Текст книги "Loving Him Off the Field"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Nine

He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He was sporting a boner the size of Texas that would be obvious the moment he stood up. What kind of an asshole was he that the story about her dead parents had made him pop wood?

Of course, the story hadn’t really been so much about her parents as it had been about finding her joy again. That part, he liked. A lot. When she talked about looking through the photos, her face had been a soft happiness. When she spoke of her father’s bowling ball jokes, her eyes sparkled with laughter. And her self-deprecating humor about the ugly shirt she wore tucked into those jeans that cupped her ass had made him bite back a smile himself.

He wasn’t here to flirt, for Christ sake. He was here to annoy the hell out of her so she stopped hassling him for an interview.

She finished her frame—another strike—and walked back after a quick high five with the man she’d called Ernie. He reminded him a little of his own Mrs. Reynolds. Older, probably in his seventies, and clearly nuts over Aileen, in a paternal sort of way. He’d shot Killian a single look while Aileen had bowled her first frame that said I’m watching you, buddy.

Killian didn’t mind. The guy was watching out for her. As he now knew her parents were gone, he was glad she had someone stepping into the role.

She bounced back to sit. The crappy chairs made it impossible for them to not touch with every shift or slight change of position. “You came on a good night. I’m actually not half-bad.”

“Two strikes out of two? What’s your half-bad look like?”

She laughed. “Not that. Sometimes I’m in the game, sometimes I’m worse than a toddler who needs the inflatable bumpers put in her lane. Just depends on how things are going, I guess.”

Something annoying, something annoying, something annoying . . . “Why journalism?”

She blinked. “Why journalism?”

He nodded. Get her talking. Make her feel uncomfortable. “Yeah. What is it about a profession that requires you to dig into other people’s lives that interests you so much?”

She turned back to watch her teammates bowl, as if dismissing the mocking insult. “It’s not just digging into people’s lives. I’m not a tabloid reporter rifling through people’s trash or using a zoom lens to get pictures through a bedroom window. I want to write about the athletes who do a job I admire and find entertaining.” She shrugged. “I guess like someone who was fascinated by politics, they’d want to cover DC life, you know?”

“But why journalism?”

“My parents were both journalists.” Her smile wasn’t sad this time, but sweet. “I always admired them. She was with newspapers, and dad did the photojournalism thing. I’d rather be in front of the camera, if I can. More impact, more of a rush. More spontaneous.”

Sounded like hell to him. But she’d invoked the dead parents again, which meant it was off limits, as far as he was concerned. “Other hobbies?”

“Nothing much. Reading, I guess, though some might say that’s as much for work as it is for pleasure. Bowling is kind of it.” She grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers. “You guys take up a lot of my time. In fact, I’m going with you this weekend to San Francisco.”

His heart stopped for just a moment, then picked back up again. “Any particular reason?”

“My boss gave the okay, and I didn’t want to lose any extra days interviewing you.” Her smile faded a little. “Problem? I’m not going to stalk you or anything. I’ll stay with the media. No knocking on your door at three in the morning,” she promised, holding up her hand like a Boy Scout.

For one insane moment, he had the urge to ask her to take that promise back. You can knock on my door any time of the night you want. He was insane. She could not go on this trip. Emma was bringing Charlie to watch him. He’d planned to spend most of his time off with his son. “How about instead of traveling, I just bump the days back a few, so you aren’t missing any?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head, then held up a finger when Ernie called her up again. “I wanna see what life on the road is like for Killian Reeves. You promised access on the days that were mine. So I’m taking them.” She stood and hurried to get her ball out of the round thing that held them . . . whatever it was called.

Damn it. Damn it. Emma and Charlie had been planning to meet him in San Francisco for the weekend. Now he had to call Emma and tell her to not come over. And she was going to rip him a new one . . . rightly so. Which was to say nothing about the disappointment he’d see in Charlie’s face during their weekly FaceTime date later that night.

Fuck.

This little freckled reporter was screwing with his mind, and his life, in too many ways to count.

* * *

He dreaded picking up the phone. Almost talked himself out of it. Delay it another day. But the reminder that Charlie would be in bed soon, and Emma needed to know sooner rather than later about the change in plans, had him nutting up and making the FaceTime call on his iPhone to Emma right at eight on the dot. After a few seconds of ringing, Charlie’s face appeared.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, how’s my favorite son?”

