Chapter 17
Peaches & Punches
Cam
The first thing cutting through the haze isn't thought—it's sensation. The warm weight of a woman's thigh slung over my hip, anchoring me to consciousness.
The second is the scent of her— vanilla from her skin, the sharp pine of my soap in her hair, and beneath it all, the deep musk of sex. Our sex.
My eyes crack open slightly, and the early morning sunlight slanting through the loft window hits me.
Dark hair tangled across my chest and the pillow. Sunlight gilds her cheek, the sweep of lashes against skin.
For a split second, the fog in my head threatens to roll in, that familiar, frustrating, disorienting grayness of my PCS.
No. Not Now.
Then I feel her breath against my collarbone. Steady. Warm. Familiar.
The fog retreats, burned away by the overwhelming reality of her.
Tara. Taralyn Delacroix. My love.
Curled into my side, her head nestled in the hollow of my shoulder, one hand fisted in my pajama shirt. She's deeply asleep, utterly vulnerable, and the trust implicit in that surrender hits me harder than any check I ever took on the ice.
A fierce wave of possessiveness washes over me. Mine. This incredible, resilient, courageous woman is mine. And she brings me out of my fog, never wanted my fame, she remembers for me, when my own mind is gone.
The protective instinct is a physical ache, a need to shield her from every shadow she's known. I tighten my arm around her, needing the solid, breathing proof of her against me. It’s not just comfort. She’s my anchor, my home.
Her body holds me when darkness presses in and fits against mine like the missing piece I never knew I needed.
My gaze drifts down to where the sheet has slipped. Her breasts are bared, full and magnificent, rising with each breath. One dusky nipple is puckered against the morning cool. A low groan vibrates in my chest.
She's so beautiful.
It's not just lust—though that's there, thrumming under my skin.
It's reverence.
The urge to worship her overwhelms me. Carefully, I lean down, my mouth finding that tight peak. I suckle gently, and a low, throaty moan escapes her lips. Her body arches instinctively, pushing deeper into the heat of my mouth.
Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep and pleasure. "Aren't you tired from last night, handsome?"
I pull back, feigning a thoughtful frown while my morning erection makes an obvious tent in the sheets. "Last night? Sorry, the memory's foggy. My head's been through a lot.”
A wicked smile spreads across her face. "Poor baby. Need help remembering?"
Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my abs, making my situation more urgent. "But your parents are down the hall, and your mother can hear through walls."
"My mother raised two boys. She knows what we're doing. Besides… Dr Martinez’s orders: sensory exercises to rebuild my pathways."
My gaze drops with purpose. “For example, if I concentrate on the weight of you in my hand, I can probably recall the exact sound you made when I had you on the kitchen counter.”
She chokes on a half-giggle, warm and bright. “You’re a menace, Cam Wilder. A shameless, beautiful menace.” Her hand slides lower.
“Look who’s talking.” I catch her wrist, holding it firm before she undoes me completely. My brow arches, deliberate.
“But you’re right,” I murmur, leaning close until my mouth brushes her ear. My voice goes rougher. “Restraint can be… delicious.”
I let the pause stretch, heat sliding between us like a blade.
“So let’s make it a game.”
She rolls her eyes, but her grin is feral. “Everything’s a game with you.”
“A game of control.” I whisper the rules: touches, glances, whispers. Anything to seduce, the entire day. Whoever cracks first, begs for more, loses.
Her breath hitches. “You’re turning our relationship into a competition? You’ve been off the ice too long.”
“There are losers on the scoreboard,” I murmur, kissing the soft spot behind her ear, “but not in this bed. We both walk away getting exactly what we want. As winners.”
She meets my eyes, challenge accepted. “You’re on, Wilder. Prepare to be utterly destroyed.”
I laugh. She has no idea who she’s messing with.
After a shower that tested our new game's limits, we join my parents downstairs in Lily's commercial kitchen. Mom fusses at the stove while Dad reads his tablet, content.
The easy domesticity—Tara fitting against my side while I make coffee—settles something deep in my chest. This is what I want. Every morning, every crisis, every ordinary moment.
"Luke's already wheels up from DIA," Dad says. "Told me to tell you not to overdo it today."
"Shocked he didn't leave laminated instructions," I say, stealing bacon. Mom swats my hand.
Karla bustles in through the Sugar Jar door, clipboard hugged to her chest like it’s an extra limb. “Rise and shine, Wilders.” She softens with an indulgent smile at Tara. “And good morning to you, Ms. Delacroix.”
