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Driving Her Wild
Meg Maguire


Winning is good. Succumbing is even better…EvasionRecently-retired pro MMA fighter Steph Healy is through having rough-‘n’-tumble romps with sexy blue-collar dudes.Unfortunately, Wilinski Gym has hired an electrician with a body built to make a gal weep.And avoiding some full-body contact is taking all of Steph’s self-control.GrappleCarpenter-turned-electrician Patrick Doherty is damn good with his hands.Sure, he’s not what Steph is looking for—yet.But he’s about prove that she has seriously underestimated her opponent…SubmissionThe moment Patrick has her deliciously pinned, Steph knows she’s in deep, deep trouble.Because this seemingly mild carpenter has the mastery to give her exactly what she needs… and this is one takedown she’s willing to take lying down!







“I haven’t felt this good in ages…”

That voice. Those hot, needy words.

Patrick’s kiss grew deeper, hungrier. It invited reckless decisions and wild sex, sweet soreness come morning and—

His phone jingled and buzzed, and Steph shot up as if she’d been zapped by a Taser. She stared around the dim room. How long had they been kissing? Ten minutes? An hour?

Patrick looked equally surprised. He cleared his throat and dug his cell from his hip pocket.

“Hello?… Hey, John… Excellent, hang on. Head to the end of the hall—the door to the gym’s at the bottom of the stairs… Yup, I’ll stay on.”

The strain of arousal lingered in his voice, but he covered the more incriminating evidence handily, strapping on his tool belt around his hips as he left the room.

Steph blew out a long breath. What had she done?

Nothing. You kissed an electrician. At work, granted, and on the night you were supposed to be kissing a doctor.

Bad, bad, bad, she thought, and licked her tender lips, still flushed from Patrick’s demands.

Bad, bad, bad, and way too good…


Driving Her Wild

Meg Maguire




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIRE worked as a record-store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an over-enthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes… and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not working on her next book, she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond. Visit her at www.megmaguire.com.


My inevitable thanks to Ruthie—

as essential to my writing as a keyboard and coffee. Which I suspect was her evil plan, all along.

For Charlotte—I lay this BDToF at the feet of the master, eager to incite your womanly stirrings.

And my thanks as always to my editor, Brenda, whose headshot hangs dead-center behind the Lucite on the Wilinski’s wall of fame.


Contents

Chapter 1 (#u3d03bed7-17b5-51ec-9c80-ceb8ef7c5654)

Chapter 2 (#u5eb470d5-28a1-5978-9f87-f72c2eed6f99)

Chapter 3 (#ue0183105-112d-582a-8357-6d254c762c2a)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)


1

STEPH PAUSED AT THE BOTTOM of the steps, gym bag in hand, and gave the space a long study. Wilinski’s Fight Academy.

It wasn’t how she remembered it from her last visit, in November.

It looked like a bomb had exploded.

The cardio equipment and mats and the boxing and octagonal rings were crowded to one side, the other half overtaken by milling contractors and stacks of cinder block.

In the fighters’ corner—the sounds of gloves whacking and men grunting, the bass din of the hip-hop that fueled their drills.

In the workers’ corner—shouted questions and directions, the squeal of a band saw or sander from inside the space that would become a second locker room in a couple weeks’ time. A thick sheet of rubber flaps hung over the would-be door, but dust still escaped.

Sweat and concrete—the scents of laboring men.

Steph had sampled enough of each to last a lifetime. The next time she got close to a guy, she hoped to heck he smelled like a gentleman. Whatever gentlemen smelled like. Cedar, maybe, or citrus or leather, or that stuff from Hermès that she’d bought for her older brother one Christmas. Robbie had taken one sniff and made a face, so she’d snatched it back, promising to get him Bruins tickets instead. Now the bottle lived in her bedside drawer, and occasionally she spritzed it on her pillow and pretended it was evidence of her incredibly urbane boyfriend, out of town in Brussels, attending a convention for surgeons or dignitaries or CIA operatives—any job that came with really sophisticated Christmas parties, so she’d have an excuse to wear heels and curl her hair.

Someday. Somehow.

For now, here she was in a gym, construction dudes on one side, fighters on the other, a big old buffet of the kinds of guys she used to date. Perfectly nice ones, likely. Good, hardworking men like her dad and brothers and her friends and exes from Worcester. But she was in Boston to start a new chapter, one that might feature a boyfriend with soft, strong hands and a college degree and a knowledge of Scotch.

And one who wouldn’t be embarrassed to introduce her, saying, “And this is my girlfriend, Steph, the retired cage fighter.”

Yeah, good luck with that.

She toed off her sneakers and tucked them in one of the cubbies by the door. Giving the construction chaos a wide berth, she headed for the workout area, scanning for a familiar face. She found one, its owner busy leading a group in kickboxing drills.

