His mind drifted to the scrap of paper in his change bowl with her number on it.
It wouldn’t hurt to just give her a call, would it? Her absence was unlike her. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she didn’t stalk him after practice, or ask his teammates weird questions while pretending to ignore him.
Yup. Crazy. He was going crazy.
So maybe he’d made his point clear enough. She’d finally taken the hint that he wasn’t going to give her the interview she thought she wanted. Freckles had moved on to greener pastures.
The thought of not seeing her daily caused his gut to ache. Or maybe that was his lunch of chili and a soft pretzel before practice.
Good riddance, he thought as he started the car. She was a reporter. More trouble than she was worth.
So why, as he drove home, was he still thinking about her?
Chapter Five
This is insane. Don’t do this.
She glanced around the concrete walls of the breezeway outside Killian Reeves’ apartment. Guy clearly didn’t think much of security. The complex wasn’t even gated. She sort of liked that he didn’t have a big, pretentious mansion or anything crazy like that. But still, some version of safety wouldn’t have been out of line.
Seriously, don’t knock. Go back to your car and drive away.
She’d never shown up uninvited to a subject’s home before. It felt . . . wrong. But she was just going to knock and ask to talk. She wasn’t peeking in any windows, or interviewing the neighbors, or stalking. If he said go away, she would. If he wasn’t there, she’d leave. She would absolutely not make a nuisance out of—
“Yoo hoo!”
She shrieked and spun around, one hand over her heart. What the hell?
An old woman, maybe in her eighties, stood in the doorway of the apartment across the breezeway. She wore a simple button-down shirt and khakis, with her feet in slippers and a thick housecoat draped over her slight shoulders. “Are you looking for Killian?”
“No. I mean, yes.” She cleared her throat. “I haven’t knocked yet.”
“I know,” the woman said sweetly, smiling. “I’ve been watching you through my peephole.”
“Oh . . .” She rubbed damp palms over her jeans. Why did she feel so guilty? She hadn’t done anything wrong. “I was just deciding whether to bother him or not.”
“He’s not in right now, dear.” She patted the door as if it were a beloved pet. “I keep a good eye on my neighbors. I do love my peephole.”
Unsure what to say to that, Aileen nodded in return. “That’s good. I’m sure Killian appreciates the help.”
“I doubt that very much.” With a wink, she opened her door wider. “I have the news on. Would you like to come in and watch while you wait for him?”
“Wait for . . . oh. No.” She took a step toward the stairs. “No, I’m not going to wait. I’m sure I’ll catch up with him somewhere else. Have a good night.” She turned to make a get away, and ran straight into solid mass.
“Freckles?” Killian’s voice floated down to her. “What the hell . . .” His voice hardened. “Were you talking to Mrs. Reynolds?”
“She was, sweetheart,” the neighbor, presumably Mrs. Reynolds, said helpfully. “I saw her through my peephole!”
“Doing what, exactly?” he asked, his voice low. A warning, if ever she’d heard one.
“Well, from what I can tell, she was gathering the courage to knock on your door.” Mrs. Reynolds gave a thin chuckle. “Poor dear must be scared. Women are forward these days, you know. No shame in chasing after a man.”
Aileen groaned and took a step back. She was about to bolt around Killian and head for Sybil the Car when he hooked an arm around hers and tugged. “Oh, no you don’t.” He pulled her into his apartment and pushed her ahead of him. “Goodnight, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Aileen closed her eyes. “That woman is intensely protective of you, you know.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” The deadbolt locked with a loud click. “What were you doing talking to her?”
Aileen opened her hands, shrugging. “She’s a force of nature. I tried to say good-bye but she bulldozed right over me. She wanted me to come in and watch the news.”
One of his eyebrows winged up. “Did you get what you need?”
“Get what I . . .” Her hands vibrated with anger. “You think I knocked on her door? You think I was asking her questions about you, trying to get her to give up some sort of dirt or confuse her?”
