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 dressed 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.