She wasn’t sure where to start with that. “I’m not sure who the puppies are in this instance, to be honest.”

“Josiah Walker?” He snorted. “Michael Lambert. Ringing any bells? The guys who seem to do whatever you want to be on your little Internet show.”

“Maybe they’re just nice guys, who have an accommodating spirit and a general understanding that I’m harmless.” She tried to cross her arms, but his chest was too close and it was awkward. So she gripped the edge of the table instead and thrust her chin out. “And I would never put my stories ahead of an innocent person’s life. That’s despicable. I was raised better, I was trained better. And damn it, I want better than that.”

Before she could think of the next point of argument, his mouth was on hers. She gasped in shock, then locked her elbows to keep her upright against the table. Her knees wanted to melt away. His lips slanted over hers, tongue probing for entry. And God help her, she let him.

Because she was insane.

But it was good. So good. And she couldn’t remember being so tangled up with a male in a long, long time. So when her legs felt a little stronger, she unhooked one hand from the table and wrapped it around the back of his neck. Sort of, anyway. Her arm didn’t quite reach, but the effect was enough. He bent lower to match her disadvantaged height, then grabbed her hips and raised her up to sit on the kitchen table. The additional inches made kissing him back easier, more delicious.

He tasted like mint, as if he’d brushed his teeth after practice. And smelled like pine needles. His body wash, probably. The skin of his neck felt flushed under her cool fingertips, and she explored his hairline above the collar of his T-shirt.

He groaned something into her mouth, but she couldn’t make it out. His mouth nibbled down to her jaw, up over to her ear, before sucking her earlobe. She nearly melted straight into a puddle at his feet.

“Wh—what?” she managed to ask.

“Freckles,” he muttered, almost like a curse.

“My freckles?” She pressed a kiss to his neck—the only thing she could reach at the moment—before he jerked back. As if her confusion had cleared the fog he was swimming through.

He blinked, took two giant steps back, then turned and tunneled his fingers through his hair and squeezed.

That looked like it hurt.

After realizing the moment was over, Aileen glanced down at herself. Her legs were spread wide, having given him access to step between them so they could mold their bodies together. She snapped her knees shut. The image of a barn door closing while a horse romped in a nearby meadow made her want to snort a laugh.

“This doesn’t go any further than this room.” His voice was low, dark, carrying a sharp edge she hadn’t heard him use before. “You don’t talk about it, you don’t print it anywhere or blog about it or . . . whatever you do with your interviews.”

That hurt, more than she was willing to admit. That he would think . . . She counted to ten, then hopped down and picked up the tote bag she’d dropped. After straightening her hoodie, she walked to his door and opened it. “I don’t know where you get the idea I’m looking for a sleazy story, Killian, but I’m not. My job right now might not be with the best company, but I do the best work I can. And that doesn’t involve talking about a player’s sex life . . . with me, or anyone. I’m better than that.” She closed the door behind her, pasted a fake smile on her face, waved at Mrs. Reynolds’ door in case she was watching, and headed to her car.

* * *

Killian spent a good five minutes beating his head against his door before surrendering to the need for a Tylenol. The woman was a walking migraine, spreading headaches and aggravation wherever she walked.

Which was, of course, exactly why he had to get his hands on her. She pestered him until he couldn’t think of anything but her. Her voice. Her face. Her freckles. Her stupid Converse. Even her ugly car.

It was like psychological warfare, and she was kicking his ass.

So that was all this was. This being the clenched stomach feeling he’d had since the moment he spotted her in front of his door, talking to Mrs. Reynolds. The fact that his body tensed, that his dick hardened and still hadn’t calmed the hell down, that his mind went completely blank and he’d done the most stupid thing in mankind.

Kissed a damn reporter. Sank into that sweet, pixie-like warmth and lost his ever-loving mind in her instant response to his moves.

He rubbed a hand down his face and opened his door. He counted to five in his head and smiled a little when Mrs. Reynolds opened her own door. “Yes, sweetie?”

“You’ve got the hearing of a bat.”

She narrowed her gaze. “That didn’t sound like a compliment.”

He winked at her. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Did the woman who was here earlier bother you?”

The paper-thin skin that covered her face stretched as she smiled broadly. “Not at all! I was so excited to see a sweet looking young lady waiting for you.” His neighbor peeked left, then right, then back at him. “She seemed to not be sure if she wanted to see you or not. I thought I’d delay her so you two would run into each other.”

“But she didn’t knock on your door.”

Mrs. Reynolds looked confused. “No, she was standing by your door. I invited her in to watch the news and wait, but she declined.”

Killian’s head bobbed slowly. “Okay. Just wanted to make sure. Have a good night, Mrs. Reynolds.”

She waved and closed her door as he did the same. There was one weight off his mind. He’d hoped she’d been telling the truth, but he wasn’t going to risk it when checking was so easy. So point for her.

Wait, why was he assigning points to the reporter? This wasn’t a game. This was his life. He couldn’t have her digging around in his life, finding Emma and Charlie. It was the exact opposite of what he needed.

Maybe after tonight, she’d give up. She’d said she wouldn’t write about the kiss—though he’d believe it when he saw it . . . or didn’t see it—but she didn’t say she was dropping the idea of interviewing him altogether. That was the real crux of the issue. In fact, he wouldn’t be shocked if this didn’t spur her to be more intense in her hunt for the screw to turn for an interview.

He backed away from the door and headed to the kitchen to grill some chicken for dinner. His eye snagged on the coin bowl with her number in it.

Burn it.

What if . . .

No. Stupid idea.

Or maybe not. If he gave her just enough, maybe she would go away. Torture some other athlete for an interview. Maybe she’d disappear and never be heard from again.

Could he be so lucky?

He grilled the chicken, nuked some veggies, and grabbed a water from his fridge, taking it over to the living room to eat and watch Sports Center. But during every commercial break, his eyes wandered again to the bowl with her card in it.

Going on the offensive might throw her off enough. He could even have a little fun with it. She’d get her story, and he could stop worrying about where she would pop up next. She’d be out of his life, forever.

Killian ignored the gut-clench and changed the channel.

* * *

When her phone rang at six in the morning, Aileen wanted to pick it up and hurl it across the floor. There was no way any sane person was calling her at this time of day, which made the call either a wrong number, or Bobby Mundane. Neither were appealing before she’d had coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. She fumbled for the phone, just to double check, and groaned at the unknown caller ID. The phone stopped ringing, and she stuffed it under her second pillow and closed her eyes. Drifting off peacefully into another moment of rest . . .

The damn phone rang again. She kicked the pillow off the bed and unlocked the screen to answer. “What!”