“You’re a reporter,” he said, as if that was all that needed to be said on the matter.
“I . . .” She struggled to keep her breathing even. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” He stalked closer, pinning her against the kitchen table. “But since you did, let me tell you what I think about reporters that bother my neighbors.”
“But I—”
“Don’t. I tolerate the bullshit at the practice field, after games, even on my way to the fucking car in the parking lot. Part of the job. But don’t come here and harass my neighbors. Mrs. Reynolds is a nice lady and she doesn’t deserve to have vultures pecking at her for things she doesn’t know anyway.”
“I wasn’t . . .” She watched him a moment. “I never knocked on her door.”
He eyed her from the side, hands still clenched. “You didn’t?”
“I didn’t even knock on your door. I was debating turning around and leaving when she opened her door and started talking. I was ready to take off when you came up the stairs.” She almost added “and caught me,” but it sounded too incriminating. And she hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Not technically.
Killian stalked closer still, pressing her back against the kitchen table. The lip of the furniture pushed into the small of her back. “Let me make this very clear. Don’t drag my neighbors down into the gutter for some tabloid piece of shit story. Just because I’m not cooperating like those little puppies you have on a leash at the stadium doesn’t mean you get to make other people’s lives—innocent people—uncomfortable.”
She wasn’t sure where to start with that. “I’m not sure who the puppies are in this instance, to be honest.”
“Josiah Walker?” He snorted. “Michael Lambert. Ringing any bells? The guys who seem to do whatever you want to be on your little Internet show.”
“Maybe they’re just nice guys, who have an accommodating spirit and a general understanding that I’m harmless.” She tried to cross her arms, but his chest was too close and it was awkward. So she gripped the edge of the table instead and thrust her chin out. “And I would never put my stories ahead of an innocent person’s life. That’s despicable. I was raised better, I was trained better. And damn it, I want better than that.”
Before she could think of the next point of argument, his mouth was on hers. She gasped in shock, then locked her elbows to keep her upright against the table. Her knees wanted to melt away. His lips slanted over hers, tongue probing for entry. And God help her, she let him.
Because she was insane.
But it was good. So good. And she couldn’t remember being so tangled up with a male in a long, long time. So when her legs felt a little stronger, she unhooked one hand from the table and wrapped it around the back of his neck. Sort of, anyway. Her arm didn’t quite reach, but the effect was enough. He bent lower to match her disadvantaged height, then grabbed her hips and raised her up to sit on the kitchen table. The additional inches made kissing him back easier, more delicious.
He tasted like mint, as if he’d brushed his teeth after practice. And smelled like pine needles. His body wash, probably. The skin of his neck felt flushed under her cool fingertips, and she explored his hairline above the collar of his T-shirt.
He groaned something into her mouth, but she couldn’t make it out. His mouth nibbled down to her jaw, up over to her ear, before sucking her earlobe. She nearly melted straight into a puddle at his feet.
“Wh�
�what?” she managed to ask.
“Freckles,” he muttered, almost like a curse.
“My freckles?” She pressed a kiss to his neck—the only thing she could reach at the moment—before he jerked back. As if her confusion had cleared the fog he was swimming through.
He blinked, took two giant steps back, then turned and tunneled his fingers through his hair and squeezed.
That looked like it hurt.
After realizing the moment was over, Aileen glanced down at herself. Her legs were spread wide, having given him access to step between them so they could mold their bodies together. She snapped her knees shut. The image of a barn door closing while a horse romped in a nearby meadow made her want to snort a laugh.
“This doesn’t go any further than this room.” His voice was low, dark, carrying a sharp edge she hadn’t heard him use before. “You don’t talk about it, you don’t print it anywhere or blog about it or . . . whatever you do with your interviews.”