Rich Estrada. She’d met him at a big event in Vancouver the previous spring, and she ought to sue him for emotional distress, for hoisting her hopes up to such dangerous heights.

The first time she’d laid eyes on him, he’d been dressed for a press thing, sauntering around in a suit. He didn’t have a fighter’s face—not yet—and she’d been intrigued. The kind of sophisticated guy she never crossed paths with. The event had been held at a huge casino, and she’d assumed he was some jet-set high roller visiting from the Riviera or someplace. She’d been in for a shock the next day when she glanced to her side and found him whacking a heavy bag in the gym. And when they’d spoken—that accent. He sounded like every guy she’d known growing up, dropping all his R’s and sticking extra ones where they didn’t belong. The most elegant man she’d ever seen, and he winds up being Boston disguised as Barcelona.

He called a water break now and she caught his eye, waving.

“Penny! Hey.”

She winced. She’d been fighting as Penny for ages, a nickname from when her baby brother hadn’t been able to pronounce “Stephanie.” It had stuck because her hair was red as copper, and she’d competed as Penny beginning with her preteen karate days. Since then it had followed her through her first true love, judo, then jujitsu, then on to mixed martial arts. It was time she put her foot down. Here and now she’d quit being the person everyone imagined she was, and start being who she wanted to be.

“I prefer Steph,” she reminded Rich.

“Sorry, I knew that. Steph. Welcome home.”

She looked around, nodding. “This’ll do.”

“Don’t say that. You’re here to help us haul this dungeon out of the dark ages. Make Wilinski’s into Bahstan’s premieh gym for mixed mahtial ahts,” he said, making fun of his own accent.

“I’d have thought that was your job, Mr. Celebrity.” She sighed, frowning her commiseration. “Sorry about Rio.” He’d lost his title to Vicente Farreira a couple months earlier in Brazil, under suspect circumstances. “If the organization doesn’t run a doping investigation on Farreira, they’re in for a shit-storm. Nobody’s build changes that much—not dropping down a weight class.”

Rich shrugged. “The controversy’s been good for me. Got a match in August with a payday that’ll keep me from bitching about pretty much anything. And months to prepare.”

“Nice.” Steph could appreciate how luxurious that must feel. The female side of MMA wasn’t nearly as popular, and with fewer major events, she’d often taken offers with less prep time than was ideal, not wanting to miss an opportunity. But now she was retired—from the stress of the road, if not the sport. At the moment she felt relieved, though she knew in time she’d probably miss the focus that came with a match on the horizon. Though not as much as she’d come to miss feeling grounded the past couple years.

She’d be thirty in less than three weeks, and was ready to start working toward goals that hadn’t mattered until recently—a place of her own, a taste of real dating, a relationship, a family down the road. Her aggressively autonomous twenty-three-year-old self would’ve laughed, but Steph apparently had a biological clock. And it had begun to tick, if softly. A rough loss and a stress fracture had officially cooled her commitment to the pro life. She’d managed to never break anything worse than her nose and a few toes all these years, and for the first time ever, she realized she might like to keep it that way.

Rich whistled to call the members back from their break. “Get in on this, if you want,” he told her.

“Just let me change. Am I still in the lounge?”

He nodded.

“’Fraid so. But until our female membership takes off, you’ll practically have that new locker room all to yourself once it’s finished. Though I’ll warn you, it’s tiny. You wouldn’t believe the loopholes we had to squeeze through to even get planning permission to retrofit it.”

“I’m sure it’ll do.”

She crossed to the room beside the gym’s office and closed the door. There was no lock, so she pushed her bag against it, rooting through her workout clothes, swapping her winter coat and jeans for warm-ups and a jog bra. She tugged on the latter, untwisting the straps as she dug for a top. Then—bonk.

The door was shoved in, whacking her in the nose.

“Ow, Jesus!”

No matter how many times she took a punch there, the startling, white pain of it never got easier. She cupped her hands to the spot as she straightened, suddenly face-to-face with one of the construction guys. His recognition dawned slowly.

“Oh, sorry. Did I just thump you in the head?”

“Yes.” She drew her fingers away. When his blue eyes widened, she glanced at her palm, covered in blood.

“Holy shit. I’m sorry. Uh, here...” He muscled his way through the half-open door, toppling the contents of her gym bag, tools from his canvas belt clattering and clanging against the metal frame. He unbuttoned his flannel work shirt, offering it to Steph.

Not wanting to drip blood on her own clothes, she wadded it against her nose.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know anybody’d be in here. I’m supposed to wire your new TV.” He nodded to a big box leaning against the wall, splashed with a picture of a flat-screen. “I’m the electrician.”

