Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(19)

“You should work out every day.” He analyzed her soberly. “It’s good for your heart.”

“I’ll remember that while I’m rubbing Icy Hot all over my lower extremities tonight.” When he laughed, she flipped him off. He reached for her finger but she danced out of the way. “No, smartass. It’s not the start of the month. I was making conversation. You know, what friends do.”

“Are we friends?”

“We’re friendly.” She shrugged. “Close enough. We don’t have to be adversarial to make this work. I’m friendly with a lot of the guys I interview.”

“But you’re asking them about how many marshmallows they can stuff in their mouth. That’s hardly probing and hard-hitting journalism.”

“It pays the bills,” she said, feeling defensive suddenly. Normally, she didn’t care who made fun of her job. She knew the plan, and she knew she wouldn’t be doing it forever. But when he said it . . . it felt ridiculous. Like she was the broadcast journalist version of a bimbo trophy wife who thought tanning was an Olympic sport.

“Hey.” He caught her elbow and slowed her down. “I’m not making fun. Just making that thing you talked about. Conversation?”

She searched his face for any sign of sarcasm and found none. “Fine.” She let him keep holding her elbow, curious how long he would keep the contact. “So, is it?”

“Is it what?” He looked at her strangely.

“Weird, being the smallest guy on the team? I’d struggle with it.” She glanced down ruefully, then back up. “When you’re as short as I am, it’s bad enough being around normal-sized people.”

“Those guys whose size keeps me safe,” he pointed out. He seemed to think about that for a moment, then added darkly, “Most of the time. But it’s not that weird. I’m the average-sized one . . . or maybe a little shorter than average. They’re the curve-breakers. It’s all about the perspective.”

“Hmm.” She hummed, then breathed in for a moment as they walked quietly back toward their cars. It was peaceful in the morning. Nice. Though there was no way she would have woken up this early by choice, she could appreciate the serenity now that she was experiencing it.

“How’d you choose journalism?”

The question snapped her out of the appreciative moment. “I’m the one with questions.”

He raised a brow. “So you get to ask questions, but I don’t.”

“I’m the one doing the interview,” she reminded him. The thought of being interviewed herself made her shiver. No, thank you. She preferred to present the news, not be a part of it.

“We’re conversing, not interviewing. Seems hypocritical you pull the interview card once the tables are turned.” They broke from the trail and walked across the small wooden bridge to the parking lot. Walking to the car, he paused by the driver’s side door. “New rule.”

She sighed and crossed her arms, waiting.

“You get a day for questions, then I get a day.”

She stared at him, not following.

“For questions,” he clarified. “We’ll call it the give-and-take arrangement.”

Aileen’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that. You already agreed to a month. You can’t just go back and slap new rules on the deal.”

He lifted one shoulder unapologetically. “I don’t see a legally binding document anywhere, do you? If you get to probe into me and my life, then I should get the chance to do the same.”

She closed her eyes and forced herself to count to ten. A ten-count in which she heard him open his car door and get in. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?” She cracked one eye to see him putting on the worst who, me? face she’d ever seen.

She narrowed her eyes and slapped one hand on his door before he could close it. “I’m getting my interview. I get a month.”

“Divided by two, so really it’s more like fifteen days.”

“Fine,” she said through clenched teeth, and reveled in the momentary satisfaction of his surprise. “I get fifteen days. You won’t fight me, you won’t argue, you won’t disappear off the face of the planet. I get my fifteen days, without any trouble from you. Got it?”

He watched her a moment, and she had the feeling he was looking for any sort of weakness. Any chip in the armor to gouge at and make a break for it. When he evidently saw none, he sighed. “Fine.”

She let the door go and watched him close it. Then, when he didn’t turn his car on, she held up her hands in question. He pointed toward her own car, several spaces away.

“Go to your car,” he said, though she could only tell from reading his lips. His very delicious, excellent-kissing lips.

She raised one brow. “Why?”

His head dropped back in exasperation, lips moving in what she could only assume was a prayer for serenity. She fought back the twitch of a smile. Annoying him was just too much fun. He started his car, then rolled the window down. “Go to your car.”

“Why?” she repeated.

“Because I can’t leave until you do. And I’ve got stuff to do. Go.”

The reluctant chivalry made her grin. “When should our month start?”