Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(61)

“I don’t remember any on-camera interview being discussed.” He took another bite of his almost-forgotten sandwich. “I need some prep time.”

“You’ve had prep time. And if I recall correctly, you were the one who nagged me about going too slow, and to hurry up and get this whole thing over with. Was that you, or some other cute kicker I was rolling around a bowling alley naked with?”

“Better not have been,” he grumbled. Now that she was actually taking the steps to finish the whole thing, he regretted having pushed.

“I’m going over all the questions we’ve discussed before on paper. Now you’ll just be answering them to the camera. No surprises.” She looked down as she adjusted something on the tripod, then glanced at him from the side. Bits of auburn hair drifted over her ear and into her face, but he could still see her eyes. “I know you hate surprises.”

“I’m getting used to them,” he murmured. When her eyes widened, he shrugged. “Guess I should go brush my hair and my teeth then. Wasn’t planning on being on camera.”

“Go for it. I’ll just arrange things here. Mind if I clear your coffee table off?”

“No prob.” It was just magazines and a few remotes. “I’ll be right back.” He headed toward the master bedroom, with the bathroom attached. Damned if he was doing an on-camera interview with peanut butter teeth.

*

Aileen framed the shot, then cleaned off the coffee table. Setting everything to the side in neat piles—because the man was definitely a neat freak, maybe even a minimalist—she double checked the angle. No color. Nothing. The walls were white—unsurprising, in a rental—but there were no photos or posters up. The couch was beige. The furniture was bland wood. Nothing at all to make the shot interesting.

“That’s what he’s for,” she muttered to herself. But even knowing Killian would be in the line, she knew it would look wrong without something. Pillows, or a throw over the back of the couch. Anything.

Just because she worked for a tiny web blog didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to do her best with the minimal resources she had. She looked around the room, but it was as if the man preferred living in a whitewashed apartment. Even the dish towels were fawn colored.

She glanced through the door to the master bedroom, as he’d left it open. But even taking two steps in, she realized there was nothing for help here. It was as if the guy’s middle name was Greige. Ick.

There was one more room to try. She looked at the closed door and sighed. Likely an office, which meant there was nothing inside to help, either. But it was worth a shot. Maybe he kept all the colorful things in there. Even a corny team poster at this point would be better than nothing. She turned the doorknob, but got nowhere. The door was locked.

Why the hell would he lock his office door?

“What are you doing?”

Aileen jumped at the sound of Killian’s harsh question. “I was just—”

“Snooping?” he cut in. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching her closely. He’d changed into a Bobcats T-shirt, the dark blue a sinfully delicious contrast to his tanned skin as its sleeved stretched over his biceps. His hair was brushed back behind his ears, and he looked ready to chew nails and spit them through railway ties.

“Uh, no. I was looking for something colorful. For the background,” she elaborated, pointing at the Beige Couch of Blandness. “Something to liven up the shot. Pillow, blanket, whatever. I just thought maybe there was something in . . . the office?” she ended weakly.

“No.” That was his only reply. “Let’s get this over with.”

The cheerful, cheeky Killian of before was gone, replaced with the stiff, nearly robotic version in front of her. He sat at the edge of the couch cushion, back ramrod straight, eyes cold and a little sinister. She shivered as she adjusted for his height. “Could you scoot back a little? More. No, just, you know, sit like you would normally sit on a couch.”

He glared at her, but shifted until his back rested against the cushion.

Close enough. She finished lining it up, made sure her mic was working, turned on the recording, then sat next to the camera on a stool she’d taken from the kitchen. “You’ll talk to me, not the camera. And I’ll be cutting out things between each question, so don’t worry if you cough or whatever. Just talk conversationally, you and me. We’re alone, just the two of us, relaxed and hanging out.”

His eyes sharpened. “We don’t just hang out.”

Okay, so he was going to be difficult. She crossed one leg over the other and looked through her notes. “Let’s start with your athletic abilities as a kid. You played soccer. What was it about soccer you loved?”

She walked him through it, question after question, pausing to remind him to rephrase his answers in complete thoughts now and then. The words were fine. Adequate. But there was no life. She remembered the times she’d spoken with him before, gotten him going back and forth. The give, the take, the actual passion even for the negative stuff. It was missing.

It was The Beige Interview, to match the couch.

After an hour, she stood. “That’s enough for tonight. We’ll keep it up in small chunks so we don’t burn out. Could you hang up that shirt somewhere so we remember what you were wearing and it stays nice? Continuity,” she explained when he gave her a weird look.