Preoccupied with pressing her bridge, scouting for a break, Steph didn’t reply.

“Should I get on with it, or...?”

She abandoned her nose, spreading her arms to showcase the rather obvious fact that she was dressed in her bra. “I’m kind of changing, here.”

“Oh jeez. Sorry.”

“Never mind.” Steph wasn’t modest. She’d changed in far less private venues than this, and once a warm-up banished the January chill from her muscles, she’d be back down to her bra for training. “Just shut the door and get on with it.”

He did, sidestepping the mess he’d made of her clothes. “I won’t look,” he assured her, busying himself with the box. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

She checked to make sure the bleeding had stopped, then tugged on a long-sleeved compression top. She cast her hapless assailant a glare as he crouched to organize TV components on the carpet.

He looked like every guy she’d taken shop class with in high school, the very epitome of Massachusetts working-class guyhood. Sandy brown hair that managed to look messy despite its short cut, caramel-colored Carhartt pants, work boots, a forest-green tee whose front Steph was positive would bear the logo of a contracting company. The cotton was pulled taut between his broad shoulders, but she was through being seduced by such sights.

She knew this guy too well already. He’d have a truck parked along the curb outside with a Sox decal on one side of the rear window, Pats on the other. He grilled a perfect burger and owned a large, happy dog, and played touch football with his buddies on the weekends, come rain or snow. His name was Ryan or Mike or Pat or Brendan. Brendan Connolly, Doyle, McCarthy, McAnything. Sully, Smitty, Murph. His hands felt like sandpaper and his skin smelled of Lever or Zest.

She knew these things, because she’d already dated this guy ten times over. Guys as comfortable as a broken-in pair of sneakers, but Steph wanted something more. She wanted to be swept off her feet, not pulled onto the couch for an afternoon of SportsCenter, with Coors-flavored makeout sessions during the ads.

“My name’s Steph, by the way,” she said, angling to learn his.

He kept his eyes on his task. “Sorry again, about your nose, Steph.”

“I’ve got a shirt on now.”

He turned and got to his feet, the promised logo from J.T.’s Contracting greeting Steph. He was tall, six feet or so, and had a handsome, honest face, the kind that advertised a man’s every emotion. Strong jaw behind a couple days’ stubble. And those blue eyes were so...blue. Steph wanted to slap herself for even noticing.

The guy frowned, squinting at her nose. “It’s not broken, is it?”

She shook her head and tossed him his button-up. “Just a nosebleed. I’ve had worse.” Though usually she at least got paid for it.

His eyes rolled back with relief. “Oh good. I mean, not good. But you know.”

“I know.” She cocked her head at him. “What’s your name?”

“Patrick.”

Of course it is. “I’ll see you around, Patrick. Maybe next time you’ll knock.”

“I will, don’t worry. Again—sorry. Seriously.”

He wore the guileless look of a scolded puppy, and Steph felt some annoyance lift. She offered a half-assed smile and turned away, tucking her gym bag in the corner.

Rich spotted her as she approached the mats, dark eyes widening. “Jesus, what happened to your nose?”

“Your electrician punched me in the face with a door.”

“You punch him back?”

She smirked. “Thought I’d save that for the ring.”

“Is it broken?”

“No. Just tell me if it starts bleeding again.” Steph could sense the well-groomed professionals forming an orderly queue outside the gym, just dying for a chance to woo such a glamorous woman as she.

Rich asked her to take the lead on grappling drills and she was relieved to find Patrick gone from the lounge when she went to pull on her gi. Wilinski’s didn’t have a proper jujitsu program yet—her arena, now—but she did her best with the ragtag group of uniformless members.

If the guys were feeling weird about having a woman in their ranks, they didn’t show it—no leering, no skepticism. Some men could be royally macho pricks, but on the whole, fighters were a sensitive group. Theirs was a humbling, emotional sport, most of the bravado reserved for the cameras.

She’d had better offers than Wilinski’s, money-and profile-wise, but there was something appealing about the challenge. She could step in as it went co-ed and feel like a part of the evolution, feel invested and valued. Feel rooted to something after way too many years of going wherever the fights were. Stability, after all that transience.

Once the lunchtime sessions wrapped, Rich showed her around the office and the computer system.

“Mercer’s better with this crap,” he said, frowning as he clicked through folders on the laptop. Mercer was the gym’s general manager.

“His wife owns the dating service upstairs, right?” Spark—a slick-looking operation whose glass-fronted office shared the foyer with the gym. The most mismatched neighbors in small-business history.

“His fiancée,” Rich corrected, managing to find and print the form he’d been looking for. “Jenna Wilinski.”

“Wilinski?”

“Her dad opened this place in ’82. She inherited both floors.”

Her brows rose. “The plot thickens.”

