Even if the arguing was the closest thing to a social life in years.
Chapter Three
Aileen dumped her bag on her bed and grinned. God, Killian Reeves was adorable when he was annoyed. Which, from the perma-scowl on his face, she would estimate to be almost always. The guy didn’t have a natural, easygoing personality, that was for sure. Add to it his dislike of reporters and attention, and she had her work cut out for her.
But today had been a great start. Even if he didn’t know it yet.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she reached for it. “Hello?”
“What’ve you got for me?”
She bit back a sigh. “Nothing yet, Bobby. You expect me to go out in the fishing boat once and get the whale to just jump into my net?”
“Don’t be a smartass. No man wants a smart-ass woman.”
Fortunately for her, she wasn’t running around trying to snag herself a man. “I’ll write that one down in my book of Bobbyisms. Is this all you called me for? To see if I’ve scored yet?”
“Maybe I missed hearing your acidic little tongue.”
She hung up. She always did when he got like that. He wouldn’t fire her. She was too valuable. At least for now. Which one of his too-tough-for-fluff male reporters would do the pieces aimed at women for the site? That’s right . . . none of them. So while she went fishing for her white whale, she still had a moment or two of job security.
Grabbing her laptop, she kicked off her shoes and plopped onto the bed. While the ancient machine decided whether it was worth starting today, she reached in her nightstand and grabbed a handful of Twizzlers.
Hey, some people kept condoms in the nightstand. She preferred the more logical choice . . . candy. Not like condoms were gonna get used, anyway.
Candy? Candy would always be useful.
As the laptop finally breathed to life, she bit off a piece of red yumminess. “Okay, Killian Reeves, let’s start digging.”
* * *
Killian let himself into his apartment and closed the door quietly. He loved the ease of renting. He wasn’t a huge proponent of owning massive properties that took a staff to keep up and running, like some of the guys. Not to mention, he was one of the lowest earners on the team. Either way, he preferred the more anonymous life of rentals. But the one downside . . . neighbors.
His across-the-breezeway neighbor had taken it into her head to “adopt” him. The woman was eighty, if she was a day, and once she found out he was single, had decided to make him her pet project. Which meant she was constantly bringing by food, or a scarf she made, or inviting herself over to watch American Idol, because her TV was “on the fritz,” whatever that meant.
Mrs. Reynolds was a pushy lady when she wanted to be.
When he looked out the peephole and didn’t see his not-by-choice adopted grandmother scurrying over, he felt safe to breathe again. Dropping his bag by the door, he flopped onto the couch and grabbed his phone. Hitting his Favorites, then his top contact, he waited for Charlie to answer.
“Hey, Dad!”
Just hearing the boyish enthusiasm cheered him immensely. “Hey, bud. How was school?”
His son groaned. “Art day. I hate art day. I want P.E. Why can’t we have P.E. every day?”
Killian mentally shuddered. He’d felt the same way about art. All that cutting and pasting and blending colors and making weird-looking pandas out of flour and water . . . no thanks. “Otherwise fun?”
“I guess.” He could hear a little hitch in his son’s breathing. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you coming out here soon?”
He closed his eyes against the wash of pain. “Probably not this month.”
There was a long stretch of quiet. “Okay,” was his son’s small reply. “Mom wants to say hi.”
“Hey, Charlie?”
“Killian,” was the cool, feminine reply.
Emma, Charlie’s mother. Killian scowled. “He didn’t say good-bye.”
“He’s tired,” she said simply. “And heartbroken.”
“What the hell happened?”
Emma was silent for a moment. He could picture her biting her bottom lip in indecision.
“Emma.”
“It’s Donuts with Dads week at school.”
“Donuts . . . what?” What the hell kind of holiday was this?
“Donuts with Dads,” she repeated again slowly. “Where the fathers come in early in the morning with their kids and eat donuts and drink orange juice and the kids get to show off their dads to the other kids and feel special.”
Gut punch. “Emma, I—”
“I already explained,” she said. There was no heat in her voice, no venom. They’d made the choice together to keep apart as much as possible. So that people wouldn’t put together Charlie’s parents and realize who had made the awesome little kid. For his own good. “That doesn’t make it hurt any less. But I’m going in your place.”
“What, there’s no Munchies with Moms day?”
“There’s a mother’s tea,” she said primly. “But a bunch of single moms were talking and decided to support our kids the only way we know how. So we’re wearing suits and fake mustaches and coming for donuts on Friday.”
His lips twitched as he pictured the gorgeous blonde bombshell wearing a fake mustache. “That’s . . . original.”
“It’s what single moms do.” When he sucked in a breath, she sighed. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
He cleared his throat. “So, how’s the real estate business running?”
She huffed. “Picking back up. The market’s making a steady climb, so things are getting better. You can stop the extra payments . . . not that I needed them to begin with.”
“You know I’ll do whatever I can,” he said, meaning it. He couldn’t be there for every day of Charlie’s life, so he was going to make damn sure he and his mother never suffered in any other way. He paid the agreed upon child support without hesitation. It was enough for any normal single mom to survive on without needing a job. But when her real estate business plummeted with the down market right after Charlie was born, he’d added additional payments to get them over the hump. That, on his kicker’s salary, hadn’t been as easy. But he’d never begrudged her the money.
Emma was a good mom, and she made his life easier by always keeping communication open with Charlie, not playing stupid custody games, and agreeing to their necessary arrangement. She might be flakey from time to time, but not when it came to their son.
If it weren’t for their unfortunate start, things might have been different between them. Not that they would have been together now. There’d been no true spark. They’d been convenient for each other, in different ways, which had been enough. Liking each other had been a bonus.
And then it had all gone to hell.
“So how’s football treating you?”
“A game’s a game.”
She snorted. “You could try taking it seriously.”
“They pay me money to walk out, kick a ball, and walk back. It’s not brain surgery. I’m not vaccinating orphans in Africa, Em.”
“You’re providing for Charlie’s future. So keep kicking that ball as long as you can.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They spoke a few more minutes, then he hung up. So life was complicated. He didn’t get to see his son as often as he wanted thanks to his job, the pressure was piling on, and he had a freckled reporter who gave up too easily looking for a story.
At least he didn’t have to make weird-looking pandas in art class anymore.
* * *
“Let me get this straight. You can put how many marshmallows in your mouth at once?”