Running his hand down his face, he rubbed his fingers over two-day’s growth of beard. Did she leave his house with beard burn? Did she like the way he kissed?
But of all the questions bouncing around in his head, he only needed answers to one. “Do I owe you an apology?”
“Do you think you do?” she countered.
Ty grimaced and shielded his eyes again as he lay back. If he stretched out on the hard, unforgiving floor like some kind of religious martyr, would she let him off the hook? Did he want to be let off?
Millie was a master at playing games. She’d keep dodging and deflecting until she forced him to come straight at her. He knew it. She knew it. This was a dance they’d perfected over countless months of fruitless flirting. But soon, he’d be free. He was pretty sure she was free too. If they wanted to, they could see if the attraction between them continued to blossom, even after the fruit wasn’t forbidden anymore.
Exhausted by the ramblings of his own thoughts, Ty heaved a sigh he dredged up from his toes and gave up the struggle. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.”
“Well, I can tell you I’m probably not going to take up breaking and entering as a hobby. I don’t have the right footwear for a life of crime.”
Amused by her dry reply, he pitched his voice low and stern. “For God’s sake, save the shoes.”
“One must have one’s priorities in line,” she answered with a prim, little sniff.
“Millie, I—”
“If you’re going to apologize for kissing my socks off, you can save your sorrys.”
Pleased, he smiled for the first time since he woke up not-quite-dead. “You weren’t wearing socks.”
She snorted. “How would you know? You can’t remember your own name at the moment.”
“I remember kissing you,” he retorted. “I remember every second.”
Truth. He did remember, despite the cotton wool filling in his head. He remembered every second of it all too well. The slide of her lips. Her taut, little body pressed against his. She had small breasts and boyish hips. Her arms were toned, the muscles long and subtly cut. And they’d been bare. Silky, soft, and supple.
She wore her hair short and changed colors so often, he’d stopped being shocked by the alteration. Brusque and sharp-tongued, he’d seen her dismantle reporters piece by piece, all the while smiling as if she were having the time of her life. Taken individually, not one of these attributes should have turned him on, but wrapped up in Millie, the package worked for him.
He cleared his throat. “So you don’t want me to apologize?”
“Not for kissing me, but you might consider an apology for ignoring my instructions about not talking to reporters,” she answered in her brisk, efficient manner. “And you might consider groveling when or if Greg Chambers calls.”
Ty scowled as he searched his memory, but he couldn’t quite bring anything non-Millie-related into focus. Dread welled in his gut. He hated the National Sports Network’s golden boy and his smug smirk, but Ty couldn’t for the life of him remember what he’d done to owe the man an apology. “Chambers? Why? Did I talk to Greg Chambers?”
He heard her exhale long and slow. “No, but you talked to Jim Davenport from the Sentinel last night.”
Jim Davenport. Greg Chambers. Millie. A montage of clips from the night before flashed through his brain. Finally, he zoomed in on Davenport. The slimy, sad wuss of a sports reporter worked for both the local television station and the newspaper. Old Jim used to date Kate Snyder, Wolcott’s women’s basketball coach. Until Danny McMillan came to town and swept Kate right out from under Davenport’s nose. Good thing too. Kate was miles too good for a jackass like Davenport.
But as a result, their once-staunch supporter had turned against the university. In the weeks since Kate and Danny had gotten hitched at the courthouse, old Jim seemed to have developed an agenda. One that included a hard-on for anything having to do with Warrior basketball. Ty’s troubles with Mari had made him an easy target. It took a second for him to connect the dots in his head, but by the time the last line was in place, the dread in his stomach liquefied into thick, bitter bile and started to rise.
“I talked to Jim last night,” he confessed.
“Yes, you did.” Now Millie was using her patient kindergarten teacher voice, which was not a good sign. Millie wasn’t known for her patience and, as far as he knew, had never stepped foot in a kindergarten classroom. “He called me bright and early this morning. Told me that while you were talking to him, you apparently cast some rather…offensive aspersions on Mr. Chambers’s athletic prowess as well as his manhood. You also said you’d had him banned from the Wolcott University campus.” She paused. “That is why Mr. Davenport ended up calling me. He was kind enough to ask me to verify the quote about the ban on Mr. Chambers.” She paused to let the information sink in before going for the kill. “I’ve tried to reach you by phone a number of times this morning. I was about to come over to see if you’d put on your concrete shoes and jumped in the pool. I’m glad you didn’t.”
Feeling like ten thousand kinds of a fool, he wedged the phone against his ear and pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets. “I was angry. I didn’t want to say, ‘No comment.’ I wanted to comment, to say…something.”
“Well, you sure did,” she said snidely.
He groaned again. “You left the party to check on me last night, and I kissed you.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t say I wasn’t well rewarded.”
“And now you’re having to babysit me again. Millie, I’m sorry.” Letting one hand fall to the floor, he took hold of the phone once more. “What story did Davenport run?”
“Well, I