“Only son!” Charlie said with a giggle. His cherubic smile, all cheeks, hid a lot of mischief. “I made a panda out of clay in art class.”

That damn panda. He couldn’t help smiling. “Some things never change. I made a panda when I was in school, too.”

“The teacher is burning them, and then we get to paint it tomorrow.”

Burning them? “You mean firing them? Like in a kiln?”

“Yeah, yeah. That. And I’m gonna make mine blue, like your jersey.” His eyes were wide with the hope his dad would be impressed.

Killian’s heart clenched in his chest. “Sounds like the best-looking panda I’ve ever heard of. Can’t wait to see it.”

“I’ll bring it this weekend!” Charlie bounced, and the screen bounced with him, making Killian close his eyes a moment or risk getting motion sick. “And Mom says we can walk around and do stuffs in San Francisquo!”

“San Francisco,” he corrected automatically. “Bud, can I talk to your mom a minute? I’ll say goodnight when we’re through, ’kay?”

“Okay.” Not sensing the brewing trouble, he happily called for his mom, then handed her the phone with a quick, “Dad wants you,” before racing off to do who knew what.

Emma’s face appeared, looking tired but happy. “Hey, you. Good timing, he was seconds away from putting on his pajamas. You’ve delayed bedtime for a few minutes.”

He grimaced. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Her easygoing nature made him send up another prayer to the gods she’d made the co-parenting thing so easy. “He’s thrilled about seeing you this weekend.”

“Yeah, about that.” He closed his eyes a moment, savoring the last few seconds of peace. “You guys can’t come.”

The silence was thick, and he lifted his eyelids to see Emma looking over the phone, staring off into the distance. Her voice was hollow when she asked, “Why?”

He sighed and rubbed at his temples. “I’ve got a reporter dogging my heels.” He looked up and saw Emma’s face had blanched, the pallor fading her natural Vegas tan. “Not about Charlie, or you,” he added hastily. Christ, he hadn’t meant to scare her. “She wants to do some human interest piece. Thinks she’ll get a good return on the investment since there isn’t much about me out there in the media.”

“For a reason,” Emma snapped off. “Why the hell did you agree to this?”

“I didn’t,” he shot back, then closed his eyes and counted to five. Yelling at Charlie’s mom was never his first choice. “I didn’t,” he tried again, more calmly. “She kept bugging me, following me around, showing up where I didn’t expect her. Then she started digging. I was worried what she’d find on her own. So I made a deal with her that she could interview me if she kept to topics I was good with. Sports, hobbies, that sort of junk.”

Emma watched him quietly.

“It was the best I could do on the fly. You know I would never do anything to hurt Charlie. Ever.”

“I know that,” she said, her face softening. “I do. You just scared me.”

They were both silent a moment. Killian’s lips twitched as he huffed out a laugh. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we? Keeping secrets like the CIA.”

“It’s for Charlie.”

“I know.” He breathed heavily. “I can stay an extra few days over Christmas, if that’s okay. Maybe take him somewhere. I’ll make a few extra trips out in the off season, too.”

“You’re always welcome to come and stay as long as you and Charlie want.” She tapped a finger to her lips. “I’ve been thinking about moving back to the area.”

“Emma, no.” He was definitely putting his foot down here. This would be the one downside in their arrangement . . . Emma’s tendency to follow random harebrained ideas without thinking them through. “People don’t recognize you there. They don’t know your name, and they can’t place you. That’s why you’re there.”

“But it’s been almost seven years. So much has gone on since then. You honestly think if I was in, say, Albuquerque, they would put two and two together faster than someone here?” She lowered her voice. “Charlie misses you like crazy. Every day. I know you miss him, too. I can sell houses wherever. I’m good.”

“You are,” he said numbly. “But Emma . . .”

“It was just a thought.” She sighed, resigned. “I should have known you would say no.”

“For Charlie.”

“For Charlie,” she repeated, but the look on her face was one that said she wasn’t happy about it. “I’ll get him so you can say goodnight.”

“Emma?”

She looked down as she stood up.

“For you, too.”

She scrunched up her face in the way he knew meant she was fighting back tears. “I’ll get him. Hold on.”

He waited while she summoned their son from the all-important task of putting on his pajamas. Killian said goodnight, grinning as Charlie recited the vowels for him as a stall tactic for bedtime. And when Emma hung up, he tossed the phone down on the coffee table, scrubbed a hand over his face, and felt like kicking something.