“She nearly gave the gym the chop, but luckily Mercer managed to seduce her away from reason.”

“I’d have thought that was your job.”

He grinned. “I know, right?”

“Doesn’t your girlfriend work up there, too?” If memory served, the woman was refreshingly down-to-earth, compared with all the glammed-out girlfriends-of-fighters Steph had met over the years.

Rich nodded, fetching the papers the printer had spat out. “It’s all very incestuous around here. Must be in the water.”

She held in the questions she was longing to ask, knowing Rich was the kind of guy who’d tease her mercilessly if she gave him the ammunition. So is she good, this matchmaker? What sort of guys might she find for a chick who’s spent the past decade scrapping in chain-link octagons? Would I look dumb for even asking if she’d want me as a client?

Steph had grown up an hour’s drive from here. She didn’t know anyone in Boston, not outside this gym, and didn’t have the first clue how to go about meeting the kind of men she’d like to date. She was useless at the bar scene, given what a teetotaler training turned one into, and didn’t relish taking up tango or speed-dating or going it alone on some freebie personals site. If she was going to find a boyfriend, she’d do it the right way. Do it through a service that attracted sophisticated, grown-up men who were looking for something serious. Spark might be the perfect solution and a worthy expense, provided she could muster the balls to ask.

“Autograph this,” Rich said, handing her a safety waiver. “And Mercer’s got tax and payroll forms for you, too, someplace.” He rummaged through a filing cabinet and Steph read and signed all the papers.

“So, how you settling in?” he asked, relaxing back in the chair. “You find a place you like?”

She shook her head. “Only a sublet. A nice one, but I have to find an apartment of my own by March first.”

“Bummer.”

“No, it’s fine. I couldn’t afford this place on my own for more than a couple months.”

Rich knocked her papers into a tidy stack and slipped them in a folder. “My girlfriend’s looking for a roommate.”

“Oh yeah?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Bear in mind, I’d be your neighbor, one floor down.”

Incestuous, indeed. Rich as her coworker, roommate’s boyfriend, neighbor? That was a lot of Rich Estrada. But it was a better lead than she’d found elsewhere.

“On the plus side,” he went on, scribbling Need copies on a Post-it and sticking it to the folder, “you’d pretty much have the place to yourself.” No doubt. Rich didn’t seem the type to suffer an empty bed. “Though there may be a surly teenage girl crashing on Lindsey’s couch all summer,” he added. “I’m paying her little sister’s way to come train. If and when she graduates high school.”

She smiled at that. “I’d never have pegged you for the mentoring type.”

“Me neither. Anyhow, we’ll have you over some weekend, and you girls can see if you mesh. It’s in Lynn. Do you drive?”

“No. I sold my car when I knew I’d be moving to Boston.”

“You could catch a lift with me, when we’re on the same shifts. Plus there’s the bus and the train.”

“Sounds doable.” Steph wasn’t opposed to a roommate—she’d shared a million tiny motel rooms with perfect strangers. And she wasn’t really opposed to living in the same building as Rich. Brash or not, he made her laugh, and most of the conversations they’d had on the road over low-sodium, fat-free training meals had been dominated by his laments about missing his Colombian mother’s cooking. She wouldn’t pass up an invite to an Estrada family dinner.

“I’ll fix something up,” he said. “Maybe next weekend.”

When he stood, Steph took his lead and they headed back into the gym.

There was a mid-afternoon lull—no structured sessions, everyone doing their own thing. Steph wandered around, introducing herself, stepping in to hold targets or spot the guys working out with weights. Mercer arrived at four, freeing Rich to head home.

Steph smiled and shook Mercer’s hand. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey yourself, new girl.” He gave her nose only the briefest double-take. “I guess you didn’t find your right mind and back out, after all.” Mercer was a good guy. A few years older than her and Rich, with a stern, no-nonsense face, scarred up from his years as a boxer.

“I like a challenge,” she said.

“Clearly. The next class starts up at five. You need a break? Grab a snack or a drink or anything?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” Also wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and ask what she hadn’t been able to, with Rich. “Your fiancée owns the matchmaking business upstairs, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

She felt herself blushing, which given her complexion meant she was already red as a brick. “Is it only for business-type people, or...?”

Mercer’s less-scarred eyebrow rose. “You want to join Spark?”

She bit her lip. “Maybe.”

“Good for you. I’m not sure what the exact criteria are, but you can go up and ask Jenna yourself. I know her last appointment’s already done for the day.”

“What? Right now?”

“We’re going out of town for a few days on Friday, so no time like the present.”

“But looking like this?” She waved to indicate her bra and shorts, the hair at her temples and nape curled with sweat. Lord knew what her tender nose might be looking like by now.

