“I’m sure that’s not the only reason. Teenagers are busy. Your parents were probably busy with work, too.”

She liked him even more for trying to shield her feelings. “Maybe. But I’m guessing my attitude didn’t help. Anyway, so I kept remembering all the fun times we had while bowling, and before I knew it, I’d signed myself up for the local league. I found Ernie from my mom’s old contact book,” she said, pointing to the wiry old man. “He took me under his wing, brought me into the team. He’s a good friend.”

“Sounds like it.” Was it her imagination or did his fingertips brush down her shoulder? “So now you bowl in a league, and wear a shirt with your name on it.”

She glanced down at the neon blue and green polo shirt. “Our team colors. Carol picked.”

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“They could be Green Bay colors,” he said with total honesty.

She laughed. Laughed and folded in on herself until she could barely breathe. “Oh. Oh, that was good. Nicely played.”

“Aileen!” Al waved at her. “You’re up.”

“Coming!” She patted his knee. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

Chapter Nine

He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He was sporting a boner the size of Texas that would be obvious the moment he stood up. What kind of an asshole was he that the story about her dead parents had made him pop wood?

Of course, the story hadn’t really been so much about her parents as it had been about finding her joy again. That part, he liked. A lot. When she talked about looking through the photos, her face had been a soft happiness. When she spoke of her father’s bowling ball jokes, her eyes sparkled with laughter. And her self-deprecating humor about the ugly shirt she wore tucked into those jeans that cupped her ass had made him bite back a smile himself.

He wasn’t here to flirt, for Christ sake. He was here to annoy the hell out of her so she stopped hassling him for an interview.

She finished her frame—another strike—and walked back after a quick high five with the man she’d called Ernie. He reminded him a little of his own Mrs. Reynolds. Older, probably in his seventies, and clearly nuts over Aileen, in a paternal sort of way. He’d shot Killian a single look while Aileen had bowled her first frame that said I’m watching you, buddy.

Killian didn’t mind. The guy was watching out for her. As he now knew her parents were gone, he was glad she had someone stepping into the role.

She bounced back to sit. The crappy chairs made it impossible for them to not touch with every shift or slight change of position. “You came on a good night. I’m actually not half-bad.”

“Two strikes out of two? What’s your half-bad look like?”

She laughed. “Not that. Sometimes I’m in the game, sometimes I’m worse than a toddler who needs the inflatable bumpers put in her lane. Just depends on how things are going, I guess.”

Something annoying, something annoying, something annoying . . . “Why journalism?”

She blinked. “Why journalism?”

He nodded. Get her talking. Make her feel uncomfortable. “Yeah. What is it about a profession that requires you to dig into other people’s lives that interests you so much?”

She turned back to watch her teammates bowl, as if dismissing the mocking insult. “It’s not just digging into people’s lives. I’m not a tabloid reporter rifling through people’s trash or using a zoom lens to get pictures through a bedroom window. I want to write about the athletes who do a job I admire and find entertaining.” She shrugged. “I guess like someone who was fascinated by politics, they’d want to cover DC life, you know?”

“But why journalism?”

“My parents were both journalists.” Her smile wasn’t sad this time, but sweet. “I always admired them. She was with newspapers, and dad did the photojournalism thing. I’d rather be in front of the camera, if I can. More impact, more of a rush. More spontaneous.”

Sounded like hell to him. But she’d invoked the dead parents again, which meant it was off limits, as far as he was concerned. “Other hobbies?”

“Nothing much. Reading, I guess, though some might say that’s as much for work as it is for pleasure. Bowling is kind of it.” She grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers. “You guys take up a lot of my time. In fact, I’m going with you this weekend to San Francisco.”

His heart stopped for just a moment, then picked back up again. “Any particular reason?”

“My boss gave the okay, and I didn’t want to lose any extra days interviewing you.” Her smile faded a little. “Problem? I’m not going to stalk you or anything. I’ll stay with the media. No knocking on your door at three in the morning,” she promised, holding up her hand like a Boy Scout.

For one insane moment, he had the urge to ask her to take that promise back. You can knock on my door any time of the night you want. He was insane. She could not go on this trip. Emma was bringing Charlie to watch him. He’d planned to spend most of his time off with his son. “How about instead of traveling, I just bump the days back a few, so you aren’t missing any?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head, then held up a finger when Ernie called her up again. “I wanna see what life on the road is like for Killian Reeves. You promised access on the days that were mine. So I’m taking them.” She stood and hurried to get her ball out of the round thing that held them . . . whatever it was called.

Damn it. Damn it. Emma and Charlie had been planning to meet him in San Francisco for the weekend. Now he had to call Emma and tell her to not come over. And she was going to rip him a new one . . . rightly so. Which was to say nothing about the disappointment he’d see in Charlie’s face during their weekly FaceTime date later that night.

Fuck.

This little freckled reporter was screwing with his mind, and his life, in too many ways to count.

* * *

He dreaded picking up the phone. Almost talked himself out of it. Delay it another day. But the reminder that Charlie would be in bed soon, and Emma needed to know sooner rather than later about the change in plans, had him nutting up and making the FaceTime call on his iPhone to Emma right at eight on the dot. After a few seconds of ringing, Charlie’s face appeared.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, how’s my favorite son?”

“Only son!” Charlie said with a giggle. His cherubic smile, all cheeks, hid a lot of mischief. “I made a panda out of clay in art class.”

That damn panda. He couldn’t help smiling. “Some things never change. I made a panda when I was in school, too.”

“The teacher is burning them, and then we get to paint it tomorrow.”

Burning them? “You mean firing them? Like in a kiln?”

“Yeah, yeah. That. And I’m gonna make mine blue, like your jersey.” His eyes were wide with the hope his dad would be impressed.

Killian’s heart clenched in his chest. “Sounds like the best-looking panda I’ve ever heard of. Can’t wait to see it.”

“I’ll bring it this weekend!” Charlie bounced, and the screen bounced with him, making Killian close his eyes a moment or risk getting motion sick. “And Mom says we can walk around and do stuffs in San Francisquo!”

“San Francisco,” he corrected automatically. “Bud, can I talk to your mom a minute? I’ll say goodnight when we’re through, ’kay?”

“Okay.” Not sensing the brewing trouble, he happily called for his mom, then handed her the phone with a quick, “Dad wants you,” before racing off to do who knew what.