Текст книги "Loving Him Off the Field"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Four

One week—and a win against the Rams—after her amusing confrontation with Killian, Aileen went fishing. She already printed out the measly information she had on him, most of which was on his skimpy bio on the Bobcats website.

Killian Reeves, number seven. Five foot ten, a hundred and eighty pounds of delicious muscle. Kicker, drafted at the age of twenty-three. Currently twenty-nine years old, and originally from northern California.

Google produced nothing for family. No parents—single dad, now deceased, mom not in the picture—no siblings. A call to his college coach had gone unanswered, and she wasn’t about to spend next month’s rent money flying out to California. The few teammates she’d managed to track down on social media had zero help to give, claiming Killian had been quiet and a loner, adding nothing to her research.

She couldn’t find any mention of friends he hung out with, no haunts around town he liked to frequent. And a quick search of the Bobcat blogs was a total waste of time. Not only was there no mention of him off the field, but the entire thing was like a Cassie Wainwright explosion. She spared a moment of pity for the girl—woman, actually—who never stood a chance against the ever-opinionated huddled masses, then shut the laptop with a gentle snap. The thing was ready to fall apart. She had to baby it until she could afford a new one.

So apparently, there was no getting around the fact that, if she wanted a Killian Reeves story . . . she’d have to get it from Killian Reeves.

The guy was a freaking vault. Locked down and seemingly impenetrable.

Suiting up for battle, in her favorite black Converse and a hoodie, she drove to the practice arena and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, she sank down onto the concrete outside the main hallway and pulled out her phone. Thank you, Candy Crush, for the company.

Finally, a few guys trickled out. She ignored them, except to give a silent wave to one as he said hello. Then a few more. Then a rush of guys leaving at once. If she wasn’t immune to it, the sight of all those fresh-from-the-shower hard bodies would have given her palpitations.

At this point, Candy Crush was more important.

Sometime later, she felt a nudge against her knee. She glanced up, saw Killian, then ducked her head again.

“Who are you waiting for now?”

She didn’t respond.

“Hey. Freckles.”

Her nose wrinkled at the name. Rubbing a finger self-consciously over her nose and the dozen or so freckles that graced it, she kept playing.

“So what, you’re ignoring me now?”

“I’ve been on this level for two freaking weeks. Hold your horses.” She felt him sit down beside her, but she didn’t look over. She was almost . . . yes, yes, yes . . .

No.

“Damn it.”

He chuckled, then took her phone from her. “Level sixty-four, huh? That’s a lot of levels.”

“It’s addictive.” She glanced at him finally and batted her eyelashes. “I don’t suppose you have any lives you’d be willing to pass over?”

“I don’t even play this. I’m not much of a gamer.” He passed her the phone back. “So who is your intended victim today?”

“No victim.” She slid her phone in her tote and settled back against the cool concrete wall. “You did well on Sunday.”

“Not like my job’s all that difficult.”

She considered that a moment. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

She turned and watched him. He stared off into the distance, looking at nothing. His hair was damp from his shower, curling a little behind his ears in little dark brown Cs. His eyes looked glazed over. “Make your job sound worthless. I’ve heard you do it before.”

“I don’t do that.” He blinked, eyes focusing as he turned to look at her.

Their faces were inches apart. She breathed in the scent of his body wash. Unconsciously, of course. A girl had to breathe, didn’t she? “Yeah. You do. You make it sound like any four year old could run out there and do it. I know kickers get a little flack—”

He snorted.

“Okay, a lot of flack. But don’t you believe in your own position? Don’t you think you’re worthwhile to the team?”

“I earn my paycheck.”

“That’s not what I . . . never mind.” She sighed. He was being deliberately obtuse, which was quite obvious by the grin on his face. “You live to annoy me.”

“Hardly.”

“You know what I think?” She didn’t bother waiting for what she was sure would be a sarcastic response. “I think you like me bugging you. You thrive on it. You look forward to these little sparring matches.”

He hesitated only a half second before rolling his eyes. “Whatever, Freckles.”

“Aw, I have a pet name already, honey buns?”

He glared at her.

She shrugged and stood. “If you don’t have any Candy Crush lives to lend, then I guess we’re done for the day.”

“That’s it?” He stood as well, brushing off his very fine ass from the dust on the floor. Dust that was likely coating her not-as-fine ass. Not that she cared. “You have the worst approach ever.”

“You said you weren’t giving me an interview.”

“So you just abandoned it?”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No.”

She squinted. “Then why’d you come sit with me?”

He looked off for a moment, then grabbed her elbow. “I’m walking you to your car.”

“Mkay.” She let him guide her toward the parking lot, to her embarrassment of a car. She wasn’t into cars. It was a simple mode of transportation, in her mind. But the moment she had a decent paycheck . . . one word.

Upgrade.