* * *

“So you don’t go on TV,” the man next to Aileen said slowly.

“Nope, just the website.” She’d explained Off Season to him now—twice—but he wasn’t seeming to get it.

“And you’re just . . . reporting on funny stuff?” The older man, with a potbelly that hung well over his seat’s lap belt, held up his hands. “Why wouldn’t you want something like a network job?”

“I would love one,” she said simply. “But I’m working my way up.”

The man shook his head in disbelief and turned to talk to the man on his left. Maybe that man had a more respectable job.

She’d scored a media pass on the team’s plane, much to her shock. Part of her wondered if Killian had had anything to do with that, but she doubted it. She was traveling with the team. Hello, dream come true. She’d ask the man next to her to pinch her, if she didn’t think he’d find offense in that. But along with the dream came the reminder she was still a small fish in a very big pond. Or rather, not even a fish. More like a tadpole, still fighting to make it to the juvenile stage.

So she’d just keep fighting, and when big, fat catfish like him became complacent, they’d get fished out and she’d have the pond to herself.

She turned back to her laptop and the notes she was making on the trip. Killian had seen her as he’d boarded the plane, that much she knew. His eyes had swept over her, as if she were a part of the scenery, then did a comical double-take and focused more intently. She’d waved, given him a cheeky grin, and he’d rolled his eyes and kept walking.

Par for the course, it seemed.

She also got a room at the same hotel as the team, though it hadn’t mattered if she did or not. She would have slept on the floor outside Killian’s room if she had to. Something about his attitude gave her the feeling he’d dodge and weave to avoid spending much time with her. Which, if he used the team as an excuse, she could hardly argue with. But it wasn’t in keeping with the spirit of their agreement.

She’d let him come to freaking bowling league, hadn’t she? She’d opened up to him about why she’d become a journalist, about why she bowled. Wasn’t that keeping her end of the bargain?

The plane dipped, and she gripped the armrest tightly. Flying was so not her favorite thing to do.

“Freckles.”

She jolted at her name—wait, that wasn’t her name, so why did she respond when he called her that?—and looked up to see Killian standing there. “Hey.”

“Reeves,” the man to her left said. He held out a hand, which Killian seemed to take only out of politeness. “Great game last weekend. I was wondering—”

“Freckles. I need to talk to you.” He turned and walked back down the aisle.

She blinked. When her seat companion turned to look at her, she shrugged. “I’ve been summoned.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and maneuvered her way around the older man—not an easy task . . . which he could have made easier by simply being a gentleman and getting up—and followed Killian back to the players’ area of the plane. He’d taken a row by himself, sitting propped up against the window. She started to turn in to sit next to him as the plane made another dip. She almost fell on her face, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her down against him.

For one ridiculous moment, she wanted to turn her face into his shoulder and breathe.

He coughed and let her go. “You okay?”

Bubble broken. “Yeah, I’m just not a huge fan of flying.” She put on a brave smile and buckled up quickly. “It’s okay.”

“If you’re not a fan of flying, why’d you come on this trip?” He watched her intently. “I told you I’d extend the days to make up for the ones lost during travel.”

She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Traveling on the company dime. Who can resist?”

The truth was, she hated the thought of missing an opportunity to see him. She’d become so used to hearing his disgruntled voice every day, used to seeing him scowl at her persistence, even used to that stupid nickname he insisted on using. She rubbed one finger over her nose. Her freckles weren’t that noticeable . . . were they?

“So what did you need me for, your highness?”

He raised a brow, but ignored the joke. “I wanted to talk about what you can expect when we get to San Francisco. You can’t dog my heels every second of the day. It’s distracting and I can’t afford to be distracted right now.”

As opposed to any other weekend? She let that one go. “I wasn’t planning on following you into the locker room and beyond. I’m not going to be clinging to your back, begging you to slow down so I can keep making notes. I know what I’m doing. I’m here to be an unobtrusive observer. Just think of me as the fly on the wall. Ignore me.”

He mumbled something that she thought sounded vaguely like, “Yeah right,” but she wasn’t sure if that was just the cabin pressure playing tricks on her.

“I’ve got another story I’m going to squeeze in while I’m here, anyway.” He looked out the window. “Wanna hear what it’s about?”

He glanced at her, then back out the window. She took that as a yes.

