, sharp enough for me but polite enough for them. “He’s not moving into my house.”
I watch Lily reaching over to touch Tara's arm. She's been quiet through most of this, but when she speaks, people listen. "We’re just making sure you're not alone."
Mrs. Henderson's eyes light up with the dangerous gleam of someone who's just had a brilliant idea. "Speaking of not being alone—let’s start the Casserole Watch."
The room perks up with interest.
"Every family with a casserole dish gets a designated two-hour surveillance window," she explains with military precision. "We'll have eyes on Tara's street from dawn to dusk. If anyone sees a strange suit, the code phrase is 'the pot roast is dry.' It's foolproof."
I bite back a laugh. Leave it to Cedar Falls to turn neighborhood watch into a potluck operation.
Tara groans into her mug. When she finally looks at me, her eyes are blazing. I hold her gaze, steady, letting her see I’m not backing off.
Then the room quiets, waiting for her.
She exhales, sharp and short. “Everyone, easy there. I concede. Couch. A couple of days. That’s it.”
Relief washes over me so hard it makes me slightly dizzy—though that might just be the concussion. This is my chance. My shot to prove I'm not the idiot who forgot the best kiss of his life.
The crowd filters out, crockpot squad schedules in their hands. Tara braces against the fire truck in resignation.
I plant a hand on the fire truck beside her head. She folds her arms tight, chin tipped like she’s ready for a fight.
“I know you’re not happy about this,” I say, because stating the obvious seems like a good place to start.
“That’s the understatement of the century,” she mutters, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. It makes her look younger, more vulnerable.
She still won’t quite look at me, and I can see the war flickering across her face—anger, fear, frustration.
“Look,” I say quietly, “I’m not the jovial, jokey guy all the time. Not when it matters. About forgetting last night—I'm sorry for making you think it didn't matter.”
"This isn't a game, Cam," she says quietly, and there's a weight in her voice that tells me she knows exactly how serious this is.
"I know." I step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of vanilla and something uniquely her. "I'll be good. Model houseguest. Quiet, non-concussed human scarecrow. You won't even know I'm there."
She lets out a small, skeptical snort, "I highly doubt that."
“You declared me your jurisdiction,” she adds, eyes snapping fire.
“Correction.” I dip closer to the space only she can hear. “I declared that no one touches you while I’m breathing. Big difference.”
Her lips press tight, but her pulse flutters at the base of her throat. I see it. Feel it in the heat radiating off her.
“You can’t just move into my house,” she tries again, though it comes out thinner this time.
“Like everyone said —and like you promised your town. I can move onto your couch. Which is happening.”
Her chin tips higher, defiant.
Heat coils low in my gut.
The air between us tightens like every ounce of Cedar Falls gossip just funneled into this one square foot of space.
“You’re not my savior, Wilder. You’re a temporary inconvenience with memory problems.”
I dip my face until there’s barely an inch between us, close enough to breathe in that warm vanilla on her skin. Her pupils flare. Her lips part—then snap shut like she’s caught herself.
“Is that what I am?” I murmur, my mouth almost brushing hers.
“That’s exactly what you are.” But her voice betrays her—husky, thinned out, like she already knows she’s lying.
I edge closer, let my breath skim her cheek.
“Temporary? No, Darling, I’m the kind of inconvenience that sticks. And a patient one, if that’s what you need. Because what I really want—” I pause, let the weight of it settle between us.
“—is to kiss you again. To kiss you until you forget your own name. To taste every sound you make, feel you unravel under my hands. To bury myself so deep inside you that neither of us remembers why we were fighting.”
Her pupils blow wide. Her thighs press together, a restless shift she probably doesn’t even realize she’s making. And in that heartbeat, I see it again—that alley desire from last night. Her wanting me as much as I want her.
My blood’s already surging south when her phone buzzes, shattering the moment.
She jerks, glances down—and all the color drains from her face.
I catch the screen: Made a new friend?
Attached: a photo of us inside the bistro this morning—shot from across the street.
She jerks a breath. I take the phone away from her, my body already braced, instincts lighting up like sirens.
“Get in my car,” I murmur, mouth brushing her ear, low and lethal. “We’re going to your place. Until this is over, I’m not leaving your side.”