Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(40)

Walking to her desk, where her laptop sat, she plopped down in the chair. “Mom? What the hell do I do now?”

Her mother didn’t answer, of course. Just smiled back from the safe confines of her picture frame. Still vibrant, young, and blessedly alive. At least in memory. She looked like Aileen, aged another ten years or so, but had carried a ruthless pit bull mentality for journalism. Even her father had been in awe of her mother’s tenacity. It’s why he’d married her, or so they said.

“Your job was easier, you know that, right? Without the Internet competing for people’s attention, you journalists had it easy. There were reporters, and there were news anchors. End of story. How the hell did I manage to get trapped somewhere between the two, and yet not at all close to either? And does this job suck as bad as I think it does?”

The photo provided zero wisdom.

“Well, I’m talking to a picture again, so my sanity is once more up for debate.” She settled back in the chair and booted up her computer. “Not to mention, I slept with the subject of my current story. Yeah, sorry Mom.” Even as she added the apology, her mouth curved in a hint of a smile. Apologizing to her mother’s memory for having sex was just this side of giggle-worthy.

Her phone rang again. A quick glance at the screen told her it was Killian. She debated answering, then let it go to voicemail. She had to get her head screwed on straight to deal with him, and she was nowhere near that place yet.

Sleeping with a subject. She’d say it was a rookie mistake, but even a rookie wouldn’t be so stupid. And worse than that—sadly, there was a worse—she was starting to care for him. Having sex was one thing. If they were both adults about it, they could laugh it off as a stress-reliever, agree it was good and move on. She could do her job and be objective, despite having slept with him.

But the feelings . . . there was no changing that.

She forced back the rising panic when her phone rang once more, and once more Killian’s name flashed. This was so not the time for drama queen theatrics. Swallow it down, get the job done, and move on. It’s what a professional would do.

With a calm she was still struggling to feel, she answered with a cool, “Hello, Killian.”

*

Killian paced the parking lot beside the trails, doing one more rotation around his car, then turning to stare off into the scenery as someone—clearly not Aileen—pulled into the parking lot. With his shades and shorter-than-expected stature of an NFLer, he got off easier on playing the disguise card. People didn’t seem to recognize him often in public. A fact for which he was eternally grateful.

The car pulled up, but didn’t turn off its engine. He wasn’t about to look and tempt fate, though. When it pulled away again without ever cutting the engine, he assumed it must have been someone who pulled over to check directions. But the tap on his shoulder made him jolt.

Aileen sucked in a surprised breath and hopped back. “Sorry, sorry.” She grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t realize you were so into contemplating the universe. Thought you heard the car pull up.”

“I did.” He looked around, didn’t see her horrifying beater anywhere. “And heard it leave. Did you walk here or something?”

“Cab.” She lifted one shoulder. “Car decided to roll over and play dead . . . except not playing. So it’s public transportation for me for a while.”

He would have ran out to get her in an instant if she’d just called him. Instead, she wasted what were clearly precious resources on a cab. He wasn’t sure if he should be glad she was independent, or offended she never considered asking him for help.

“I’ll take you home.”

She hesitated, only a second, but he saw it. “Okay.”

He despised that second. That one moment of hesitation told him everything he needed to know. She wasn’t fine with what had happened in his hotel room, but was doing her best to pretend like she was. Damn it, this awkwardness wasn’t okay.

“Come on.” He took off on a low-paced jog, checking to make sure she followed.

She was rooted to the spot in the parking lot, arms folded.

“What?”

Her freckled face screwed up in an adorable, stern line. “I’m not jogging.”

“You wore sweats,” he pointed out helpfully.

“These are yoga pants, not sweats. There’s a difference. And I told you before, bowling is as active as I get.”

The moment the words left her mouth, her ears flushed and she looked ready for the world to crack open and swallow her whole. He grinned, enjoying her discomfort. Walking toward her—stalking, really—he watched her eyes widen in surprise. As he gripped her arms gently and pulled her close, he leaned in and whispered, “I’d say we were pretty active last night.”

“Look at me, I can jog!” She took off on a sprint toward the trail.

With a chuckle, he followed easily, enjoying the chase.

*

She made it an entire ninety seconds before the stitch in her side forced her to slow from the bear’s after me sprint into the I do this all the time jog, which quickly morphed into the I’m an out-of-shape slob shuffle. Killian’s light footsteps approached from behind. She fought the urge to throw out an arm and attempt a quick judo chop to the throat.

“Done running already? The Surgeon General recommends sixty minutes of—”