“Is this thing even safe for the highway?” He watched the car skeptically, like it might reach out and bite him, while she unlocked the car and tossed her tote bag in the back seat.

“Don’t talk about Sybil like that.” She rubbed one hand over the rear door, where the silver paint was still pretty much in tact. “I stay in the right lane, mostly. I’m not going to win any drag races, but it’s paid for and it gets surprisingly decent gas mileage.” She grinned. “Josiah said he’d lend me a bike. But I live too far away from the stadium to make it here.”

Killian’s jaw clenched at the mention of his teammate. “So are we through? Have you decided to drop the story?”

She shook her head, somewhat sadly. “I’m on a mission, I’m afraid. You know, you might be the least Google-able person in the NFL? No social media sites, no major blog hits, no interviews. Your college teammates all say there’s nothing to talk about, since you were a lone wolf. And unfortunately, your college coach hasn’t returned my calls.”

His brows lowered. “Digging into my past?”

“What little of it there is.” She held up her hands. “Killian, I’m a reporter. I might not have a portfolio that indicates I’m any good at actual journalism, but it’s what I want. It’s what I was meant for. I’m pushing hard to get real stories, real assignments. I’m not giving up. So you can cooperate, or you can just wait until I finally dig up something worth talking about.”

He growled and crowded her against the car. With another man, she might have felt intimidated. With Killian, she saw it for what it was . . . a distraction. An act. Nothing more.

She lowered her voice, and her eyes. “I’m doing you the courtesy of telling you in advance. You can head me off at the pass, if you want. Just cooperate.”

He leaned down, one arm reaching around her back. His breath was on her cheek, his eyes so intensely focused on hers, she almost lost her balance and tipped over from the force.

Oh, God. Was he going to kiss her?

Please, no.

Please . . . yes.

She heard a click, and then he opened her car door and gestured with a sweep of the arm. “Good-bye, Freckles.”

Well, that was embarrassing. Thank God he wasn’t a mind reader. She stiffened her spine and climbed into the car. He shut the door with restraint—for which she and Sybil’s rusty frame thanked him—and crossed his arms. Apparently, he was going to stand there and make sure she actually left the premise. She rolled her window down instead and thrust out an arm.

He scowled at the piece of paper she held out. “What’s that?”

“A map to Treasure Island. Just take it.”

He did. “A phone number. Yours?”

She just grinned and started her car. As it coughed to life, she watched Killian’s face take on a look of horror. Yup. Sybil wasn’t pretty, but she ran. Most days. “In case you decide to be cooperative, for a change of pace.”

He stood there until she was out of the parking lot and on the main road.

But she didn’t take a full breath until he was fully out of sight.

* * *

Killian walked in the door of his apartment and tossed his bag down by the door. His keys dropped in a bowl on the kitchen counter. In his pocket, his fingers brushed against the slip of paper Aileen had written her phone number on.

Just toss it into the trash. Hell, burn it. No reason to keep it.

He placed it in the bowl he threw his spare change in instead. Just in case.

His phone buzzed with a text. He glanced down to see Emma’s number. As he opened the text, he smiled.

Charlie had texted him his list of spelling words for the week.

Typing back a quick word of encouragement, he shut the phone’s screen off. Thank God Emma was so free with the communication. The ball was truly in her court, as far as how much he got access to Charlie. They’d kept as much of the custody case out of court as possible, avoiding public records for privacy. With no divorce to worry about, it had been a simple shell game to keep things quiet. But she had every legal right to block him from things like a text message about spelling words, or a quick Skype call about math homework or his soccer game.

But she didn’t. Because, despite her past, Emma was a decent person.

The reminder of Charlie was enough to have him walking back to the bowl and staring at Aileen’s phone number.

Just burn it.

But as he reached out to grab the paper and do just that . . . he dropped his hand back to his side. Couldn’t.

Something told him he’d regret doing that. So he’d play it by ear for a while and see how that worked.

It wasn’t like she was going anywhere. The woman had been at practice every day for two weeks now. She’d be around if he needed to get ahold of her.

* * *

Aileen finished up the edits on her Hidden Talents story and watched it through one more time. The fact that she had to do her own editing annoyed her, but she appreciated the additional chance to tweak things. And knowing how the editing process worked gave her that much more info for when she hit it big.

And she would hit it big. There was no option otherwise.

She glanced up at her framed family photo, mentally blew a kiss to her parents, then buckled down and kept hunting online for signs of Killian having a life outside the football field. She knew where he lived—in a simple apartment complex not too far from the stadium, nothing fancy—but resisted the urge to go and knock on neighbors’ doors. It was a step in the wrong direction. She didn’t want a tabloid story, she wanted the real deal. A respectful piece, done well, to silence potential critics and make a good impression.