“I’m going to interview some of the tailgaters and try out all their different foods pre-game. I’ll probably be sick as a dog,” she added with a grin. “But it’ll be worth it. Tailgating food is the best. Don’t you think?”

“I’ve never tailgated,” he said to the window. “I’m always inside the stadium.”

“Good point. What’s your favorite food?”

“Cheese,” he said automatically, then looked up, surprised he’d answered.

“Cheese,” she said slowly. “Just . . . cheese?”

He nodded. “I like cheese. On my pizza, nachos, sandwiches, queso dip, whatever. It’s hard to find a food you can’t add cheese to and make it more delicious.” He glanced behind him. “I’m probably supposed to give you some sort of health food for that answer. Or like, protein power. Just raw protein powder.”

Aileen laughed at that image. “Gross.”

Killian’s voice dropped a few octaves. “Raw meat. Keeps Killian strong. Ug.”

Reveling in the playful side of Killian, she bumped shoulders with him. “Raw meat make Killian’s stomach sad.”

“Good point.” He settled back, a little more at ease. She wondered if this was her cue to give him some space and go back to her designated media area. But he didn’t seem inclined to kick her out, so she tested the waters and settled back in her seat. When the plane hit another pocket of air, she grabbed for the armrests. Only his forearm was covering the one to her right, and she grabbed that instead.

“Sorry!” She snatched it away as if she’d been burned. All she needed was him thinking she was making a move on him on the plane, for God’s sake.

She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes as the plane continued to shudder.

Chapter Ten

Killian mentally cursed for making her so uncomfortable. He had to, as his main purpose was to get her to quit following him around and doing the story. But one look at her bone-white knuckles clutched in her lap, the way her freckles stood out in stark relief against her milky complexion, how her throat kept swallowing with every little shake of the plane made his heart clutch.

He reached over without thought and unfolded her hands from her lap. Taking one in his bigger hands, he rubbed until the color returned. “It’s just some turbulence. No biggie.”

“We are thousands of feet above the ground in a flying piece of metal and you want me to think that’s no biggie?” Her voice was tight, forced through her teeth. “Pardon me for calling you crazy.”

“I’ve heard it before.” He rubbed again. “Have you always hated flying?”

Her head drooped a little and she shook it, but didn’t answer.

“Haven’t done much as an adult?”

She nodded this time. Then, so quietly he thought at first he’d imagined it, she whispered, “My parents died in a plane crash.”

His hands tightened instinctively around her fingers, his instant reaction to protect and preserve. “Aileen . . . I’m sorry.”

“I thought doing this for work would keep me preoccupied enough I wouldn’t freak out. I tried once before, on a vacation.” She looked up now, her eyes a little glassy, but somehow still holding a bit of humor. “I hyperventilated. I think the air marshal on that flight was seconds away from putting me in a headlock.”

“You’re not hyperventilating now,” he pointed out. “So you’re doing better.”

“I can’t hyperventilate while you’re talking to me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh.”

He smiled momentarily. “I’m brilliant, I know.” He rubbed the back of her hand again. “Tell me something else about you. It’s your day,” he reminded her.

She looked uncomfortable, but didn’t back down. “I’m allergic to everything under the sun.”

“Really.” He waited a beat. “Even me?”

She laughed at that. “No. But nature in general has it out for me. I pop allergy meds like candy in the spring and summer. You should see me, though, trying to report during a baseball game. I’m a red-eyed mess. It’s probably a good thing I haven’t gotten a network job. They’d take one look at me on camera during spring training and fire me. Between that and my freckles . . .” She rubbed at her nose again, like she was trying to wipe them off. “I really picked a stupid career, didn’t I?”

She was gorgeous. How could she not see that? “No more stupid than mine. Remember, I’m the guy who kicks things for a living.”

That seemed to make her smile. “That’s true. What a weird pair we make.”

A pair. Was that what she saw them as? He glanced down and realized, though she’d stopped trembling and seemed to relax a little more with the smoother travel, he still held her hand. And she hadn’t taken it back.

He dropped it so fast her wrist hit the armrest with a thunk. Damn it.

“Sorry.” He rubbed her wrist where it had made contact. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

Her grin told him she wasn’t offended. “Do I have cooties?”

He ignored that and turned to look out the window again. Why did she get to him like this? What was it about this tiny, auburn-haired woman who crawled under his skin, into his heart and just sat there without moving?

It couldn’t happen. He loved Charlie too much—respected Emma too much—to lead danger right to their doorstep.

