She laughed as he reached the parking lot where his car was. “I think we can skip the interrogation techniques for now, as long as you don’t become a flight risk. But be aware, I’ve studied water boarding.” She raised a brow. “It’s not that difficult.”

“So noted.” He popped his trunk and tossed his bag in, then opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

“My car’s just over there. Are you heading home? I’ll meet you at—” Her words were cut off as his hand closed around her arm and half-pushed, half-yanked her into the car. “Oh, well, how gentlemanly of you, but—”

“Just get in, Freckles.” He closed her door and got in his side. “The bucket of rust you call a vehicle scares the shit out of me. We’re going to the same place. I’ll drive you back later when I head to the gym.”

She blinked. “You walked this morning, you had practice for hours, and you’re going to work out tonight?”

“Yeah. Life sucks, doesn’t it?” He grinned, belying the sarcasm, and started the car with nary a cough or hesitation.

Aileen held on for one covetous moment, wishing her car started like that. Poor Sybil. She immediately regretted the traitorous thoughts. Her car was loyal, hard-working . . . and paid off. No way could she start the circle of car payment hell all over again so soon.

He drove in silence, not making any conversation. And she had a feeling he would just as soon push her out the car on the highway than listen to her start the interview now. So she sat back and enjoyed the smooth ride, free from shuddering and rattling upon hitting speeds of fifty-five or higher. And the surprising radio selection.

“Top Forty kinda guy?”

He shrugged one shoulder as he pulled into his apartment complex.

“I would have guessed something more hard-hitting. More . . . metal,” she decided. He had such sharp edges to his personality, it seemed like a logical choice.

“So sue me for liking Maroon 5.”

“I’m assuming you mean the music, and not the deliciously sexy Adam Levine.” She sighed a little. “The man . . . is a god.”

He snorted, then pulled into his parking space and shut off the car. “We go in quickly and quietly. No sudden moves, no loud sounds. Do not stop to talk, do not shuffle your feet, and do not drop your bag until we are inside.”

His eyes were intense, as if daring her to argue with him. She had the oddest urge to press a kiss to his nose and make him lighten up a little. Instead, she ticked them off on her fingers. “Scream bloody murder, walk like an ape, bang on every door going in. Check.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he mumbled as he got out of the car. She didn’t wait for him to come open hers and scrambled to follow.

How did he make that sound like an endearing observation rather than a negative personality trait? She was going nuts, that’s how.

They managed to get into his apartment without the watchful Mrs. Reynolds poking her head out. Maybe his neighbor was napping. Aileen set her bag down and wandered around the dining area and kitchen, taking in the sparse furniture and decor. “Was all that stealth to keep your neighbor from seeing us?”

“Maybe.” He walked past her in the tight galley-style kitchen, his shoulder brushing hers as he did. He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, holding it high. “Want?”

“Sure, thanks.” He handed her another and closed the fridge door, leaning against the countertop to guzzle half his bottle in one take.

She struggled with the top to her bottle for a good thirty seconds before he sighed, took it from her, opened it, and handed it back.

“I loosened it.”

He shook his head and walked back by, heading for the living room. She followed slower, taking in the ambiance. True, she’d been in his apartment once before, but it hardly counted. She’d only seen the kitchen and dining area from her vantage point. And plus, she’d been busy . . .

Heat flushed her face and she did a quick spin while taking a sip of water to cool herself down. She nodded at a few generic landscapes on the walls, as if judging their technique and composition.

Do not think about kissing him. Do not think about kissing him. Be a freaking professional.

“Why an apartment and not a house?”

He sat on the couch in one corner, angling himself so he could prop his feet on the coffee table in front. “Why not?”

“Privacy, for one. You wouldn’t have any Mrs. Reynolds-types watching your front door to see who comes and goes.” It occurred to her, she didn’t even know her own neighbors’ names.

He was quiet, absorbing that thought while taking another drink. Then he simply said, “She’s not so bad,” as if he hadn’t just forced her to move around with the stealth of a Navy SEAL in training to avoid his neighbor hearing them slink in.

“Okay, so then what?” She hesitated, then pointed at the other end of the couch. “Can I sit?” He gestured for her to have at it, so she did. “So if not the privacy from neighbors, then from fans or other not-so-well-meaning individuals. Your apartment complex isn’t even gated. Don’t you worry about rabid fans or crazy Bobcat haters finding you?”

“As far as Bobcats go, I’m pretty low on the totem pole.” He said it so clearly, with no false humility, she knew he believed it. He honestly thought he was the next thing to a nobody. “I don’t have weird fan mail . . . that I know of. Maybe my agent weeds it out. I haven’t had anyone follow me back. A few people in the complex know I’m here, but they have been pretty decent about leaving me to myself. I don’t use the community workout equipment or swim in the community pool, and I don’t linger in the common areas. I’m in, I’m out. And until you,” he added with a hard glare, “no reporters have given me more than a few questions about my personal life.”

She beamed. “So glad to be unique.”

Her phone rang and she dug around in her tote for several seconds, blindly searching for the object shaped like the iPhone. Then Killian reached into his own cargo shorts pocket, pulled out his own iPhone, and silenced the ringer.

“Oh. That was you?” She waited, but the ringing had stopped.

“Yeah?”

“We have the same ringtone.” She smirked. “Something in common. Watch out, or you’ll find out we’re more alike than you want.”

“That’ll be the day,” he said darkly.

She dug around her tote for a moment, pulling out her massive jumble of keys and setting them on the coffee table before continuing to dig for her phone. She heard Killian pick up the keys, but she didn’t look up. “Where the hell is my phone?”

“It was my phone,” he reminded her, like she was an idiot who couldn’t keep up. The keys rattled in his hands.

“No, I need mine. I have a recording app, so I can record this instead of writing . . . ah! There we go.” Phone in hand, she looked up and found Killian rotating the ball of metal and plastic around in his hand, staring at it with a horrified look on his face. “What?”

“This thing has to weigh at least three pounds. Why would you keep this much crap on your key ring?” He shook it, wincing at the clanging sound.

She held out a hand, raising a brow when he ignored it to keep staring at the key ring. “I don’t play favorites with key chains. I like them.” She waited another few moments, then said quietly, “They were my mom’s, okay?”

He must have heard the silent plea in the words, because he gently placed them in her hand without hesitation. “It’s probably a health hazard. All that weight in your bag that is being carried on one shoulder. You could develop a hump. Or a slump. Or whatever.”

She rolled her eyes and let the keys et al. fall into her bag. Opening up her recording app, she set it on the couch cushion between them. Killian shifted so he was facing her, one leg now bent on the couch. She mirrored his pose. And did her best to ignore the fact that they were both short enough, the couch would easily accommodate their bodies, length-wise. “Why kicker?”