Chapter 14
The Family Blitz
Tara
Dr. Erik Wilder studies me like I'm a particularly challenging surgical case, and honestly? I'm starting to sweat like I'm about to get dissected without anesthesia.
The man radiates authority that could make trauma residents weep into their scrubs. He’s very tall—definitely where Cam gets his height from. And stoic, with pale blue eyes that catalog everything from my coffee-cup grip to the way I unconsciously straighten my shoulders when nervous.
I feel like he's running diagnostics on my suitability to be let into the careful perimeter he’s built around his son.
Luke Wilder is his father's son in all the ways that matter—clinical precision, sharp intelligence, the ability to make you feel like a specimen under a microscope.
Where I’d expected another Cam, Luke looks like he stepped out of a Scandinavian architecture magazine. All pale angles and clean lines. Striking, yes, but in a way that symmetry pleases the mind.
If Cam is the storm—the dark-eyed gravity you feel before you even see him—Luke is the clear sky after.
Same bloodline, completely different weather.
And I’ve never been the type to chase sunshine when thunder calls.
Then there’s Hana, Cam’s mom.
Sweet, petite, absolutely lethal Hana Wilder told us she’d rerouted a work trip when she heard the boys were gathering. “I miss my firstborn,” she'd said, and flew in together with husband and son.
She’ll only be here for a day before she flies out tomorrow; Erik and Luke are staying a few more days to ‘observe.’
Since our lobby hello, she’d hugged me, shown off appreciatively, a photo from her Texas staff—the flowers we sent—artfully posed in a vase that screams “family heirloom.”
Hana continues to beam at me like she’s discovered a very precious and delightful miracle, watching me with an eagerness and maternal openness I’ve never experienced.
She’s also been squeezing my shoulders, cupping my face, patting my arm—either to confirm I’m not a hologram, or checking for skeletal integrity. If only she knew how thoroughly her son has already tested this chassis; she’d quit checking for structural soundness.
“Tara, sweetie,” she says, sliding into our reserved booth with a smile that could talk down a boardroom. “Call me Auntie. It pulls hearts closer—makes family out of strangers.”
I nearly stumble into my seat. Family? We're twenty minutes into breakfast and she's already planning the wedding?
"I... absolutely, Auntie," I manage, and her face lights up like I just agreed to let her name our future children.
Cam shoots me a look that screams ‘sorry my mother is planning our entire future,’ but there's tension bracketing his eyes. He's been different since his family walked through Skyridge Hotel into Cedar Grounds—quieter, more guarded—definitely bracing himself for a medical intervention.
"So, Tara," Erik begins, "Cam mentioned you've been... helpful during his recovery."
Helpful. I want to be more than helpful to his son, but I'll take what I can get.
“She's been incredible," Cam says, his voice landing on that rough protectiveness that makes heat pool low in my belly.
His thumb traces across my knuckles under the table—a deliberate claim his family can't see but I feel everywhere.
"She’s important to me."
The words hang there—solid, deliberate. Not convenient. Not temporary. Important.
Erik's eyebrows climb slightly—the first crack in his composed facade. "Important how?"
And here’s where it gets dicey. Try telling a trauma surgeon his son’s recovery plan includes a runaway heiress with enemies. There’s no world where that looks like good medicine.
"I help him remember things," I say carefully. "Track appointments, medications, make sure he eats actual food instead of surviving on protein bars and stubbornness."
"Ah." Luke leans forward, and I can practically see the medical gears grinding. "External cognitive support. That's actually quite therapeutic for PCS patients. Memory scaffolding can—"
"She's not my memory aid," Cam interrupts, voice going sharp as surgical steel. "She's my girlfriend."
The silence that follows could be dissected with a scalpel.
"Well," Hana chirps, "I think that's absolutely wonderful! Don't you think so, Erik?"
Erik's response comes wrapped in clinical caution. "I think it's... complex."
"Complex how?" I ask, because if we're doing full family evaluation, let's do it completely.
"Brain injuries affect judgment," Luke jumps in and explains gently. It’s kind but it also feels like he's talking to someone who might not grasp basic concepts. "Emotional regulation, risk assessment, decision-making capacity—"
“Luke." Cam's voice drops to arctic. "Stop. Right there."
The temperature at our table plummets about twenty degrees. Gone is easy-going Cam, replaced by something much more dangerous.
"You want to question my judgment? Fine. But you don't get to do it through her."
"And FYI, my judgment is perfectly fine.”