“Ah. Maybe throw on some warm-ups. But she knows what a mess we are, on the clock. Don’t worry about that.”

Maybe not, but after Steph changed into yoga pants and a zip-up, she splashed her face with water and wrapped her hair in a bandanna. On the way out she made eye contact with the electrician, who was installing some device by the exit.

“Looks better,” Patrick offered brightly, gesturing at his own nose.

Damn it, he was good-looking. Had this been five years ago, Steph would’ve already succumbed to a terminal crush on him, dolt or not.

He’s been sent to test you, with his big arms and blue eyes and stubble, and his tool belt all slung around his hips. Ooh, his hips. But she’d dated this man before—over and over and over—and it never worked out. It’d be the dating definition of insanity to fall again, expecting different results. The time had come to start picking with her brain, instead of...other parts.

She glanced at his project.

“New security system,” he explained proudly. “State-of-the-art. No more keys, same as in the foyer.”

“Great.”

“It’s so fancy I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing.”

“That’s very reassuring.”

“Not really my specialty, but hey—any work’s good work in this economy, right?”

“Right.” She made for the doors, sidestepping the tools and plaster chunks cluttering the floor.

“Hang on, let me—”

He tugged at a tangle of thick orange extension cord, just in time to catch Steph’s ankle and send her stumbling to her knees and elbows, the meat of her hand slamming into the claw-end of a hammer.

She swore as the pain bolted through her wrist and arm, jerking away as Patrick tried to help her up. “Don’t.”

He hovered awkwardly as she made it to her feet. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m getting really tired of hearing you say that.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, oblivious as ever.

Steph studied the damage, blood beading along a nasty scrape on her palm.

“Oh shit,” Patrick said. “Lemme find you something to—”

“I’m fine.”

But Patrick fished in his pockets and found a crumpled, if clean, Dunkin’ Donuts napkin, offering it to her.

You are... You are just so exactly who you are, aren’t you?

Good ol’ Pat from Boston or Brockton or Woburn, with his electrician’s license and steel toes and his daily stop at the Dunkin’ drive-through. She took the napkin, wrapping it around her cut and skirting the mess. She didn’t dare stay in this man’s orbit another second. He’d probably manage to set her hair on fire.

He called, “Sorry, Stacy.”

“It’s Steph,” she shot back.

“Sorry.”

She jogged up the steps, imagining running into her dream man as he left Spark. Tall, with dark hair, crisply pressed shirt, warm smile, smelling of oak.

And her with a swollen nose, bleeding hand, dressed for a jog and stinking of the effort. Please let there be no men around.

She was in luck. Through the tall windows that faced the stylish foyer, she spied only a woman at a desk, typing on a laptop. She’d caught sight of Rich’s girlfriend on a previous visit to Boston—she had dark blond hair, so this brunette must be Jenna.

Steph approached the open door, more anxious than she’d ever felt stepping into the ring. She knocked timidly on the frame.

Jenna glanced up. “Hello!” She stood and rounded her desk, dressed in a smart skirt and tall boots, all shiny bangs and pink cheeks and white teeth. “Welcome to Spark. How can I help you?” If she was weirded out by a sweaty woman showing up in her threshold with no appointment and a bloody napkin in her fist, she hid it shockingly well.

“Hi, I’m Steph Healy. I just started working downstairs.”

“I figured that had to be you. I’m Jenna. I own Spark, and I’m engaged to Mercer.”

“So I hear.”

Jenna went in for a shake but Steph kept her hands clasped, letting Jenna see the napkin. “Little mishap.”

“Oh goodness.” Jenna frowned and grabbed a water bottle off her desk, wetting a tissue. “Give it here.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Steph crumpled the napkin and offered her palm.

“Ouch,” Jenna said, dabbing at the scrape. “If this is Mercer’s fault I’ll be chewing him out. Your first day and already you’re all banged up.”

“I had a run-in with one of the contractors.”

Jenna fished in her purse and tore open a Band-Aid. It wouldn’t last long once Steph was gloved and working out, but she politely let Jenna fuss.

“He’s the reason I got this, too,” Steph said, pointing at her nose.

“That was quite a run-in.”

“They were separate incidents.”

Jenna’s eyes widened.

“He’s not a very good contractor,” Steph offered.

“Apparently not.” Jenna tossed the bandage wrapper and leaned on the edge of her desk, waving at a nearby chair. Steph sat.

“It’s so good to meet you,” Jenna said. “Mercer’s been wringing his hands for months, convinced you were going to change your mind.”

Steph smiled. “He told me. But I like it down there.” Dangerous electricians aside.

Another woman appeared then—Rich’s girlfriend, Steph was nearly positive.

“This is Steph, from downstairs,” Jenna said.