That hurt, more than she was willing to admit. That he would think . . . She counted to ten, then hopped down and picked up the tote bag she’d dropped. After straightening her hoodie, she walked to his door and opened it. “I don’t know where you get the idea I’m looking for a sleazy story, Killian, but I’m not. My job right now might not be with the best company, but I do the best work I can. And that doesn’t involve talking about a player’s sex life . . . with me, or anyone. I’m better than that.” She closed the door behind her, pasted a fake smile on her face, waved at Mrs. Reynolds’ door in case she was watching, and headed to her car.
* * *
Killian spent a good five minutes beating his head against his door before surrendering to the need for a Tylenol. The woman was a walking migraine, spreading headaches and aggravation wherever she walked.
Which was, of course, exactly why he had to get his hands on her. She pestered him until he couldn’t think of anything but her. Her voice. Her face. Her freckles. Her stupid Converse. Even her ugly car.
It was like psychological warfare, and she was kicking his ass.
So that was all this was. This being the clenched stomach feeling he’d had since the moment he spotted her in front of his door, talking to Mrs. Reynolds. The fact that his body tensed, that his dick hardened and still hadn’t calmed the hell down, that his mind went completely blank and he’d done the most stupid thing in mankind.
Kissed a damn reporter. Sank into that sweet, pixie-like warmth and lost his ever-loving mind in her instant response to his moves.
He rubbed a hand down his face and opened his door. He counted to five in his head and smiled a little when Mrs. Reynolds opened her own door. “Yes, sweetie?”
“You’ve got the hearing of a bat.”
She narrowed her gaze. “That didn’t sound like a compliment.”
He winked at her. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Did the woman who was here earlier bother you?”
The paper-thin skin that covered her face stretched as she smiled broadly. “Not at all! I was so excited to see a sweet looking young lady waiting for you.” His neighbor peeked left, then right, then back at him. “She seemed to not be sure if she wanted to see you or not. I thought I’d delay her so you two would run into each other.”
“But she didn’t knock on your door.”
Mrs. Reynolds looked confused. “No, she was standing by your door. I invited her in to watch the news and wait, but she declined.”
Killian’s head bobbed slowly. “Okay. Just wanted to make sure. Have a good night, Mrs. Reynolds.”
She waved and closed her door as he did the same. There was one weight off his mind. He’d hoped she’d been telling the truth, but he wasn’t going to risk it when checking was so easy. So point for her.
Wait, why was he assigning points to the reporter? This wasn’t a game. This was his life. He couldn’t have her digging around in his life, finding Emma and Charlie. It was the exact opposite of what he needed.
Maybe after tonight, she’d give up. She’d said she wouldn’t write about the kiss—though he’d believe it when he saw it . . . or didn’t see it—but she didn’t say she was dropping the idea of interviewing him altogether. That was the real crux of the issue. In fact, he wouldn’t be shocked if this didn’t spur her to be more intense in her hunt for the screw to turn for an interview.
He backed away from the door and headed to the kitchen to grill some chicken for dinner. His eye snagged on the coin bowl with her number in it.
Burn it.
What if . . .
No. Stupid idea.
Or maybe not. If he gave her just enough, maybe she would go away. Torture some other athlete for an interview. Maybe she’d disappear and never be heard from again.
Could he be so lucky?
He grilled the chicken, nuked some veggies, and grabbed a water from his fridge, taking it over to the living room to eat and watch Sports Center. But during every commercial break, his eyes wandered again to the bowl with her card in it.
Going on the offensive might throw her off enough. He could even have a little fun with it. She’d get her story, and he could stop worrying about where she would pop up next. She’d be out of his life, forever.
Killian ignored the gut-clench and changed the channel.
* * *
When her phone rang at six in the morning, Aileen wanted to pick it up and hurl it across the floor. There was no way any sane person was calling her at this time of day, which made the call either a wrong number, or Bobby Mundane. Neither were appealing before she’d had coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. She fumbled for the phone, just to double check, and groaned at the unknown caller ID. The phone stopped ringing, and she stuffed it under her second pillow and closed her eyes. Drifting off peacefully into another moment of rest . . .
