Page 6 of Penalty Kiss
Levi’s shoulders loosen in a way I only ever see after game-winners and Lily’s kisses. He stands, squeezing the back of my neck—the quick brother touch that resets my pulse. “Good. I’ll tell Lily. We’ll have the loft ready by the time you’re discharged.”
He heads for the door, pauses. “And Cam?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to be ‘on’ there,” he says, softer. “Let the armor rest. Come with me. Just for a while.” Then, the latch clicks behind him.
I stare at the reflection of my taped eyebrow in the tainted window, the faint tremor in my fingers, the call button waiting like a dare.
Cedar Falls. I’ve painted the night sky there—pranks, fireworks, wild energy that made people laugh.
This time I’m arriving without the noise.
Chapter 2
Buzzing Chaos
Tara
The victory taste of perfectly executed chaos still fizzes on my tongue as I swing my apartment door shut behind me.
Tonight's “so-hungry-you-could-eat-a-horse" challenge at Mane Street Bistro turned into an epic showdown between two regulars—Jerry, who insists he played semi-pro football before his knees gave out, and Matt, whose wife packed him a salad for lunch every day until he staged a lettuce rebellion. What started as friendly competition devolved into the entire restaurant chanting "Chew! Chew! Chew!" while I played referee, timer, and chief cheerleader.
Jerry tapped out at burger number three. Marcus made it to four and a half before declaring victory and immediately requesting my largest glass of milk and "maybe some of that fancy antacid from behind the counter."
I love nights like this. Loud, ridiculous, and perfectly normal. The kind of chaos that drowns out the constant hum of hypervigilance that's become my soundtrack over the past three years.
I drop my keys in the little ceramic bowl by the door—a housewarming gift from Lily when I moved intothis cottage two years ago. The bowl is shaped like a cupcake, because of course it is. Everything Lily touches turns sweet, and I'm grateful for the reminder that some people in this world create joy instead of consuming it.
My cottage is small but mine. Pale yellow walls, mismatched furniture I've collected from thrift stores and garage sales, and the kind of comfortable clutter that says someone actually lives here.
My only indulgence—steamy romance paperbacks—stacked against one large wall, like a literary monument. My pride and joy that greets me happily every time I enter my home.
There’s also the quilt I pretend my grandmother made (really, I found it in an antique shop in Colorado Springs) for nights when I want to cozy up for a reading binge.
My latest escape is from a new local author, Emma Bloom. I fell face-first into her Billionaire Protectors series and crawled out three books later, blinking in the sunlight like some kind of romance-drunk vampire. I even signed up for her newsletter—not for the book deals, but because it felt good to belong somewhere without handing over my real name. Plus, the woman makes billionaire chaos look like foreplay.
Then, there are the photographs of Cedar Falls scattered around—the lake at sunset, Mrs. Henderson and I holding our cotton candy at the town fair, a group of us gathering for Scott and June’s impromptu duet at karaoke night.
The photographs have become my anchor. My version of a family album, built from borrowed belonging and new communities.
I kick off my work shoes and wiggle my toes against the hardwood floor. Twelve hours on my feet, I’m tired. The kind that comes from honest work and genuine laughter. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering if today's the day your past catches up.
Time for my nightly ritual.
I pad to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine—nothing fancy, just a bottle I picked up at the grocery store because the label had a cute dog on it. The ritual isn't about the wine. It's about the exercise.
I settle into my favorite chair, the overstuffed monstrosity and close my eyes.
Flash card time.
Table two: Bill Morrison, coffee with one sugar, wheat toast, dry. Mentioned his granddaughter started kindergarten. Wore his lucky fishing hat even though it's October. Tipped fifteen percent exactly, like always.
Table four: The Peterson sisters. Earl Grey tea for Patricia, chamomile for Ruth. Split a blueberry muffin. Ruth complained about the new stoplight on Maple Street for exactly seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Patricia rolled her eyes four times and changed the subject to her prize-winning dahlias.
Table seven: New customer. Mid-thirties, business suit that didn't belong in Cedar Falls. Ordered black coffee and asked three questions about the town—population, main businesses, and whether we get many "visitors." Paid cash. Didn't leave a name for his order.
My eyes snap open.