I catch the strain underneath his words.
"Is it?" Erik asks quietly. "Because from what we understand, you're currently involved with someone who has... dangerous family complications. People following her, threatening messages—"
"People following her?" Hana's voice goes sharp with maternal alarm. "What people?"
I feel their attention like a physical weight—three pairs of eyes, plus Cam's worried gaze, focused on me with varying degrees of concern and suspicion.
This is it. The moment where I either pass the Wilder family inspection or get permanently filed under "negative influence on patient recovery."
"My family is complicated," I say, choosing each word like I'm defusing a bomb. "I left home a few years ago because I disagreed with their... business philosophy. They've been trying to convince me to come back ever since."
"What kind of business?" Erik presses.
Cam's entire body goes rigid beside me, and I feel his protective instincts kick into overdrive. His voice carries a warning, "Careful."
"The kind that makes people extremely wealthy and extremely controlling." I answer quickly.
It's not exactly a lie. Just not the complete, terrifying truth.
Cam's hand finds mine under the table, fingers threading through mine with possessive certainty. His palm is warm, calloused from hockey. His thumb strokes across my pulse point.
"And you're comfortable with this situation?" Erik asks Cam directly.
"I'm comfortable with her," Cam replies firmly. "The situation is temporary."
Hana leans forward, eyes bright with curiosity that feels infinitely safer than medical interrogation. "Tell me about your work, honey. Cam mentioned you're a waitress?"
I draw in a steady breath. Here's where I either crash spectacularly or prove exactly why I'm good for her son.
"I work at Mane Street Bistro, here in downtown Cedar Falls," I begin.
"It's not glamorous, but I love it. I get to know people, remember their stories.
Like Mrs. Jackson—comes in every Tuesday, orders chicken salad sandwich, no tomato, extra pickles, sweet tea.
But what she really comes for is someone to listen while she talks about her late husband.
Married forty-seven years, widowed six months ago.
She orders his favorite pie every time and leaves half uneaten because she's not ready to stop including him in her routine. "
I gesture with the spoon, tuck a stray napkin under a glass, brush crumbs into my palm as I keep talking. The Wilders watch with growing surprise.
“Ben Navarro,” I add with a little smile. “Coffee and muffin at six-fifteen sharp every morning. But when I notice his arthritis’ flaring up, I slide a warm towel from the teapot warmer into his hands. He calls it my ‘spa service.’ Tips an extra dollar every time.”
"A DIY hot pack… very observant," Luke says, but his tone makes it impossible to tell if I’ve earned points or just a polite nod.
"It’s my job to notice," I say, keeping my voice even. "People come to diners for more than food—they come for connection. For someone to remember they exist, that they matter."
I pause, realizing I’ve just shown them exactly how my mind works. "I don’t just remember orders. I remember people. The details that stick with them."
"Isn’t that just a waitress-y thing to do?" Luke asks, now clearly still unimpressed. “I observe lots of stuff about my patients all the time.”
I meet his gaze, then glance at Cam before leaning in. "Luke, your arrival flight to Denver—UA1684. Gate E6. Seat 12C. You forwarded the confirmation to Cam last night.
His mouth goes still. He pulls out his phone, scrolling fast to check.
I pivot smoothly to his father. “Dr. Wilder, you called me eleven days ago at 7:31 a.m. Central time. Your number—eight-one-seven, two-five-eight, two-two-zero-two.”
Erik’s eyes widen, the first real crack in his composure.
Then I turn to Hana, who looks delighted, like I’m about to pull a rabbit from a hat.
I smile. “The photo you showed me earlier?” I close my eyes, letting the image replay.
“Beside the gorgeous vase of flowers sat a silver owl ornament, a silver tray with a bronze key laid across it, and a silver pen with a matching letter opener. And the staff member who took the photo? She wore a bright blue outfit—I caught her reflection in the vase.”
The silence that follows is absolute. I fold my hands in my lap. “That’s the difference. It’s not waitress memory. It’s everything memory.”
I let a wry smile tug at my mouth. “It’s also the party trick for why my family wants me home.”
"Plus," I add, because apparently I can't leave well enough alone, "you've all been monitoring Cam for cognitive strain markers—how he squints at bright light, response time delays, whether he's tracking conversations.
You're not just having breakfast with us.
You're conducting an informal neurological assessment. "
Luke exhales, his skepticism cracking into something real. “That’s…” He shakes his head, almost grinning. “That’s extraordinary.”