Chapter 16 #2
“Damn right,” says Frank O’Leary, the retired firefighter. “You kept me company when my hip was acting up. What kind of billionaire heiress sits on a porch swing with an old man just so he’s not alone? Not one I ever met.”
“Speak for yourself,” mutters Nia Washington, who runs the local laundromat. “I always figured Tara had class. Turns out it’s just… actual class.” She winks at me, diffusing the weight with sass.
Mrs. Henderson, cane planted, harrumphs. “Child, you warm my teacup. That’s worth more than all the stock portfolios in the world.”
Her weathered hands grips her cane as she fixes me with that no-nonsense stare that's terrorized three generations of Cedar Falls teenagers. "Two sugars, splash of cream, and you always warm the cup first because these old bones need the extra heat."
My throat constricts. Of course she noticed that tiny detail I thought nobody cared about.
More laughter, softer this time, threaded with relief.
Pastor Green, still in his clerical collar, lifts a hand. “Tara, we’re not defined by where we came from. We’re defined by who we show up for. And you’ve shown up for this town again and again.”
“Besides,” Karla pipes up, tiara slipping further down her forehead, “if you think a fancy name is gonna get you out of helping me clean up after this party, think again.”
"Yah, we don't care if your family owns half of Wall Street. You're our Tara."
The room breaks into chuckles and murmurs of agreement.
They're looking at me like I'm still just Tara.
"Besides," Scott adds with that irrepressible grin that got him in trouble through all twelve grades, "it's not like we don't have experience with billionaire drama." He gestures toward Levi, who raises his beer bottle in rueful acknowledgment.
"Wait, what?" gasps Maria Santos from the florist shop, nearly choking on her cake. "Levi's a billionaire too? How many rich people are hiding in this town?"
"Apparently more than you'd think," Chief Alvarez says dryly, but her dark eyes are warm when they meet mine.
"Though for what it's worth, Tara, the Delacroix name means nothing to me compared to the fact that you helped coordinate traffic control during the flash flood warnings without being asked. "
The scent of Hana's bulgogi drifts from the kitchen, mixing with the vanilla candles Karla lit for atmosphere, and something about that combination—foreign spices and familiar warmth—makes my chest tight with gratitude.
"Are you in some kind of trouble, sweetie?
" asks Laura Wolff, our town librarian, whose kindness has impressed me more than once.
I remember lingering at her counter, trading dog-eared romance paperbacks and laughing over our favorite tropes until the library closed.
That easy bond is etched into my memory as clearly as the spines we stacked.
Now her pretty voice is steady and certain.
"Because if you need help, this town has your back. "
"That's what we're here for," adds Tom from the post office, his usually quiet voice carrying surprising steel. "We take care of our own."
One by one, the people I've served and laughed with and worried about step forward.
Even shy Rebecca from the bookshop manages to catch my eye and mouths "we love you" with fierce sincerity.
The room fills with overlapping voices—questions about my safety, offers of help, gentle jokes that ease the tension without minimizing the moment.
Someone starts clearing dishes with purposeful efficiency.
I catch sight of Cam's parents in the corner, Hana wiping her eyes while Erik holds her close, his mind probably calculating protection strategies.
"Welcome to the rumor mill," Lily says finally, squeezing my free hand while baby Linden babbles contentedly against her shoulder. "We'll set it straight."
The simple acceptance in her voice—in all their voices—threatens to completely undo me. I've spent three years running from a name that felt like a cage, only to discover that home isn't about what you're called.
It's about who shows up when you finally tell the truth.
Cam’s thumb strokes slow circles against my spine through my thin sweater. He knew, I think. He knew they’d catch me.
By the time the evening winds down, my throat is sore from talking, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my heart feels so full I'm surprised it fits in my chest.
But as we're cleaning up, as the last of our friends head home with promises to spread the "official" story before any rumors can take root, I catch Cam watching me with an expression that makes my pulse skip.
“What?” I ask, my voice suddenly unsteady.
The fluorescent kitchen lights hum overhead, bleaching the warmth from the room, leaving only the stark intimacy of this shared space.
I’m hyper-aware of the strength of his forearm, the way his worn t-shirt stretches across the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the focused intensity of his gaze stripping me bare.
“You realize what you’ve been doing all evening?” His breath caresses my skin when he moves closer, his presence shrinking the room until there’s only the counter at my back and the heat rolling off him in waves.
"Revealing my secret identity? Having emotional breakthroughs? Nearly crying into Mrs. Henderson's bourbon cake?"
"Touching me." His voice drops to that low timbre that makes my insides molten. "Every chance you get. Like you can't help yourself."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I haven't been—"
"Your hand on my back when we were talking to Chief Alvarez. Fingers on my wrist when you were explaining the Delacroix situation. The way you keep finding reasons to brush against me while we’re clearing these damn plates.” His gaze dips to my mouth, lingers. “Like you need it.”
He’s right. All day, through the nerve-wracking Zoom call, the chaotic relocation of his family, the terrifying reveal to the town, my body has sought his—a grounding touch, a silent plea for reassurance.
