“All right, all right, you win!” I laughed as the first sunbeams shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I can’t take anymore!”

“You beat out all the rest,” Joel said breathlessly, collapsing back on the bed. “Almost got me, too. I think one more round would have knocked me out.”

“I think one more round would have numbed me for life,” I admitted dryly.

He chuckled and kissed me briefly, then rolled back on the pillows and let his eyes relax, unfocused in the pale light of dawn. My entire body ached pleasantly, satisfied more times than I could count. Waves of exhaustion rolled over me, but I wouldn’t allow the fatigue to take hold. I’d made that mistake once already; I wouldn’t confuse the issue by sleeping beside Joel.

I slid out of bed liquidly, every muscle and nerve loose.

“Mind if I shower?” I asked.

“Go ahead,” he mumbled, waving me in the direction of the bathroom. “Towels in the closet. Bathroom closet. It’s…in the bathroom.”

“Thanks,” I laughed.

“My brain’s gone; you took it.” He grinned with his eyes closed.

“I’d apologize, but I don’t like to lie,” I teased.

He chuckled sleepily, and I sashayed into the bathroom. The water felt magnificent against my skin, and his expensive soaps and body washes woke me up immediately, soothing and stimulating my punished muscles. Endless hot water poured over me for what felt like hours—wonderful, glorious hours.

My tired legs gave out before the water heater did. Breathing easy and smelling like eucalyptus, I returned to the bedroom, expecting to find him passed out.

“Did you enjoy the shower?” Joel asked from the open door of a room-sized closet.

I blinked at him in astonishment. “I did,” I said, recovering myself. “But how are you still awake? How are you still alive?”

He smiled and shrugged, then laughed. “I work out five hours a day—sex isn’t much different, is it?”

“I guess not,” I admitted. “But damn, boy.”

He winked at me and pulled clothes out of the closet.

“My turn,” he said happily, dropping a kiss on my mouth as he passed. “Back in a minute. Make yourself comfortable; mi casa es tu casa.”

I watched him walk away, his firm ass rippling with every step. He was easy to appreciate, with those hard lines and thick muscles. His body didn’t have quite the same effect on me as Dante’s had, though. Just like his lovemaking, Joel’s body didn’t seem quite finished yet.

I was dressed and ready to go by the time he came back out. I had a ton of material to work with, and I was eager to go home and get started. His aroma hit my senses before I saw him; a clean sort of masculinity which made me pause.

Should I stay for round…seven? I had lost count. I turned to him with a grin.

“Guess you and Dante are even now,” I said with a smirk.

Joel blinked at me, then his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, your whole secondary competition? I’m sure he told you; it’s not like he would…”

I saw Joel’s confusion slowly fade under a gleeful comprehension. My heart sank like a stone.

“Dante didn’t say anything, did he?”

“No, but you did!” Joel crowed. “He thought he was going to win? Ha! He might be a nostalgic throwback for some of these women, but he’s no match for a young player.” He struck a superman pose with a conniving smirk.

“Yeah, um…I better go,” I said uncomfortably.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Let me walk you out,” he said happily. “Oh, I’m going to rub this in his face. After the press conference he was talking about you, you know. Staking his claim, sort of. How guys talk. I didn’t think he’d do it, but he sure as hell didn’t think I would! This is going to be fun. Man, I can’t wait for the next game! I might actually go to practice today. Hell yes.”

Guilt and fear wriggled through my gut, and l made weak acknowledgments to his comments as he walked me to the door. A big squeeze and quick kiss later, I was in my car and on my way. I swallowed against the sick feeling roiling in my belly. I had fully expected Dante to brag about bedding me, if only to pin down his lead.

The fact that he hadn’t done so made me wonder if my tearing into him had inspired a change of heart. He had definitely intended to use me, though, I reminded myself. This was his fault; he started it. Right?

“You sure as hell made it worse, though,” I told my reflection in the rear view mirror. “They already hate each other.”

I shook my head and slapped the steering wheel. I wasn’t supposed to get involved with my stories. That was like the journalistic prime directive or something. Now, whatever drama I documented would be compounded by my influence, and if anybody went digging, my credibility would be forfeit.

“I can’t write it,” I realized as my gut turned to ice. “I’m going to have to write that fluff crap from the first interview. Oh no, everything’s fine, no drama here! That’ll really push my career into high gear.”

My own sarcasm soothed my nerves slightly, but didn’t solve the problem. This article was my shot. Not my one shot or my only shot, but it was my right-now shot at success. If I didn’t go all in and take a risk, I would blow it. I would get another chance, of course. In a month, or a year, or ten years from now.

But who wanted to wait?

“Journalistic integrity,” I answered myself dryly. “I stake my reputation on this story, I better be damn sure my reputation is spotless.”

But it wasn’t, not anymore. If this exploded (which seemed inevitable), it would be my doing. It wouldn’t take a genius reporter to figure that out. The press conference was probably online somewhere. Amateur internet detectives would have me tried and hanged by public jury before I ever had a chance to defend myself.

My career would be over, not to mention Dante’s and Joel’s. How would their fans react to this?

I was facing the same problem with this as I had faced with the flame piece I’d been prepared to write on Dante’s womanizing. I shook my head at myself. This whole project had been a disaster. The pull of a pint of ice cream and fuzzy pajamas was nearly overwhelming, but there was no way I could take a break now. I had to figure out how to take vanilla material and make it a career-changing sundae.

* * *

I nearly made it back to my apartment without having to talk to anyone. I was not in the mood for small talk, or any other talk for that matter. To my relief, the hallway seemed clear. Just a few steps from my door, though, Luis stepped out of his apartment to pick up his paper.

“Ah, the walk of shame again! In the middle of the week, no less. Two days in a row?” he leered at me.

“Life of an investigative journalist,” I said as I kept walking. “The story never sleeps.”

He stepped in front of me, blocking the hallway.

“Then the story and I have something in common,” he said, giving me a look intended to be smoldering.

“You should see a doctor about that. Excuse me.”

“You don’t need an excuse, sweet thing,” Luis half-sang.

He reached out to touch me, and something snapped. The stress I had been battling since I left Joel’s mansion culminated in an explosive rage, and I knocked his hand away from me as hard as I could with the side of my wrist.

Yelping, Luis grabbed his arm and retreated into his own doorway. I walked past him without a second glance, keeping my cool, in spite of my racing heart.

“Take a compliment, you dumb—”

I shut the door on the rest of his sentence. I didn’t need to hear it; I knew where it was going.

“It’s okay,” I said, shaking it off. “Let it go. You screwed up, but now you’re going to do something about it.”

I cracked my fingers and sorted out my notes from the first interview. Compared to everything else I’d learned, these notes were lifeless. Utterly boring. With a sigh, I ran my hands over my face.

“There is absolutely no reason why I can’t work in fuzzy pajamas,” I decided out loud. “And I’m sure they eat ice cream for breakfast somewhere in the world. Italy, maybe? No, they have wine for everything. I think. Hey, wine couldn’t hurt either.”

And so, bedecked in my pity-party outfit with my friends of the grape and dairy variety, I sat down to turn a turnip into a six-course meal.