“Oh right! Welcome to the building.” She came forward for a shake. “I’m Lindsey. Is your nose okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Nice to meet you.”

Lindsey wore slacks and a deep purple sweater over a dress shirt. This seemed to bode well. Both Mercer and Rich had managed to land themselves polished, professional partners, despite their vocations. She stole a quick glance at the engagement ring twinkling on Jenna’s finger, and some hybrid of jealousy and hope sparked in her belly.

“Just here to say hello?” Jenna asked. “We must look really dull compared to the action downstairs.”

Steph shrugged. “Feels like I’ve been living in gyms the past ten years.” She gave the office and its modern furnishings an appreciative scan. “This is exotic, trust me.”

“Rich said you’re from Mass,” Lindsey said, sitting on her desk.

“Worcester.”

“Nice. I’m from Springfield. Jenna’s a California transplant, but even she was technically born here.”

“It’s hard to stay away.” Steph had traveled all over—South America and Europe, Asia and Australia, and until a couple years ago, she’d thought she’d never settle in New England. Then some instinct had kicked in, like a salmon getting called back up the river. “I just moved to Fort Point.” She liked her temporary neighborhood, a collection of old factories and brick office buildings straddling the border of Boston and South Boston, only ten minutes’ walk. Twelve if the icy headwind off the harbor was really blowing.

“You just retired from fighting, right?” Lindsey asked.

“Yup, all done.” Steph seized the segue. “I got sick of all the traveling. I’m ready to get rooted somewhere. Settle down.”

“Nice.”

“Rich said you’re looking for a roommate.”

Lindsey nodded. “I am. I feel stupid paying rent for a two-bedroom when I’m hardly ever there. You in the market?”

“Yeah. Rich said I should come over some weekend, see if it’s a good fit...?”

“Great! Beats wading through the weirdos I might find online.”

Excellent. One bit of matchmaking accomplished. Now, how to broach the second? Thankfully, Jenna wasted no time in steering them there.

“Do you have a boyfriend here?” she asked, eyes wide and eager.

“No. But I’d like to find one. Or at least get back into dating, now that I’ll finally be in the same city for more than a couple weeks at a time.”

“Well,” said Lindsey. “We can help with that.”

But Jenna’s smile had faltered. She didn’t seem to agree.

“I wanted to ask how Spark works. And how much it costs, all that sort of stuff?” Steph held her breath.

Jenna nibbled her lip.

“It’s okay,” Steph said, wanting to offer her a polite out. “If you’re not taking new clients, or...”

“It’s not that. I just honestly don’t know if I’m allowed to let you join.”

Steph’s heart sank. She knew she should have changed. She was probably wrecking Jenna’s swanky cachet by even sitting here.

“Technically you’re my employee, since I own the gym,” Jenna explained.

“Oh.” That was a small relief. Though still a let-down.

“Would you let me join the gym?” Lindsey asked Jenna.

“I hadn’t thought about it like that.” She frowned. “I’ll have to call the head office. But if it’s kosher, of course I’d be happy to have you.”

Steph’s mood brightened. “I wasn’t sure if... I know Spark is for professional types.”

“You’re a professional ass-kicker,” Lindsey said. “Plus Mercer’s your employee,” she added to Jenna. “If we’re talking about inappropriate workplace poaching, here.”

Jenna rolled her eyes and spoke to Steph. “I’ll be frank—I don’t know how our male clients would react to the prospect of a date with a woman who fights. But I think you’d make a very interesting addition, and I’m sure I could find you some matches...if not as many as I might for a woman with a more, um...traditional job.”

“I figured.” Her profession tended to divide guys into a few distinct camps. The insecure jerks liked to call her femininity into doubt. The perverts suggested she might want to wrestle with them, preferably naked and covered in oil. And the polite but not-into-it guys smiled stonily and immediately ceased viewing her as girlfriend material. But one thing had long ago become clear—the majority of men didn’t relish dating a woman who could best them at chin-ups.

“I’ve found it challenging myself,” she admitted. “I’d be fine if you marketed me as a martial arts instructor. That’s technically what I am now, and I think it intimidates guys less.”

“Do you know what you’re looking for?”

Did she ever. “A nice, grown-up, professional guy. With a half-decent car and some kind of dress sense.” She pictured that hopeless Patrick guy, and all the other incarnations of him she’d dated. “Somebody moderately sophisticated.” Who’d take her to a nice restaurant instead of the corner bar, so she could dress up and feel girly after all these years of training and touring. A man who’d make her feel like a lady, not a chick.

“I’ll call the powers that be first thing tomorrow morning,” Jenna promised. “Give me your number and I’ll let you know the verdict.”

She scribbled it on a Post-it, feeling hopeful. As she handed it to Jenna she said, “I promise if I get a date with one of your clients, I won’t go dressed like this, or all banged up. I’m just on a coffee break, and I knew you were closing at five, so...”

