A masculine throat cleared. “You talk to all your subjects like that, Freckles?”

Subject? Freckles? Her sleep-soaked mind fought through the morning haze to make heads or tails of that cryptic clue. Killian had called her Freckles yesterday. But there was no way . . .

“Who is this?” she asked suspiciously.

“Jesus. You dog a guy for weeks, making him think you only want him, and suddenly you forget he exists.”

Killian. She let go an unsteady breath. “It’s six in the morning. Some people, aka non-freaks, are still asleep, or haven’t had their brain-waking coffee yet.”

“Total waste of daylight,” he said cheerfully. People like him? These morning people? They didn’t deserve to live. “I’ve considered things, and I think you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Her jaw cracked in a huge yawn. “Right about what?”

He chuckled. “Wake up, Freckles. We’re talking business here.”

She used the heel of one hand to rub at her eyes. “Business hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday.”

“The news never sleeps.”

Finally, a pinprick of light penetrated the darkness. “Business. Subject. The interview.”

“It’s like I can actually hear rusty wheels start grinding. Amazing.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a massive smartass in the morning?”

“Actually, no.” He seemed surprised by that. “Meet me at the Trails in half an hour.”

The . . . what? No. “I’m still in bed.”

There was a slight pause. “I can tell,” he said, his voice a little deeper than before.

Aileen’s body flushed under her nightgown. “That’s not . . . what I meant,” she finished weakly.

“Trails. Half an hour. Bring your running shoes . . . and not those god-awful Converse. Actual running shoes, with support.” And then he was gone.

As far as wakeup calls went, it hadn’t been a bad one. She stared blindly at her phone for a moment, then dashed out of bed to get dressed and brush her teeth. Unsure of what he was up to, she dressed to work out. Or, rather, what she assumed people wore to work out. What she did with sweatpants was lounging in front of the TV watching Netflix and eating ice cream straight out of the tub.

Yanking her hair into a messy bun, she grabbed her keys and dashed out the door with fifteen minutes to spare. It only took her twenty to get to the trails, and she prayed as she climbed out of the car she wasn’t too late. She glanced around the parking lot, but no sign of Killian. “Crap.”

She let her arms rest against the top of her car, her forehead drooping. This was so not how she wanted to spend her morning.

A hand on her shoulder made her yelp in surprise.

“Easy, Freckles.” Killian’s hands squeezed her upper arms, keeping her from swinging around and throat punching him. “You’re definitely not a morning person.”

Aileen craned her neck to look at him. He, obviously, was. His hair was a little messy, like he hadn’t bothered to comb it after getting out of bed. And his face bore the morning scruff he hadn’t shaved off. But his eyes were bright, and his smile was easy. “Morning people are unAmerican.”

“Ah, yes. I do remember that part of history now. During the Boston Alarm Clock Party, where patriots tossed their offensive alarm clocks into the harbor in a statement to the British.”

“Cute,” she grumbled. “You’re all cute in the morning.” Taking a step back—a big one, to escape the sexy pheromones he was pumping off—she spread her arms out. “I’m here, at the unpatriotic hour of six-thirty. What?”

Killian nodded his head at one of the trails. The trails provided bike paths, nature walks, and a more flat, level jogging course. It was for weird people who liked fitness and the outdoors. “Walk or jog?”

She raised a brow at him.

“Walk it is.”

Chapter Six

Killian grabbed Aileen’s elbow and steered her toward the first path. “I like coming out in the morning. The only other people here are fitness buffs who aren’t paying attention to whoever they pass. Gives me an easier time of getting a run in outside without worrying about joiners. I like the solitude.”

“And yet you invited me. A dirty reporter.”

“You’re not dirty.” He let go of her arm as they started at a leisurely pace. Or what was leisurely for him, as she was struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. “I confirmed with Mrs. Reynolds you weren’t bothering her. I’m sorry I accused you.”

The apology went farther than a coffee would have to jolt her system. “I . . . that’s okay. I understand.”

“I just don’t like people prying into my life.” He rubbed a hand over his neck, side-stepping a large branch that had fallen in the path. She scooted around it the other way. “I’m private. That’s how I am, that’s how I’ll always be.”

“I understand that. But I wasn’t looking to dig up your fourth grade report card.” She glanced at him from under her eyelashes. “Unless you want to provide those for my entertainment.”

“I hated art,” he muttered.

She blinked. “Oh. Let me guess, you were more of a gym-and-recess sort of guy?”

“Let’s drop the elementary school talk. I was thinking something more recent.”

Her heart picked up an extra beat. “How recent are we talking about?”

“Right now. As in, I give you an interview, now, and you drop the hunt.”

The hunt? She started to answer, but he grabbed her hand and tugged her with him to walk around another large branch. After they’d cleared the obstacle, he didn’t let go. She counted to five, then slowly pulled her hand from his. The friction of his callouses against her palm sent shivers running down her spine. “That’s not quite how it works.”

He frowned, then ducked his head as another walker passed them headed the opposite direction. She smiled easily at the fellow early bird. “How what works?”

“My style. For something silly, like the Hidden Talents bit, sure. It’s a quick one-minute segment. But this is more than that. Or, I mean, I want it to be.” She glanced up at him, saw his eyes burning brightly. Though she wasn’t sure if it was anger, frustration or . . .

No. She was making things up. Definitely not lust. There was no way any normal male could lust after her looking like this. Her beauty was one that improved greatly with additional sleep and makeup and . . . dark rooms.

“I want sound bytes with past coaches, teammates, current coaches, that sort of thing. Friends from growing up. All that good stuff.” She stepped over a rock, nearly stumbled, and caught herself. Smooth, Rogers. Real smooth. “I want to ease away from the fluff stuff, like the Hidden Talents. I’m being pigeonholed, and I don’t appreciate it. So it’s up to me to get meatier stuff.”

“Why don’t you go after something else? Someone else? I’m nobody. I’m a kicker, for God’s sake.”

She watched his expression for signs of false modesty, and saw none. “You’re still important. It’s a very overlooked position as far as importance goes. Frankly, maybe this will kick off—pun intended—a series. Maybe I’ll get to all the NFL kickers. Could be something.”

“So start with someone else.”

“No.”

He growled. She smiled sweetly.

“You said you were thinking of giving me an interview. So how hard could it be? Just sit down with me and do the thing so it’s over. Let me follow you around for a few days.”

“A few days,” he echoed.

“Maybe a week,” she amended.

He grunted.

“Okay, a month. Ish. A month-ish,” she amended, and had the pleasure of watching his jaw and neck tighten. “It’s not like I’ll get a month’s worth of usable footage. You know how this stuff works. I end up with seven hours of footage and information that gets boiled down into a six-minute piece. Just suffer the indignity and get it over with. If I cover this, then it will be done. And nobody else is going to rehash my work. So you’ll be free of other reporters doing the same. Since you’re a self-professed lone wolf with no scandalous past. . . . What?”