The damn phone rang again. She kicked the pillow off the bed and unlocked the screen to answer. “What!”
A masculine throat cleared. “You talk to all your subjects like that, Freckles?”
Subject? Freckles? Her sleep-soaked mind fought through the morning haze to make heads or tails of that cryptic clue. Killian had called her Freckles yesterday. But there was no way . . .
“Who is this?” she asked suspiciously.
“Jesus. You dog a guy for weeks, making him think you only want him, and suddenly you forget he exists.”
Killian. She let go an unsteady breath. “It’s six in the morning. Some people, aka non-freaks, are still asleep, or haven’t had their brain-waking coffee yet.”
“Total waste of daylight,” he said cheerfully. People like him? These morning people? They didn’t deserve to live. “I’ve considered things, and I think you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Her jaw cracked in a huge yawn. “Right about what?”
He chuckled. “Wake up, Freckles. We’re talking business here.”
She used the heel of one hand to rub at her eyes. “Business hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday.”
“The news never sleeps.”
Finally, a pinprick of light penetrated the darkness. “Business. Subject. The interview.”
“It’s like I can actually hear rusty wheels start grinding. Amazing.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a massive smartass in the morning?”
“Actually, no.” He seemed surprised by that. “Meet me at the Trails in half an hour.”
The . . . what? No. “I’m still in bed.”
There was a slight pause. “I can tell,” he said, his voice a little deeper than before.
Aileen’s body flushed under her nightgown. “That’s not . . . what I meant,” she finished weakly.
“Trails. Half an hour. Bring your running shoes . . . and not those god-awful Converse. Actual running shoes, with support.” And then he was gone.
As far as wakeup calls went, it hadn’t been a bad one. She stared blindly at her phone for a moment, then dashed out of bed to get dressed and brush her teeth. Unsure of what he was up to, she d
ressed to work out. Or, rather, what she assumed people wore to work out. What she did with sweatpants was lounging in front of the TV watching Netflix and eating ice cream straight out of the tub.
Yanking her hair into a messy bun, she grabbed her keys and dashed out the door with fifteen minutes to spare. It only took her twenty to get to the trails, and she prayed as she climbed out of the car she wasn’t too late. She glanced around the parking lot, but no sign of Killian. “Crap.”
She let her arms rest against the top of her car, her forehead drooping. This was so not how she wanted to spend her morning.
A hand on her shoulder made her yelp in surprise.
“Easy, Freckles.” Killian’s hands squeezed her upper arms, keeping her from swinging around and throat punching him. “You’re definitely not a morning person.”
Aileen craned her neck to look at him. He, obviously, was. His hair was a little messy, like he hadn’t bothered to comb it after getting out of bed. And his face bore the morning scruff he hadn’t shaved off. But his eyes were bright, and his smile was easy. “Morning people are unAmerican.”
“Ah, yes. I do remember that part of history now. During the Boston Alarm Clock Party, where patriots tossed their offensive alarm clocks into the harbor in a statement to the British.”
“Cute,” she grumbled. “You’re all cute in the morning.” Taking a step back—a big one, to escape the sexy pheromones he was pumping off—she spread her arms out. “I’m here, at the unpatriotic hour of six-thirty. What?”
Killian nodded his head at one of the trails. The trails provided bike paths, nature walks, and a more flat, level jogging course. It was for weird people who liked fitness and the outdoors. “Walk or jog?”
She raised a brow at him.
“Walk it is.”
Chapter Six
Killian grabbed Aileen’s elbow and steered her toward the first path. “I like coming out in the morning. The only other people here are fitness buffs who aren’t paying attention to whoever they pass. Gives me an easier time of getting a run in outside without worrying about joiners. I like the solitude.”
Loving Him Off the Field Page 5