Chapter 10
Family Inquisition
Tara
Two days later.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, dragging me from the best sleep I've had in years. Cam's arm tightens around my waist on instinct, like his body knows to keep me close.
The morning light streaming through my bedroom blinds catches the mirrors, creating patterns of gold across our tangled sheets.
The buzzing continues. Insistent. Annoying.
I slip out of Cam's embrace carefully, trying not to wake him. He's been sleeping better since we officially share the bed—deeper, more peaceful. The PCS episodes are getting fewer and farther between, and I want to give his brain every chance to heal.
My phone screen shows that I just missed a call, and then a new text comes in.
Hello. This is Dr. Erik Wilder, Cameron Wilder’s dad, can we talk?
My stomach drops. Cam's father calling my phone directly can't be good news. Because nothing says "great morning" like your lover's surgeon father sliding into your DMs.
I grab my robe and pad to the kitchen, hitting callback as I start the coffee maker.
He answers on the first ring.
"Miss Haynes?"
His voice carries that crisp military authority that probably makes his trauma patients feel instantly calmer. It makes me want to stand straighter, even though he can't see me.
"Yes, Dr. Wilder. Is everything okay?"
"That's what I'm calling to determine." There's a pause, and I can practically hear him choosing his words carefully. "I received some concerning information yesterday. About my son's current... situation."
The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the silence while I try to figure out what he knows and how he knows it.
"What kind of information?"
"The kind that suggests Cameron is playing bodyguard to a woman who may be in genuine danger. The kind that mentions anonymous threatening messages and suspicious men asking questions around town."
I close my eyes. Small towns and their gossip networks. Of course someone would have mentioned the bistro incidents to Levi, and Levi would have told Cam's family.
"Dr. Wilder—"
"Erik, please. And I'm not calling to interfere." His tone softens slightly. "I'm calling because my son has a brain injury that affects his judgment and memory, and I need to know if he's putting himself in a situation he's not equipped to handle."
The protective concern in his voice makes my chest tight. This is what real family sounds like—messy, worried, but ultimately loving. Not controlling. Not manipulative. Just... caring.
"He's helping me, yes," I say carefully. "But he's not taking unnecessary risks."
"Miss Haynes—Tara—may I speak plainly?"
"Of course."
"Cameron is the kind of man who doesn’t hesitate to protect someone he cares about.
It's what makes him an exceptional defenseman—and what’s put his body on the line more times than I can count.
He doesn't calculate odds when someone he loves is threatened. He just acts—he dives, he shields, he absorbs the hit. And that instinct, the same one that made him great, is the one I’m worried about right now. "
Someone he loves.
The words claw at me. They flood my chest with heat, my stomach with cold. Being the one someone would choose to burn for—it’s exhilarating, and it’s terrifying.
My skin prickles like he’s already chosen me, and I don’t know if the warmth spreading through me is safety or a warning.
"But right now," Erik continues, "his recall isn’t reliable. And under stress, that can mean gaps. His ability to assess threats and remember crucial details is compromised. So I need you to be his judgment. I need you to be the one who calculates the odds."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because from what I'm hearing, you're dealing with people who have resources and connections that could put both of you in real danger. And Cameron's solution is to plant himself between you and a threat like he's still in pads."
I hear movement from the bedroom—Cam stirring, probably wondering where I went.
"He knows he's not wearing hockey pads anymore," I say quietly. "But he's still trying to protect everyone."
"Exactly. So let me ask you directly: Are you in love with my son?"
The question catches me completely off guard. I nearly drop the phone.
"I—what?"
"It's a simple question. Do you love him?"
My mouth opens and closes like a fish. "That's... that's pretty personal."
"It's also relevant. Because if you're not, if this is just convenience or gratitude or misplaced attraction, then you need to end it now. Cameron doesn't do casual, especially not in his current state.”
I pace to the window, phone pressed to my ear. Outside, Cedar Falls looks impossibly normal—sun on the lake, a dog tugging its owner down Main—while my world tilts off its axis with every word Cam’s dad says.
Erik’s voice cuts back in, low and relentless. “He forms deep attachments quickly, and losing someone he's invested in could set back his recovery significantly."
