“I was talking to Mrs. Reynolds,” she pointed out. “And she was telling me that you’re her favorite cookie eater.” Her grin was infectious, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Now tell me, Mrs. Reynolds, exactly what are his favorite cookies? Because if treats are the way to gain compliance, I’m going to be in a baking mood.”

His neighbor giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s partial to my oatmeal raisin, actually. And you know, I gave him a large tub of those the other day, after he helped with my wobbly coffee table.”

“A wobbly coffee table, huh?” She leaned against Mrs. Reynolds’ doorjamb. “He fixed it all by himself?”

Killian felt the beginnings of a headache starting. “Freckles, weren’t you coming in?”

She shook her head. “I’m good here. Tell me more, Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Well,” his neighbor began, looking grateful for a captive audience. “It was right after I had him move my television set to the opposite wall. It’s so hard to see the screen these days, and the glare from my patio window was just awful.”

“Of course. Glare is terrible,” Aileen agreed.

“Freckles,” he warned.

She held up a finger without looking at him.

“And I said, ‘Killian, you’ve been such a help to me. You need some cookies to take home.’ He fought me on it.” Mrs. Reynolds leaned in, ready to impart a secret. “He’s got to watch his figure in season, you know.”

Aileen let out a small snort before she could get it together. “Oh, yes. His figure is very important.”

And that was all Killian could take. Leaving his door open, he stomped across the breezeway and wrapped a hand around Aileen’s upper arm. “Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Reynolds. I’ll get you that tub back in a day or so.”

“No rush!” she called as Aileen and Killian walked across his doorway. “You two have fun now!”

“Bye!” Aileen waved, jerking her hand back just before Killian slammed the door shut. “I adore her.”

He did, too, normally. When she wasn’t imparting little tidbits of his life to reporters.

“And who knew you were so handy?” Aileen patted his chest, her hand lingering just a little so the gesture was more intimate than patronizing. “Maybe you should come over and fix my—”

“Everything?” he cut in. “I’ve seen that place.”

She shrugged, unbothered by the comment. “It’s cute that you help her out.”

“It’s no biggie.”

“Hmm.” She took a step away and surveyed the apartment’s common space. “Mind if I set up in the living room?”

“Set up what? Your cell phone?” He followed her into the living room, surprised when she reached into her tote and pulled out an extendable tripod. “Whoa. What else do you have in there?”

“Not much. A few snacks, a camera, the cure for world hunger . . .” She kept digging and pulled out a camera to use with the tripod. “Okay, just kidding. I don’t have any snacks.”

“World hunger must be heavy.”

“The cure for,” she corrected, letting the tote drop carelessly to the floor. Apparently, now that she had the tripod and camera out of it, nothing else was of significant value or care. “The light is best in here. I can change it up, but that would require dragging lamps around the apartment and that’s annoying. So is it okay?”

“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?”