Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(14)

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 f*cking 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?”