Jenna waved the excuses aside. “If any two matchmakers are sympathetic to the hazards of your job, you’re looking at them.”

“Okay, great. Fingers crossed. I better get back downstairs.”

They said goodbye and Steph jogged down the steps, mindful to approach the double doors with caution. In her absence, Patrick had moved his debris and tools to the side, and she hurried through the threshold, half expecting to trigger an explosion.

The dangerous man in question was at the other end of the gym, standing beside another worker at the emergency exit, scratching his head as they stared at a mess of wires spilling from an electrical panel.

God help him, Steph thought.

He was one of those men who just floated cloddishly through his life, helped along by those endeared by his good looks and hapless charm. Probably had sympathetic teachers who’d passed him so he could stay on the hockey team. Likely was coddled by girlfriends even after he’d forgotten their birthdays three years running. She knew his type well enough to make these wild assumptions—her younger brother was exactly the same. The lovable, harmless oaf.

She touched her nose. Well, perhaps harmless wasn’t quite the word for Patrick.

Steph loved her brother too much to feel bitter toward this kind of man, but a part of her did find it unfair. She’d had to work three times harder than any man in her field to be taken seriously, had to push herself to succeed, since so few people at the top of the MMA food chain cared to invest their energy or resources on a female fighter. Women didn’t get juicy coaching deals or promotional opportunities, not the way the guys did, and Steph’s biggest payday for a professional fight had probably been as much as what a guy like Rich earned before he’d even signed with an organization.

She was a hard worker and she loved her job, but she was tired of struggling financially. She hoped she’d find an equally driven man, someone in a competitive—if civilized—field, who could offer the financial security she’d been missing her entire life.

Her family had been pretty poor, her father losing a good job as a machine mechanic when his factory was bought out in the nineties. After the layoff, Steph’s mom had started working behind the deli counter at their local supermarket to supplement their income “until things picked up.” Two decades later, she was still there.

Once upon a time, they’d been able to pay for Steph’s first karate classes without a care, but those days were short-lived. If she’d pushed herself to excel—at karate, judo, jujitsu, MMA—it was because being an overachiever had garnered her favoritism. The kind that had allowed her to keep coming to classes at a discount or in exchange for doing odd jobs around the dojo. Martial arts had never been a simple extracurricular to Steph. She’d loved it the way other girls loved horses or ballet or boys. And she’d fought to keep it in her life.

Still, she’d been doing this for over twenty years. She was tired. She’d never grow weary of the physicality of the sport, but the financial struggle... She was ready to leave that behind her. Wanting a man who could offer that wasn’t shallow—it was practical.

She eyed Patrick as she stripped out of her warm-ups.

Handsome, to be sure. Sexy even, and probably perfectly sweet despite the alarming frequency with which he caused her bodily harm. But even if her blood quickened at the sight of him, her rational brain knew what a guy like Patrick would bring—more struggling, little stability. Maybe a great sex life, but that wasn’t a fair trade-off, not if it came at the price of all that uncertainty.

She wound medical tape around her injured hand and pulled on her gloves, ready for the evening’s first workout. Down here it was business as usual—physical strain, sweat, satisfaction. Beyond these walls, though, things could be different. Would be different. A sophisticated man waiting for her at a restaurant, maybe kissing her cheeks, if that happened outside the movies. She’d let him teach her which wine went with which dish. Show her how it tingled to kiss a man who tasted of burgundy or merlot.

“Son of a—”

Steph whipped her head around at the sound. It was Patrick, of course. His averted cuss had accompanied an unmistakable zap! and a flickering of the lights. He shook out the hand he’d shocked. “Sorry!” he told everyone who’d turned, flexing his fingers. “My bad.”

At least it wasn’t me that time.

He was over it in a moment, back to joking with his colleague.

God help you, she thought again, watching him.

And God help the poor woman who falls for you.


2

STEPH WAS WORKING early the next day, and during lunch she checked her voicemail, finding a message Jenna had left at nine-thirty. The woman was as good as her word. She sounded chipper, asking Steph to swing by Spark when she had five minutes. Heart thumping with cautious hope, Steph jogged up the steps, smoothing her hair.

Both matchmakers were in the office, eating sandwiches off brown deli paper.

“Oh,” Jenna mumbled through a bite, chewing impatiently. She swallowed and blurted, “It’s you! Yay!”

“Hey, it’s me.”

Lindsey waved, also preoccupied with her lunch.

“Good news,” Jenna said, beaming as she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Turns out you are allowed to join Spark, if you so wish.”

“Yeah?” Steph couldn’t hide her smile. Even if the service cost an arm and a leg, it wouldn’t burst her bubble. “That’s great.”

