Skila

I cannot freaking believe this shit. Of all the people for me to be stuck interviewing it has to be the Greek god from the club. My breath catches in my lungs when I see him and realize that my Greek god is none other than Kiptyn Price, the elusive, record-breaking star athlete I was sent to interview.

Waiting for the doors to open, I listen to the others around me, my spirits crashing more and more with every word I hear. It figures my first assignment would be to interview the one person in the world who refuses all interviews. I'll never be able to keep this job. I pull out my phone, ready to start searching through the classifieds right then and there, when the doors open.

My mouth goes dry. The phone in my hand is completely forgotten in exchange for the most beautiful bronze, sculpted man I have ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off him. His hair is soaking wet from either the game or the shower afterward. It’s hard to tell from here. Strong arms hang at his sides, covered in intricate tribal tattoos that travel across his shoulders down his chest. I wish I could step closer to him and study them, run my fingers along them, down his stomach to his . . . holy Hades, he has the freaking V.

Look away, Skila. Look away.

I try to peel my eyes off him. I really do, but I’m drawn him whether I like it or not. I know the type of ass he is, and God above knows, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but even knowing all of that, I can’t walk away. I can’t look away. It’s like a horrible car accident.

I’m a rubber-necker.

God, he’s so beautiful.

Why is he in a towel? Lord help me. My skin is flushing hot and my breath is rushing out in pants of raspy air between my lips. I glance around, wondering if anyone else is as affected by him as me, and sure enough, every other woman in the room is fanning herself with whatever is available.

He doesn’t see me at first. He can’t see anyone with the amount of lights flashing in his face from the dozens of cameras directed at him, two of which are from my own paper. It makes him uncomfortable. I can tell by the way he holds himself, stiff and guarded. It makes me want to jump forward and protect him, to defend him against the crowd the way he did that night at the club, protecting me from Rod. Even though I wasn’t in any real danger, I’m pretty certain he didn’t even know why he was fighting. I take a step forward, and I’m jostled on both sides by snarling reporters, thinking I’m trying to step on their turf and get the upper hand. It shocks me, the amount of animosity I feel coming from my colleagues.

Another man arrives, and Kiptyn relaxes. His agent, I’m guessing, by the way he handles the crowd as he seems accustomed to doing. My hand shoots up with the others and I wait, praying that the good lord above will give me the chance to ask a question. Just one, and maybe I’ll be able to save my job.

Kiptyn scans the crowd, passing over me. I breathe a disappointed sigh before his gaze sweeps back to me. His eyes lock onto mine, and every nerve ending in my body goes wild. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. I press a hand over it and try to calm it. This feeling surprises me. Never in my life have I had this type of reaction around a man. Blood is roaring through my ears, making it hard to hear anything around me, but I can still see clear as day when he points right at me.

“You.”

I feel that word in the deepest part of my soul. My mouth starts watering like crazy, and I know I’m exactly two seconds away from losing my lunch on the locker room floor. I can’t explain it—I just run.

I hear him outside the door. I know it's him. Who else would have bothered to follow me? Not one of the other reporters. I’m sure they're happy I'm gone.

It’s Kiptyn.

I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, stand up straight, and make my way to the sink. I glance in the mirror, not recognizing the woman staring back at me. I look scared shitless, terrified. Of what?

I hear a knock, and the tears I was trying to swallow evaporate to be replaced by blinding, white-hot rage. How dare he single me out? The nerve of him. I want to slap that knowing smirk off his smug face. Exclusive interview, hell. I didn’t want to be in the same room with him, much less have to speak to him.

I snatch the door open, startling him. “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.

“How do you know my name? Are you a stalker?” My question catches him off guard.

“WHAT?”

“A stalker, ya know, an asshole who follows someone around trying to get them alone so you can do God knows what.”

“No. No, I’m not a stalker. I was just trying to check on you. You seemed upset or something. Forget it.” He turns to angrily walk away. His hands are balled into fists at his side, clenching and unclenching. I watch him walk a few steps, satisfied with myself for pushing him away, and then I remember the reason for my being here. My job. Shit.

“Wait. Kiptyn,” I call out to him, rushing after him. He turns back to me, raising his eyebrows and waiting to see what amazing nonsense comes out of my mouth next. I can’t believe the mess I’ve made of this. The one chance I've got at keeping my job, and I let my temper get in the way. Typical.

“The interview?” I ask biting at my lip nervously. He laughs, but it contains no humor, and he rubs his hand over his brow. I imagine he thinks I’m bipolar, running hot and then cold, but he doesn’t leave. No, he stands there watching me, thinking.

“One condition,” he says after what seems like forever. I don’t want to agree, but after my display of crazy a moment ago, I don’t really have a choice.

“Anything,” I say, and I mean it. I need this job, not just so I can find my own place, but so I can prove to everyone back home that I made it. No one had faith in me. I’m pretty sure they're taking bets on how long I last before I come running back with my tail between my legs. It isn’t going to happen. I won’t let it, and besides, it’s not like he has some crazy condition, does he?

“I want one date, my choice. Tomorrow night.”

What? No, no, no, no, no. There is no way. I can’t do it. He can’t make me, but my job . . . I've got no choice. Swallowing my pride, I hold out my hand. It isn’t a deal until you shake on it, and I’m not about to let him back out on a loophole, no matter how childish. The smile that lights up his face steals my breath. I force air into my lungs. His hand wraps around mine, engulfing it completely. Chills run up my arm and travel down the length of my spine. My nipples harden instantly, jutting out from beneath my thin lace bra. I hope he doesn’t notice.

He does.

I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it in his strong grasp, waiting, forcing me to meet his gaze. The palest blue eyes I've ever seen meet mine, piercing my soul. Holding my gaze, he raises my now limp hand to his lips and places one kiss on the back side of my palm before turning it over and nipping gently on the fatty part of my thumb. I suck in a breath, startled by the way my body reacts to his blatant display of attraction, and pull my hand free. His smile widens. He knows what he’s doing and the effect it’s having on me.

I turn, and for the second time this evening, I walk away from Kiptyn Price.

I only wanted to ask him one question—just one. That would have been enough to hopefully save my job, but now, instead of asking Kiptyn one question, I seem to be asking myself one. What have I gotten myself into?