Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(37)

She lifted a shoulder, as if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. “None of my business. We’re not on the clock. But one of us really needs to change our ringtone.” With as much dignity as she could muster when something deep down was throbbing, she stood and found her pants. Her panties, unfortunately, were not with them. How the hell had that happened? He’d pulled them off together. Whatever. She shoved one leg, then another in and hopped to pull them up.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

She looked over her shoulder as she located her bra draped over the arm of the desk chair. “Back to my room. This is yours, if you don’t remember.”

“Who said we were done?”

Oh, that tone . . . She finished clasping her bra and turned to face him. “Look at you. You’re sitting on the ground, guarding your cell phone like a junkyard dog because you’re afraid I’m going to start flipping through your emails and texts or something. Why would you want me here? You got what you wanted, so now I’m leaving.”

She found her shirt under the desk and bent to pick it up. As she straightened, she gasped when her back hit cool, hard male flesh. His arms banded around her and pulled her tightly against him. His nose nuzzled through her disheveled hair. “I’m sorry. This isn’t . . . I’m not used . . .” He sighed, then pulled her back to the bed. Flopping them both down, they bounced once, her back still plastered to his front. The pose—including her being mostly dressed and him being deliciously naked—should have felt ridiculous.

It felt sweet and intimate instead.

“I don’t do this. I’m not the guy with girls in his hotel room during every away game. It’s new for me. Can you cut me some slack if I say the wrong thing?”

She took a chance and ran a hand over his forearm, which rested right next to the underwire of her bra. “What do you need from me to make this easier? I’ll go, if that’s what you want. I won’t be offended. You’re probably exhausted.”

He huffed out a laugh.

She pinched his arm. “That’s not what I meant. I was referring to your game earlier, you turd.”

“Did you just call me a turd?” He nipped her earlobe. “I can’t think of anyone over the age of five calling me a turd in a long time.”

“Hang out with a lot of preschoolers, do you?” He stiffened, and she mentally cursed their situation. She wiggled, and he let her go after a long moment so she could stand up and turn to face him. He sat on the edge of the bed. Stepping between his spread thighs, she placed her palms on either side of his stubble-rough cheeks. “Killian, what do you need? Just tell me.”

He blinked, those gorgeous long lashes hiding his eyes for a moment. “I want a break. I want a break from the field, from the job, from interviews”—he tugged her close—“even your interviews, Freckles.”

“Why do you call me that?”

He ran one finger down the length of her nose. “You’ve got freckles.”

Aileen rolled her eyes, then started looking for her shoes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“They’re adorable.”

That gave her a momentary hitch in her step. She’d never hated her freckles, exactly. They weren’t the bane of her existence or anything so dramatic. But she’d never considered them an attribute. And it surprised her that Killian did.

“I’m short, too. Wanna tell me how that’s adorable?”

He grinned. “Not without getting hit. But watch.” He stood, took her hand, and pulled her to him. He brought their joined hands to his shoulder, palmed the other hand against her back, and molded them front to front. Then, in a move she would never have guessed, he started swaying. “I’m short, too. So, we match.”

She couldn’t resist resting her cheek against his chest for a few moments, closing her eyes and pretending like this was a normal, natural thing for them to be doing. Like he came home from work and swept her into a dance every evening while she was making dinner.

The spell broke when his pants buzzed again. He breathed heavily by her ear, and she almost imagined she could hear a silent curse being muttered along with it. Fantasy, maybe.

So she was the one who stepped back first. “You should get that. Whoever it is must really need to talk to you.”

He hesitated only a moment, then let her go. “Yeah. You’re right.” He rubbed a hand over his shoulder, then started to speak. He stopped before the first syllable was out.

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.”