Tara steps forward and folds Karla into a hug that’s bigger than it has any right to be at this hour. It’s gratitude poured straight into arms: for yesterday, for everything Karla did to rally this town when we needed it.
"First weekend of the Fall Farmers Market today—the whole town will be there." Karla announces.
“Farmers Market?” Tara perks up, bright as the morning light. “That sounds fun! Auntie, shall we go?”
“That’s a definite yes! Colorado peaches won’t wait.”
Both women then turn their expectant gazes on Dad and me, and we already know resistance is futile.
A trip to the Farmer’s market will lift everyone spirits Plus, if Lucien is stupid enough to show his face, he won’t get far — safety in numbers, and this town would bury him under peaches before he gets near.
I sling an arm around Tara’s shoulders, dipping close enough that only she hears the rasp in my voice. “Perfect. More people around means more witnesses when I win today.”
Her eyebrow arches, blue eyes sparking. “Win what?”
I let my thumb skim the barest line along her collarbone before retreating, just enough to tease. “The game, sweetheart. Gives me the whole day to work you over until you crack, and Cedar Falls gets front-row seats.”
Her eyes flash, her mouth curving in that dangerous little smile. “You think you can outlast me?”
“Sweetheart,” I murmur, letting my thumb trace the bare edge of her collarbone before I withdraw. “With my stamina,” I wink leerily at her, “I know I can.”
She laughs, soft and wicked, and her hand fists in my shirt like she’s already two seconds from proving me wrong.
“Oh, young love,” Mom sighs dramatically, clasping her hands like she’s watching a prime time soap opera. “Aigoo, k-drama scene right here!”
I catch the gleam in Dad’s eyes, the way his mouth curves like he’s two seconds from hauling Mom over his shoulder just to remind the room he still can. And judging by the way her cheeks flush, she’d let him.
For one hot second I picture it, then immediately scrub the thought before it scars me.
Tara shakes with laughter against my side while I mutter, “Let’s get going before my parents start giving us pointers.”
There’s no other way to describe this: summer magic has descended on Cedar Falls.
Tara and I weave through the bustling crowd, and for the first time in days, the vise on my chest loosens. This is what I’ve missed—the luxury of just being, without calculating exits, without my brain running bodyguard drills on a loop.
The August sun beats down, hot and golden, glinting off vendor tents, the whole street buzzing with the wild energy that only late summer brings. It’s sweaty, sweet, a little dusty—Colorado in its prime. I drag in a breath like a man surfacing.
Tara’s hand is warm in mine, her fingers giving a squeeze like she’s testing if I’m really here. I glance down, and she’s already sneaking a look at me, smile soft, eyes bright.
I tug her closer until our shoulders brush, and for a second I’m greedy for her. She doesn’t just sparkle—she makes me forget shadows exist.
The Farmer’s Market sprawls down Main like a spectacle. A bluegrass band at the entrance saws out something rowdy, laughter blends with the hum of conversation, and the air is thick with scents—grilled corn dripping with butter, kettle corn sweet enough to stick to your teeth.
Kids wander with lemonade cups sweating down their wrists, turkey legs clutched like trophies. Green bites of fresh cucumbers and tomatoes stacked high beside crates of fuzzy Palisade peaches and Rocky Mountain cantaloupes.
And everywhere—friendly blue. Cedar Falls PD has fanned out along the blocks, not stiff, not distant.
They’re part of the rhythm. Kids crowd around cruisers, sticking badges on their shirts, high-fiving officers like they’re the main attraction.
Chief Alvarez herself leans against a booth, chatting with a group of locals, her laugh carrying above the fiddle.
The sight unclenches something tight inside me. The town is braced, but alive—it’s readiness. I can breathe because they’re watching, too.
Somewhere down by the bakery stalls, my parents are definitely being charmed into taking samples.
I catch sight of a jelly table: jalapeno, bright yellow dandelion, even zucchini–citrus marmalade.
I mutter, “That’s not jam, that’s a dare.
” Tara snorts, and for one stupid-beautiful second, it’s just us—safe, ridiculous, and a little bit in love with the absurdity of small-town summers.
“Ooo… Berry Pie Contest at two," I announce to Tara, like I'm reporting to the team bench. "I plan to win."
Tara smirks, her eyes dancing with amusement and a spark of challenge. "Mrs. Henderson's undefeated."
"I'll eat her under the table," I declare, my competitive spirit kicking in.
A grandmother passing by with a basket of apples gasps, her hand flying to her chest. Tara smacks my chest, trying and failing to hide her laughter.
I grin at the scandalized woman, my voice carrying just enough to be overheard. "Not like that. Get your minds out of the gutter, people. I'm talking pie."