* * *

They’d won. Holy shit, they’d won.

Killian jostled back into the locker room with the rest of the team, riding high on the excitement of the last-minute field goal the team had miraculously set up for him to nail to take the game twenty-one to twenty. Someone jumped on his back and his knees nearly buckled under the weight, but he grinned anyway. The mood was infectious. Someone else kissed him on the mouth, and he prayed it was one of the female athletic trainers and not someone who stood to pee . . .

“Have I mentioned how much I love you lately?” Michael asked, draping an arm over his shoulder.

“Not lately,” Killian said, still a little dazed. “That wasn’t you who kissed me, was it?”

“No, but I love you, man,” Michael said in a comically emotional voice. Then he cracked up, slapped him hard on the back, and went to bump chests with a few teammates.

“Cavemen. Every one of them.” Quarterback Trey Owens wandered over at a more sedate pace and held out a hand. “But God love ’em for it. Nice work, Reeves.”

Killian shook his head and smiled. “Same to you.”

Trey nodded and stood for a moment, as if he wasn’t quite ready to roam back into the mosh pit that was the rest of their locker room. “They make it easy on me, when I’m safe in the pocket. Every second counts. Come out with us tonight.”

“Us?” He asked the question, rather than giving his typical Sorry, can’t bullshit excuse. Killian started pulling off his jersey as the coaches settled them down. And then, the reporters and cameras started trickling in.

“Me, Josiah, Michael, and a few others grabbing a bite to eat. We might wuss out and just do pizza in the room, actually. Depends on how fast we can get out of here.” Trey’s eyes tracked the first few reporters and saw them heading their way. He sighed the weary sigh of a man who had done this song and dance one too many times. “Damn it,” he groaned, then pasted on a bright, camera-ready smile. “Off to do the other half of my job. Think about it. Call one of our rooms if you decide.” He met the first reporter with a handshake and an easy greeting that held none of the frustration and weariness he’d shown Killian.

The man was damn good at that. And it was a little bit of relief to see someone whom he thought was so at ease with his on-camera personality actually struggling with it. Made his own feelings of Get away from me seem more normal. Natural.

He gave a few quick interviews, keeping his answers short and non-leading. But he wasn’t the big star, and for that he was eternally grateful. His time on camera was short-lived and he finished changing alone. While he walked by, he heard Trey answering in clipped tones that he wasn’t going to discuss his private life, Cassie Wainwright, or Stephen Harrison with anyone. Killian sent him a sympathetic wince and walked to the bus that would take them to their hotel.

As he settled down in his seat, he contemplated hanging out with the guys. Pizza in a hotel room wasn’t complicated. A good jumping-off point to start the re-introduction to social groups.

He could do pizza.

* * *

Where the hell was he?

Aileen paced her hotel room and cursed the day she decided to come on this infernal trip. Sure, she’d gotten a few great shots earlier with the tailgating San Francisco crew, and she’d seen the Golden Gate Bridge on her own time. The game itself had been an intense nail-biter, and every time Killian stepped out onto the field, she’d held her breath until the ball had flown between the uprights . . . which it did. All three times. It had been a good day.

So why was she so disappointed now? He wasn’t technically under any obligation to keep her updated on his whereabouts. She wasn’t his mommy, wasn’t his keeper. So why did she feel such disappointment that, as the team had come back to the hotel, he’d ducked into his room without saying hello to her? And after dumping most of her equipment in her room and racing back to his to say congratulations, why had she felt a hint of anger when he hadn’t answered his door?

Because she was letting it get too personal. Even a blind man could see that. It was getting to be too intense. She was too attached to the subject. Too dependent on his cooperation. Wanted his hands on her more than she should, his lips on her skin in a way that would shock her if she’d said it out loud.

Oh, sweet gutter ball . . . she was lusting after the kicker.

Damn it.

Aileen fussed in the room for a few more minutes, then forced herself to sit down and write a few paragraphs on her voiceover script for the tailgate piece.

Crap. It was absolute crap. A third grader could write better dialogue than this. She groaned and erased everything she’d just typed. Then standing, she paced a few more times.

They were heading back early tomorrow morning. Like, illegally early, in her opinion. What was with athletes and this obsession to be up before the sun? Tonight was her last chance to get some information from Killian in a less pressured environment. He’d be riding high on the win—even he couldn’t fake indifference with a nail-biter like that—and his emotions would be up. It’d be perfect, the right chance to get him talking and just let him go. Really get a good feel of the guy under the number seven jersey.