Her phone rang, and she glanced at the screen. Bobby. She winced, then pushed the phone to the side. The ringing stopped. She kept searching online—okay fine, Facebooking—for another minute while her phone buzzed repeatedly with text messages, then rang again. Twice.

“Jesus, Bobby . . .” she muttered, and answered on the fourth call. “What?”

“Get your ass to the hospital!”

She started, sitting back in her chair. “Am I gonna make it?”

“Something’s going down with a few of the players. Some fight, or something. Cassie Wainwright is involved, along with Stephen Harrison and Trey Owens. Looks like it could be a love triangle gone wrong. Get over there now.”

She was shaking her head before he finished the command. “No way. You know I don’t do that crap.”

“I’m not asking what you do, I’m telling you. Get over there and grab some footage. Try an interview. Rattle the cages, see what snaps at you.”

“Right. So I just wait until the injured parties are limping out into the parking lot and catch them at their most vulnerable?”

“There ya go.” Bobby’s voice was smug. “You’re catching on.”

“Sure, right. Let me see what I can do.” She hung up, rolling her eyes as she did. Glancing at her watch, she yawned. Oh, dear. And so close to my bedtime. Guess I’ll just have to skip this one.

It was still light outside, but who was counting?

She went back to her online search—fine! Candy Crush—for a few minutes, then gave up. Killian was being stubborn. He was a man, so it was a genetic predisposition regardless. She could respect that. But the man was harder than any other subject she’d come in contact with before.

Which was why he was the white whale, naturally. Did she really think it would be easy?

There wasn’t an option B.

She glanced once more at the photo of her parents, then to the last article her mother published. It sat, framed, next to the picture.

“I’ve got this, guys.”

* * *

Killian took longer dressing after practice than usual, hoping the largest swarm of parasites—ahem, reporters—would be gone by the time he left the locker room. The media had finally relented—slightly—since Owens and Harrison’s supposed bar fight, and subsequent hospital trip. Harrison hadn’t returned . . . and the team all knew where he was now. Rehab. Good luck to the guy.

Owens had returned, however, because they had a game on Sunday. Business as usual for the quarterback.

Business as usual. Killian scoffed. Anyone could see the guy was the walking wounded. It had to hurt, having to put his friend into treatment. Killian didn’t doubt that one bit, and sympathized with him for it. But there was more going on there. He didn’t buy the ugly love triangle gone wrong story the press and blogs ran with. If the media thought for one damn minute instead of running with the first rumor that sounded good in a headline, they’d realize the kind of girl each guy wanted was so vastly different from the other, it wouldn’t make a lick of sense that they’d aim for the same one, let alone get in a fist fight for her.

But when had anyone accused the media of having sense?

“You’re still here.”

He jumped, then turned to see Josiah Walker and Michael Lambert lounging against a few lockers behind him.

“So?”

“Waiting for something?” Michael asked.

He shook his head. “Just taking my time.”

“Cool.” Josiah nodded his head toward the front of the locker room. “Trey’s still getting dressed. Wanna walk out with us?”

He automatically shook his head. “No, I’m almost done.”

Michael straightened and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Let me rephrase. Walk out with us.”

“I’ve gotta get home.”

“You’re just walking to the parking lot with company instead of solo. Don’t be a bitch about it.” Josiah turned and headed for Trey, who was the only athlete left in the room.

“He needs some support. You’re still here, and you’re ready to leave.” Michael’s voice was low, as if not wanting Trey to hear.

Killian shrugged one shoulder, dislodging Michael’s arm. “Fine. Whatever.”

As they left the locker room, he immediately regretted saying yes. They were swarmed by reporters asking questions. Josiah easily maneuvered to keep Trey inside their little triangle as they walked quickly toward the exit of their respective cars. Security did their best, but he realized without their added protection it wouldn’t have been enough. He asked Josiah, “Don’t you leave your bike over there usually?”

“Drove today. Have been for the last week.” Josiah’s answer was grim, and Killian knew immediately the reason was because he wanted to protect his friend on the way to the parking lot.

They were good guys.

As he settled in his car, he breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t trade his salary for half of Trey’s, if that’s what the guy had to go through every other week. Hell, no.

Reporters. Leeches, more like it. He let his head fall back against the seat in relief. His mind replayed the swarm of reporters, and realized one freckled-faced pixie was missing from the bunch.

She could have been in the back . . . but he doubted it. She wasn’t a “wait in the back” kind of woman.

He hadn’t seen her for nearly a week. When the Prodigal Daughter Love Triangle story broke, he thought for sure she’d be around, asking annoying questions or trying to trip people up with interviews. But she’d been absent. Completely missing.

He missed her. How the hell could he miss her?

Obviously his brain was on vacation. Suffering from the same damage that had him agreeing to play bodyguard for Owens this afternoon. He needed to see someone about that.

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?”