Killian sighed and waited for the relief to wash over him. But instead, it was annoyance, with a healthy dash of curiosity, that overtook him. No wonder she worked for some nobody blog, or whatever it was. She gave up too fast.
Which was a good thing, he reminded himself as he followed around the corner to make sure she actually left, and didn’t just wait for him to stop paying attention and double back. He watched her get into a piece of junk car that looked like its primary color was silver duct tape. He held his breath until the engine caught and she pulled out of the parking lot.
“That was the most bizarre flirting I’ve ever seen.”
He jolted, then turned to look at Josiah Walker and Stephen Harrison. They stood off to the side, Josiah wearing a raggedy baseball cap, with a backpack slung over his shoulders, holding his road bike. Stephen, arms crossed, keys dangling from one hand.
“Spying?”
“No,” the running back said slowly, then pointed down to his bicycle. “This is where I lock up my bike. Always has been. And you two would have noticed us if you hadn’t been caught in your weirdo sexual dance.”
Stephen smiled and nodded. “It was pretty damn hot, just saying.”
Killian raised a brow at that.
Josiah just chuckled and wheeled his bike toward the main road. The man preferred to bike whenever possible. He was one of those environmental guys who got their jollies off on calculating your carbon footprint and stuff. People around town always got a kick to see him pedal past on his way to practice or something.
Stephen, a mountain of a man who liked to laugh, just smiled quietly and walked toward the parking lot.
Killian worked in La La Land.
He ran a hand over his hair, then forced himself to walk back toward the players’ lot. Freckles was none of his business. If she wanted to fail at her job, so be it. The less time he spent arguing with her, the more time he had for himself.
Even if the arguing was the closest thing to a social life in years.
Chapter Three
Aileen dumped her bag on her bed and grinned. God, Killian Reeves was adorable when he was annoyed. Which, from the perma-scowl on his face, she would estimate to be almost always. The guy didn’t have a natural, easygoing personality, that was for sure. Add to it his dislike of reporters and attention, and she had her work cut out for her.
But today had been a great start. Even if he didn’t know it yet.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she reached for it. “Hello?”
“What’ve you got for me?”
She bit back a sigh. “Nothing yet, Bobby. You expect me to go out in the fishing boat once and get the whale to just jump into my net?”
“Don’t be a smartass. No man wants a smart-ass woman.”
Fortunately for her, she wasn’t running around trying to snag herself a man. “I’ll write that one down in my book of Bobbyisms. Is this all you called me for? To see if I’ve scored yet?”
“Maybe I missed hearing your acidic little tongue.”
She hung up. She always did when he got like that. He wouldn’t fire her. She was too valuable. At least for now. Which one of his too-tough-for-fluff male reporters would do the pieces aimed at women for the site? That’s right . . . none of them. So while she went fishing for her white whale, she still had a moment or two of job security.
Grabbing her laptop, she kicked off her shoes and plopped onto the bed. While the ancient machine decided whether it was worth starting today, she reached in her nightstand and grabbed a handful of Twizzlers.
Hey, some people kept condoms in the nightstand. She preferred the more logical choice . . . candy. Not like condoms were gonna get used, anyway.
Candy? Candy would always be useful.
As the laptop finally breathed to life, she bit off a piece of red yumminess. “Okay, Killian Reeves, let’s start digging.”
* * *
Killian let himself into his apartment and closed the door quietly. He loved the ease of renting. He wasn’t a huge proponent of owning massive properties that took a staff to keep up and running, like some of the guys. Not to mention, he was one of the lowest earners on the team. Either way, he preferred the more anonymous life of rentals. But the one downside . . . neighbors.
His across-the-breezeway neighbor had taken it into her head to “adopt” him. The woman was eighty, if she was a day, and once she found out he was single, had decided to make him her pet project. Which meant she was constantly bringing by food, or a scarf she made, or inviting herself over to watch American Idol, because her TV was “on the fritz,” whatever that meant.
Mrs. Reynolds was a pushy lady when she wanted to be.
When he looked out the peephole and didn’t see his not-by-choice adopted grandmother scurrying over, he felt safe to breathe again. Dropping his bag by the door, he flopped onto the couch and grabbed his phone. Hitting his Favorites, then his top contact, he waited for Charlie to answer.