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.

He shrugged. “Sure.” He disappeared into the master bedroom to hang up the shirt, but left the door open and she took a quick step to her left to watch. Yup, she was shameless. He raised the shirt over his head and she enjoyed the view of taut muscles and tanned skin being revealed inch by inch. He threw the shirt on the bed and grabbed another from a drawer. It took everything she had in her not to give him a wolf whistle and tease him a little.

As she packed the tripod, he reappeared and seemed a little more himself. The real him, not the bland façade he’d given her the last hour. Maybe it was camera fright. Some of the toughest, bruiser-like men got in front of a camera and started shivering as if they were locked in an upright freezer. Maybe that’s what the mood was about. Determined not to let it bother her, she gave him a sunny smile. “Thanks for that. Did you have a nice lunch today?”

He walked into the kitchen and took a bottle of water from the fridge, holding it up for her. She nodded and he tossed it at her. She fumbled and dropped it on the carpeted dining area, cursing. He laughed softly and grabbed a water for himself before closing the door and propping a hip against the counter next to it. “I did.”

When he offered no more, she sighed. “Did you go out with teammates?”

“I did.”

“You’re infuriating,” she accused, trying desperately to open the water and failing.

His lips twitched, and she knew he was getting a kick out of baiting her. He stepped forward and took the bottle from her hands, popping the safety cap with ease. “You loosened it,” he said with mock seriousness when she scowled at him. “Did you have a nice lunch?”

She raised a brow and took a sip. “I did. I went out with Cassie Wainwright.”

That had Killian choking on his water. She smiled grimly with satisfaction as she whacked his back.

“Did you invite her?” he asked in a wheezy voice, still recovering.

“She invited me.” She sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and leaned back. The dining area was as sparse for personality as the rest of the apartment. Kicking the other chair out in invitation, she waited for Killian to sit, then propped her feet in his lap. One corner of his mouth raised in acknowledgement, but he didn’t push them off. Not a bad sign. “It was nice. I don’t have a lot of girlfriends in the area, and she was missing her best friend from back home. We just sort of clicked. It happens.”

Killian started to say something, but Aileen’s stomach rumbled. “Sounds like dinner wasn’t as good as your lunch was.”

“I didn’t eat dinner,” she said absently, rubbing at her stomach. That was uncomfortable. Thanks a lot, stomach. Wait until I’m working toward closing the deal with a guy to start singing whale mating calls.

“I’ll make you something.” He settled her feet back to the ground and patted her thigh before standing.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to.”

He bent down and kissed her quickly. “I’m not listening to that stomach of yours all night. So yes, I do.”

She waited until he was in the kitchen before she closed her eyes and breathed heavily. They were getting somewhere. She knew it.

Where somewhere was, that was up for grabs.

Chapter Nineteen

Killian plated the sandwich and goldfish crackers, debating tossing a pudding cup on there for good measure. He wanted her well fueled before he got her into his bed. Then thought better of it. The crackers and sammie—as Charlie called them—were nerdy enough. Why add to it with a freaking pudding cup?

He placed the paper plate down on the table in front of her, and her eyes lit. “Peanut butter and jelly?”

He nodded.

“Crunchy or smooth?”

“Smooth.” Charlie hated chunks.

“Grape or strawberry?”

“Grape.”

She sighed. “Okay. Next time, I’m bringing strawberry, though. You were this close,” she said, putting her thumb and forefinger almost together. “This close to the perfect sandwich. Nice try.”

He ruffled her hair just to annoy her, then sat down. While she dug in, he lifted her legs and placed her feet back in his lap. “What’s with the shoes?”

“Hmm?” she asked around a mouth full of sandwich.

“The shoes. You always wear them. Ever tried heels?”

She winced. “I know I’m short, but come on. Those things are torture. I have a few pair, but I’d rather be able to move than look good.”

“You always look good,” he said. Her eyes went liquid with pleasure, and he forced himself to add, “Good enough to—”

“Eh.” She held up a hand to stop him. “Let’s just leave it there.”

He tugged at the hem of her jeans. “So everything’s about comfort, not style.”

“Mostly. I mean, I don’t wear stuff that’s ripped or stained. I have some pride in my look. But overall, I need to be able to chase after a guy more than a foot taller than me for a game-end interview. Can’t keep up if I’m tripping myself.”

“Good point.” He smoothed the hem back down and let his fingers trail up and down her shins, over the soft fabric of the faded, hundred-times-washed denim. “Is that the only reason?”

She thought for another minute, taking an extra long time to chew. “Maybe not. Part of me thinks I have to stand out somehow. My dream job is only partly talent. The other part is—let’s face it—physical attractiveness. I’m competing against tall supermodel-like women. They’re beautiful, they dress in things that show off their figure, and they get noticed not just because they’re good at their job, though . . . yeah, they’re good at their job, too.” With a self-deprecating laugh, she tore off a piece of crust and let it fall back down to the plate with a plop. “Maybe my subconscious realized I couldn’t compete in the looks department, so it draws me to clothes that contrast with that image.”

“So you’re judging them for looking good.”

She snapped her head up. “That’s not it. They can’t change their genes, and I’m not saying they’re better or worse at their job because they look good in a tight sweater. I’ve had several female role models who were very pretty. It’s just knowing that plays into it that sucks. Even if nobody says it, it’s true. So my inner-thoughts drift toward rocking the boat and not playing into that part of the game.”

He nodded slowly, understanding a little of what she was saying. She distanced herself from other women in the broadcasting business by dressing less attractively and forcing it to be one hundred percent her talent alone. “I still think you’re selling yourself short,” he said, laughing when she rolled her eyes. “And that wasn’t a short joke. At least, not intentionally.”

“So you’re not doing a story on Cassie Wainwright and Coach Jordan then, huh?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she shook her head resolutely and kept eating. He sensed she was a little offended, but he was working up to a point.