It was unconscious, instinctive. Necessary. Now, laid bare by his observation, it feels shockingly intimate. “Maybe I just…” I swallow, my throat dry. “Maybe I needed the contact. For comfort.”
“Maybe.” The corner of his mouth lifts, a slow, devastating curve.
He braces one hand on the counter beside my hip, caging me without touching.
His other hand rises, fingertips hovering near my jaw.
“Or maybe my girl is finally letting herself want what she wants.” The possessive rumble in his voice liquefies my bones.
“Without apology. Without holding back.”
Cam… His name is a silent plea on my lips.
He leans in, his breath warm against my temple.
“I see you, Taralyn.” The whisper strokes my skin, intimate as a caress.
“All of you. The heiress. The waitress. The woman brave enough to stop running.” His knuckles brush my cheekbone, a feather-light touch that makes me shudder. “And I want every single piece.”
His mouth finds mine. Not tentative, not questioning. A claiming. Soft at first, a brush of lips that ignites a slow fuse deep in my belly. Then deeper, hungrier, as my hands fist in the soft cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer. He groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my lips.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I taste excitement, warmth and home.
I melt into him, the counter’s edge digging into my back, a sharp counterpoint to the liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
His hands slide down, gripping my hips, lifting me effortlessly onto the cool metal surface.
The clatter of a stray fork hitting the floor is distant, insignificant.
His body settles between my knees, hard muscle aligning with my softer curves. Every nerve ending sparks to life.
The rough denim of his jeans against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. The solid wall of his chest against my breasts. The insistent heat of his erection pressing against my core.
I arch into him, a gasp escaping as he kisses a burning trail down my throat, his teeth grazing the frantic pulse there.
“Cam,” I breathe, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Here? Now?”
He lifts his head, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals my breath. “Right here. Right now.” His voice is gravel and need. “I need to feel you, Tara. All of you. No walls.”
His hands slide under the hem of my blouse, hot palms skimming my ribs. The shock of skin-on-skin contact is electric.
I tug his shirt over his head, my fingers tracing the powerful lines of his shoulders, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the faded scar from an old hockey injury above his hip.
He’s magnificent—strength carved in warm, living flesh. My mouth follows my hands, tasting salt and him, drawing a ragged groan from deep in his chest.
His fingers make quick work of my jeans, pushing them down my hips along with my underwear.
The cool air kisses my heated skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he looks his fill.
Then his hands are on my thighs, spreading them wider, his thumbs brushing the slick heat already gathering there. I cry out, my head falling back against the cupboard door.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. I force my eyes open, meeting his smoldering gaze. His fingers slide through my wetness, circling my clit with torturous precision.
Pleasure arcs through me
“This,” he rasps, watching my face, “this is what you do to me. Just by breathing.”
He replaces his fingers with his mouth, his tongue making love to my core with devastating expertise.
I cry out, my hands scrabbling against the cool countertop, lost in the whirlwind of sensation. He feasts on me, relentless, pushing me higher and higher until I shatter, a silent scream tearing from my throat as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over me.
Before I can recover, before my trembling legs can even think of closing, he’s standing, freeing himself from his jeans. The sight of him—thick, straining, glistening at the tip—makes my mouth water.
He grips himself, stroking slowly, his eyes locked on mine, dark with primal need. “Need to be inside you, sweetheart. Now.” His voice is a guttural rasp.
“Yes,” I gasp, reaching for him. “Please, Cam.”
The broad, slick head of his cock nudged my entrance. 'Look at me,' he commanded. When I obeyed, he sheathed himself in one brutal thrust, stealing my breath and my sanity.
We both cry out—a sound of possession and surrender. He stills for a heartbeat, buried deep, forehead pressed to mine, breath mingling. “Mine,” he growls, the word vibrating through my core.
Then he begins to move. Slow, deep strokes that steal my breath, each one dragging against that sweet, sensitive spot inside me, building the fire anew.
His hands grip my hips, holding me open, taking me with a fierce tenderness that overwhelms me.
My legs lock around his waist, heels digging into the hard muscles of his backside, urging him deeper, faster.
The counter rattles slightly with each powerful thrust. The sounds are raw—skin slapping skin, his ragged breaths, my desperate whimpers, the low, animal sounds of pleasure neither of us can hold back.
He kisses me again, deep and consuming, swallowing my moans.
The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter. I can feel his control fraying, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate.
His fingers find my clit again, rubbing tight circles.
Stars explode behind my eyelids as another orgasm rips through me, violent and shattering.
He follows me over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering, pulsing deep inside me as he empties himself, his arms locking around me like steel bands.
We collapse against each other, gasping, sweat-slicked skin pressed together in the aftermath. His weight is heavy, sweet and anchoring, his heartbeat a frantic drum against my ear.
Slowly, the world filters back in—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint scent of dish soap and sex, the cool air on my flushed skin.
He nuzzles my hair, pressing a kiss to my temple, his breathing gradually slowing. His arms tighten around me, pulling me even closer against the solid warmth of his chest.
A profound sense of safety, of rightness, settles over me, deeper than the bone-deep satisfaction humming through my veins.
Here, in the messy aftermath, surrounded by the remnants of Karla’s fake party and the echoes of my truth, I am utterly, completely held and loved.