Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats) by Jeanette Murray Page A

was a solid guy and grew up in the area. They could have a chat about the good places to look for houses.
    And yet, when he sank down on his couch, none of that sounded appealing. He picked up his remote and turned the TV on, then back off immediately. False noise wasn’t what he needed.
    He needed something… someone else.
    Changed into fresh clothes, he knocked on Kat’s door. Nothing. He felt confident this time she hadn’t slipped by him and gone out, so why wasn’t she answering? Not willing to take no, he texted her.
    Answer your door.
    No answer.
    He growled in frustration. They needed to talk, damn it, and she was avoiding him. “Kat,” he called and pounded the door.
    His phone pinged.
    Shower. Go away.
    It was logical, given he’d had a chance to shower after practice and she hadn’t. But still…
    Don’t believe you. Open up.
    Go. Away.
    She aggravated him. Made him want to do something stupid, like stand out in the hallway banging on her door until she answered, whether it took thirty seconds or thirty minutes.
    He’d never made an ass out of himself like this before. What the hell was his problem?
    She was. She was everything that was upside down in his life right now.
    Prove it, he texted back because he’d run out of ideas.
    Twenty seconds later, he got a photo text.
    It was Kat. Hair soaking wet and slicked back, skin from the shoulders up glistening with that freshly-scrubbed shower look, a scowl on her face and her middle finger firmly flipping him the bird.
    Okay, so that was proof.
    And now he had a boner.
    He’d dropped IQ points since she’d moved next door.
    I need to talk to you. Come over to my place when you’re done.
    Bite me.
    He grinned, then headed back to his place to get something started for dinner.

    * * *
    “ J ust thinks he can summon me like a genie in a lamp,” Kat growled as she located a bra and shoved her arms through it. “Thinks this little experiment of Sawyer’s gives him the right to be my boss. Yeah, I don’t think so.”
    She kicked at the towel on the floor, but it was a less-than-satisfying experience as it only went about two feet and landed with a soft plod on the carpeted floor.
    “This is why people own their own houses. Because they can have a punching bag in the garage or basement.” With a sigh of frustration, she pulled a comb through her hair quickly. After a short debate, she just claw-clipped it up. Screw him. If he thought he could demand her presence like a king to a peasant, he’d just get what he got. The drowned rat look should discourage him from trying it again.
    After throwing on the first tank top she could find, along with some long shorts—or rather, long on other people, normal length on her legs—and two-dollar flip-flops, she stuffed her key in her back pocket and huffed over to his apartment.
    She banged on the door and counted to five impatiently. “Figures,” she called when he didn’t appear. “You spend all your time trying to push my door down and then you’re not even ready when I come over to your—oh.”
    Kat took a quick step back as the door opened. Michael stood there, looking half-annoyed, half-amused. He pulled it off remarkably well.
    “You rang?” he asked dryly.
    “No, you did, about ten minutes ago,” she reminded him. When he just stood there, staring at her, she shrugged. “You get me out of the shower, you get what you get. I don’t really care if I don’t meet your visual standards.”
    “Who said you didn’t?” he asked calmly, then let her in.
    The moment she walked through the door, she smelled something delicious. “What… okay, what’s that?”
    “White chicken chili. I usually like to let it cook longer, Crock-Pot style, but I was in the mood for some and didn’t have any in my freezer.”
    “He cooks,” she murmured, following him to the small kitchen that mirrored her own. Only his had something hers didn’t… food.
    “He dumps cans and chicken breasts into a pot and turns