I lean against the kitchen counter, my free hand pressed to my chest where my heart is hammering.
"And if I am?" The words slip out, barely above a whisper.
"Then you fight for him the same way he's fighting for you. You be smart when he's being reckless. You remember the things he might forget. You keep him safe so he can keep you safe."
Footsteps in the hallway. Cam appears in the kitchen doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. He takes one look at me on the phone and immediately goes alert, protective instincts kicking in.
"Everything okay?" he mouths.
I nod, trying to look reassuring. "Erik, I should go. I think Cam's awake."
“One more thing. Luke and I consulted with his neurologist. Given the persistence of these symptoms, we believe a more comprehensive evaluation might be necessary—something beyond what Cedar Falls can provide. We think it might be time for him to come.”
The floor seems to drop an inch beneath me. "Home? To Dallas?"
"The PCS symptoms should be improving more by now. The episodes, the memory issues—they're not following the expected pattern. We're concerned there might be something we missed."
"You want to take him away." The words come out flat, dull. Of course. Of course they want to take him away.
"We want to help him heal. And right now, staying in Cedar Falls playing hero might not be what's best for his recovery."
Cam's eyes narrow. He can't hear Erik's side of the conversation, but he's reading my body language like a roadmap. He crosses to me, his hands settling on my shoulders.
"What's wrong?" he asks quietly.
I look up into his maple-warm eyes, and something inside me breaks a little.
Because Erik is right—Cam would throw himself in front of a freight train for me. He's already doing it. And his family, his brilliant doctor family, is probably right about what's best for his health.
But the thought of him leaving, of facing Lucien and the Delacroix empire alone, makes me want to curl up in a ball and hide.
"Tara," Erik's voice pulls me back to the phone. "I'm not the villain here. I just want my son to get better."
"I know," I manage. "I want that too."
"Talk to him. Make him listen to reason. And Tara? If you do love him—keep him safe. Even if that means letting him go. Thank you."
The call clicks off before I can even reply.
The screen goes black. My reflection stares back: wide-eyed, robe crooked, like a kid who just got caught doing something wrong.
Erik's words echo in my head. If you love him—keep him safe. Even if that means letting him go.
"Rookie." Cam's voice is gentle but firm. "What did my dad say?"
I don’t get the chance to answer. His phone starts buzzing, Erik taking the conversation back where it belongs.
Cam glances at the screen, and in a heartbeat, the playful, post-sex glow evaporates from his face. Gone is the man who just worshipped my body with his mouth and hands. In his place sits someone formal, guarded.
He answers before it goes to the second ring.
"Cameron." The voice that comes through the speaker is curt, authoritative. Not Cam—Cameron. Even I can hear the difference.
"Hey, Dad. Sorry, I was—"
"Are you alone?" Dr. Erik Wilder interrupts, his tone carrying that particular brand of medical authority that brooks no argument.
Cam glances at me, and I see something flicker across his face. Vulnerability? Embarrassment? "No. Why?"
"We need to talk."
"What? Why?" Cam's voice has gone tight.
"Because according to the local police chief, you're involved in some kind of stalking situation. Because your last three texts have been increasingly erratic. And because when I called Levi to check on you, he mentioned you've been 'playing bodyguard to a local woman.'"
"Dad, you’re on the speaker. And dad, it's not—"
"Cameron." The single word carries enough authority to straighten spines from three states away. "Your mother’s worried sick. Your brother thinks you're having some kind of episode related to your PCS."
I watch Cam's jaw clench, the muscle ticking with barely contained frustration. His free hand balls into a fist on his side.
"My head is fine," he says, but I can hear the doubt creeping in. The same doubt I saw the other day when he couldn't remember if I'd mentioned the lemons.
"Son, post-concussion syndrome doesn't work that way. You can't just decide you're better because you want to be."
Dr. Wilder's voice softens slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the father beneath the decorated Army physician. "Your cognitive load has increased significantly. New environment, high stress, irregular sleep patterns—these are all triggers we discussed."
"I know what we discussed." Cam's voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
"Do you? Because yesterday you texted me asking if I was at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Maryland. Cameron, that was two months ago."
The silence that follows is deafening. I watch the color drain from Cam's face, watch him struggle with a memory that apparently isn't there.