Page 48 of Third Strike Smitten

I choose a soft blue shirt and pair of dark jeans, something comfortable enough for dinner with his family but still put together. I brush out my hair and pull half of it back and then take one last look in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are brighter than usual. I look...strangely happy and that realization sends an unfamiliar flutter through my chest.

When I emerge from my bedroom, Killian is standing by the window, looking out at the parking lot, his posture relaxed somewhat. “Ready?” I ask, grabbing my purse and keys from the hook by the door.

He turns from the window, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that makes my skin prickle with heat. “Yeah,” he says, his voice softer than I expect. “I’m ready.”

We head across town to a high-rise building and Killian leads me to one of the topmost floors. When we step inside his palatial apartment, the differences between my place and his are night and day.

His place is sleek and modern, all clean lines and dark wood, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a stunning view of the city. It’s the kind of apartment that belongs in a magazine, meticulously decorated but somehow still feeling impersonal. Like a hotel room someone decided to call home.

“Nice place,” I say, stepping further inside. “I mean, if you like this sort of thing.”

Killian chuckles, tossing his keys onto a marble countertop. “This sort of thing?”

“You know…big.”

“It’s too much, I know.” He bobs his head. “Especially for one person. I don’t even spend much time here. The realtor I hired said a place like this would make me look sophisticated.”

I smile as I wander toward the windows, taking in the view of Portland spread out below us. “Does it?”

“Fuck, no.” He grins when I turn around, running a hand through his hair. “I still eat cereal for dinner and leave my laundry on the floor.”

“That’s somehow comforting to know,” I say, watching him rummage through his mail and then toss it on the table.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

He disappears into his bedroom, leaving me standing in the living room for a few minutes. When he finally emerges, he appears freshly showered and smells like heaven. He’s wearing a pair of black ripped jeans and a gray T-shirt that pulls tight across his chest.

“Jesus how do you make ripped jeans and a T-shirt look so incredibly hot?”

“Uh…” he stares at me blankly and then lifts a shoulder in a helpless shrug. “I…sorry?”

“I guess I’m not complaining.” I shrug. “How long have you lived here?”

“Three years.” He crosses to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. “Want one?”

“No thanks.” I watch as he twists the cap off and takes a long drink, his throat working. Even in this simple action, there’s something magnetic about him that makes it hard to look away.

“So,” I say, leaning against the windowsill. “What’s your usual method for dealing with...all of this?”

“All of what?”

I gesture vaguely, encompassing everything. “The trade rumors, the stress, the overwhelming pressure…the anxiety. Do you work out a lot to get rid of the tension? Do you run? Do you sing really loud? Do you...I don’t know…knit or something?”

Killian leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his biceps flex beneath the tight fabric of his T-shirt, and I have to force myself to maintain eye contact.

“You don’t want to know the answer to that question, Coach.

“Uh, yeah, I do. If I didn’t want to know the answer, I wouldn’t have asked the question.” I shrug. “Just thought maybe I could help you out so you feel better.”

“Alright. Usually?” He gives me a challenging glare. “Usually, I fuck it out.”

I blink. “I’m sorry…what?”

He shrugs, completely unsurprised and unbothered by my reaction. “When I’m wound up like this, there’s usually a long line of women willing to help me blow off steam. I’ve been known to call any one of them and when I do they know I just need to fuck. There’s no feelings or emotions. It’s just…you know, a physical thing.”

Heat floods my face, and I’m suddenly very interested in the view outside his window. “Hmm. Okay. That’s uh...that’s direct.”

“I’m sorry, Isla.” He steps closer to me, enough that I turn back to look at him as he takes another sip of water, studying me over the rim of the bottle. “But you asked and I want to be honest with you.”