Her heart squeezed a little at having to say it. “It’s okay. This isn’t going in any story. It’d look bad for me, after all.” She gave him a cocky smile, though it might have tilted just a little. “Can’t have potential future employers know I’m easily swayed by a pretty face.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It is,” she broke in, finding her last shoe. “But I’m not upset about it.” Not much. “It’s a natural thing to ask yourself. But like I said, it’d do me just as much damage as it would do for the story. I’m in this business for the long game. I want a career, and I’m not using my gender to get there, one way or another.”
He sighed, then pulled on his jeans without bothering with boxers. “So you’re saying we can’t look forward to you on the sidelines, flashing a lot of cleavage. Damn shame.”
She laughed at that, mostly because he’d just seen everything she had to offer in the cleavage department . . . which was none. “You’ll survive. There are plenty of other hotties out there doing the reporting. One non-babe shouldn’t dent your eye candy too much.”
His eyes softened. “Non-babe my ass.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and walked her to the door. “I’ll see you on the plane.”
“Yup.” Forcing an easy tone, she added, “I’ll be back to bugging you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s my turn,” he reminded her.
She blinked. He was keeping track. She’d assumed he would eventually lose track and just stop fighting her on the interview. “Right. Um, okay. Well, see you on the plane.”
“I already said that.” When he cursed and grabbed a shirt and a pair of running shoes, she paused.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking you to your room,” he muttered. “I forgot you’re not just across the hall. You’re four floors up.”
“Don’t,” she said quickly. “I’d rather you didn’t. That would look suspicious.”
A dark look crossed his face. “What’s that supposed to mean? Ashamed you only scored with the kicker? Hate to tell you, but our quarterback’s taken these days, if rumor is to be believed.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Oh, the male ego was an ugly thing sometimes. “I meant I don’t want you walking me to my room unless you’d be doing it for a male reporter as well. Would you?” He stared at her blankly. “Exactly. If anyone asks, I was here on business, interviewing you or setting up . . . something.” She waved a hand at his blink. “Whatever. Nobody’s going to ask for details. Just let me get back to my room by myself and we’ll talk later.”
He started to put his shirt on, which she took for a sign he was ignoring her request. So when his pants buzzed and he grabbed his phone to check again, she darted out the door and closed it behind her. He could have followed, but she knew he wouldn’t. Him chasing her in the middle of a hotel hallway would cause at least one person to look through the peephole.
But as she rode back through the elevator, in her own mini-walk of shame, she wondered what it would have felt like to not care if anyone saw them.
* * *
Killian immediately dialed Emma’s phone number. Charlie had been texting him repeatedly for the last hour. The hour he spent in bed with a woman. A reporter, for Christ’s sake. God, what was his problem?
“Dad!” His son’s high-pitched, excited yell made him smile. “Dad, Dad, you won the game!”
Killian laughed, the weight lifting off his chest like a barbell. “I wouldn’t say I won the game,” he hedged. “We used teamwork. What’s that mean?”
“Teamwork is . . .” He trailed off, and Killian struggled to imagine his son with his face scrunched up in thought. God, he missed Charlie. “Teamwork is working together.”
“Great job, bud.” He was growing up too fast. “Pretty soon you’ll be smarter than me.”
Charlie laughed at that, then handed the phone to Emma. “Congratulations, Killian.”
“Thanks, Emma.” He sat down on the bed and closed his eyes. “Sorry about this weekend.”
She gave a sigh. “You can’t control the media. I know. But Killian, it’s only going to get harder. He’s already begging to tell his friends about you. I’ve been able to put him off so far, telling him it would look like bragging, and nobody likes a bragger. But he’s five. That excuse isn’t going to last much longer. Eventually, he’ll slip.”
“And when he does, I’ll likely be out of the league and doing something else with my life. It won’t be news, and people won’t go digging.” Not every reporter was as tenacious as the freckled pixie currently dogging his heels. “I can’t kick a football forever.”