Wait, not feel, she scolded herself, even as her fingers tingled to touch smooth male skin. No, no. Not feel. Witness. Experience the man under the jersey.

Damn it, why did everything suddenly sound perverted?

Before she could think twice, she grabbed her key card and walked out the door. Now or never. She’d just knock on his door and ask him to join her downstairs at the bar for a simple drink and some conversation. A little more investigative work, laying the groundwork for her on-camera interviews. She would absolutely not invite him back to her room. That was the wrong thing. She wouldn’t ask him to come sit with her on her bed while she went over interview possibilities. Their bodies would not be molded together while they perused the lists on her laptop . . .

As Aileen knocked on Killian’s door, she wasn’t even sure anymore what she wanted. For her subject to be there? For temptation to be absent?

The answer came three minutes and two extra knocks later when it was obvious Killian wasn’t going to answer the door. Or maybe he wasn’t in there at all. He could already be at the bar, maybe. Or out with teammates.

No, he didn’t go out with teammates. He was a self-professed loner. So he could just be asleep—she checked her watch—at nine o’clock on a game day.

Yeah, right.

So then he was likely ignoring her. Might even now be watching her through the peephole, waiting for her to walk away so he could get back to . . . whatever it was he did alone in his hotel room.

Though it was childish, she flipped off the door, just in case.

She grumbled all the way back to the elevator and stabbed the up button hard enough to make her finger twinge. That, too, she could lay at the feet of Killian Reeves. He’d hurt her pride, her work, and now her finger.

And had her mind five kinds of twisted up. So it was probably a good thing she wasn’t seeing him tonight after all. She’d go back to her room, have a cold shower, and then screw her head on straight for the flight home in the morning.

The elevator dinged and she turned in time to see a car full of Bobcats, with one Killian Reeves at the front. The group was laughing in that masculine way that echoed off the small confines of the elevator and spilled out into the hallway. Michael Lambert noticed her first and grinned.

“Hey, Aileen.”

“Hey.” She gave a short wave as Killian stepped forward. He was the only one. The rest must be on the next floor up.

Killian walked toward her and halted a foot away, just staring. His eyes were focused, not blurry. But his expression was oddly blank. Like he wasn’t looking at her, or at anything at all, but lost somewhere in his own mind.

She nodded at Killian. “Nice game today.”

He didn’t acknowledge she spoke.

The elevator buzzed, an indication someone had been holding the door open too long.

“Going up, Aileen?” Michael asked, his shoulder blocking the door.

She took one step to the left to maneuver around Killian when his hand shot out and gripped her upper arm. It wasn’t a harsh grip, she could have shaken him off if she’d wanted to. But she wouldn’t. It’d be embarrassing in front of the others. And also, some tiny part of her mind admitted, she loved the feel of his hands on her skin. “No, sorry. Meant to press down and I hit up instead. Go on.”

Michael looked doubtful, but said nothing. The rest of the car had barely paused long enough to say bye to Killian and hadn’t noticed his focus on her. But Michael did. And he was asking with his eyes if she was okay.

She gave a tiny nod, and he returned with one of his own, then let the door close.

He was a good guy, that Michael.

Alone, she took one giant step back from Killian. He simply followed, as if they were in some weird dance. His grip never slackened.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” he countered, squeezing just a little. His expression was still blank, maybe a little amused, but curiously without a solid hint as to his mood.

Annoying.

“I’m staying in this hotel, too, you know.” Like hell was she telling him she’d been at his door not three minutes ago. Not now, when he was acting like this. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

“No.”

His voice was so harsh, so low, she nearly didn’t recognize it. The sound raced up her spine, little fingers of dancing pleasure. “No, you won’t excuse me?”

“No, don’t leave yet.”

The sentiment stunned her enough she didn’t resist as he pulled her back toward his room. There was one final thought that flashed through her mind as his key card turned the light green and he pushed the door handle.

Caution. Caution. Dangerous roads ahead.

She whizzed by the blinking sign and walked into his room.

* * *

Killian raked a hand through his hair and let the key card and his wallet fall on the desk in his hotel room. He’d been running on impulse all evening. First the impromptu decision to join his teammates in Michael’s room for pizza and a movie, then the choice to block Aileen’s exit from his floor, to finally dragging her to his room like a caveman.