Jenna nodded. “I just can’t give you preferential treatment and I have to disclose to any potential dates that you and I are affiliated.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“It’s not. And actually, if I can speed you through the application process, I have a man who’d love to meet you for a drink tomorrow night.”

She blinked. “Tomorrow? Wow, you’re good.”

Jenna laughed. “It was a little flukey. He’s a brand-new client, and I wound up emailing him last night with some follow-up info, and we had a little back-and-forth. Anyway. He’s a doctor.”

Steph nearly gasped. Play it cool, Healy.

“Sports medicine,” Jenna continued. “He works with a lot of the hockey players over by the Garden. He likes active women and I happened to mention I may have a client coming on board who’s a fighter, and he was very intrigued, to say the least. Plus he says he likes redheads.”

“Hey, two for two.”

“Is thirty-six okay?”

“Yeah, fine by me.” An older man. Sounded heavenly after all these years surrounded by twenty-something dudes. “Is he cute?”

“No,” Lindsey interjected. “But he is ha-a-nd-some.” Her eyes rolled back in dramatic rapture. The girl ought to know handsome—she was dating Rich Estrada. “I saw his photo. He’s hot.”

“I haven’t even signed up and you found me a hot doctor who’s okay with my gig?” Steph asked Jenna. “Are you a sorceress?”

“I can’t legally let you see his picture until you’re a client. And technically I don’t think I’m allowed to bait you with as many details as I have. But would you like to sign up? He has to work late tomorrow, on site for a game, but he’d love to meet you before he goes out of town for the weekend. The game’s over around ten. Would drinks after that be too late?”

She considered it. “I could probably swap for the closing shift and meet him someplace in between.” She wasn’t an early bird, anyhow. And for a chance with a hot, sporty doctor? “Does my nose look presentable?” It was still tender, but she’d lain with an ice pack on it for an hour before bed and the swelling was way down.

“Much better,” Lindsey said, nodding.

“Okay then. Sign me up.”

Jenna assembled a stack of forms and Steph scanned them. The membership was pricey, but the decision felt right as she handed over her credit card.

“And, submit,” Jenna said, clicking something on her computer. “Welcome to Spark!”

With that scary first splash into the deep end accomplished, it was time to start paddling. “What should I wear on this date?”

“Depends on the bar, I suppose.” Jenna’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s supposed to snow tomorrow, so I don’t think anyone can fault you for dressing sensibly. Maybe some fancy jeans and a nice sweater?”

Damn, Steph had some shopping to do. Her closet was seriously bipolar—sweats and sneakers on one side, a couple of short, glitzy cocktail dresses on the other, procured for the wild after-fight parties that had become her only excuse to wear heels these past few years. She owned exactly one pair of jeans, and they weren’t fancy by any stretch of the imagination—not unless a hole at the corner of the butt pocket was this season’s hottest trend.

Downstairs, she fairly floated through the afternoon sessions. Her final match had been three weeks ago, and she could feel the effects of her lighter workouts. She’d put on a couple pounds and lost some definition, but she didn’t mind. She liked having a strong, trim figure, but it was nice to feel a little softness coming back, the perennial aches and pains fading. She was a fighter, but she was a woman, too, and could handle forfeiting her jiggle-free backside if the pay-off was an extra cup size.

“So,” she said to Mercer, as they wiped down the heavy bags after a cardio session. “Guess who’s got a date tomorrow night.”

“That was fast.”

“I know. But it’s not until late. I’m happy to take the closing shift, if that’s helpful to anybody.”

“I’ll be on a plane to California tomorrow night,” Mercer said.

“Oh right, you mentioned that.”

“My former protégé’s got a match in L.A., then we’re visiting Jenna’s folks. So I guess it’s up to Rich. When are you on ’til?”

“Seven.”

“Friday’s sparring—Rich won’t volunteer to miss that... Just come in at two and I’ll give you both the closing shift. I can cover the morning by myself.”

“If you’re sure.”

He grinned. “Heaven forbid I get in the way of anybody’s romantic plans. Especially if they’ve got Jenna’s fingerprints all over them.”

Excellent. Now all she needed was a decent outfit.

Mercer eyed her. “I bet some guys can be real dicks about the fact that you can beat them up.”

She smiled grimly. “Some are. But they’re not always nasty to my face. The worst date I ever had was with this guy I was practically half in love with, after knowing him only a few hours. He seemed perfect. But then...” She had to laugh, looking back on it. “This man tried to mug us, and I wound up choke-holding him.”

Mercer laughed. “Nice.”

“Like, in a dress and heels. I had him on the ground for twenty minutes, and my date had to call the cops.”

“And did he ever ask you out again, after that?”

She shook her head. “He said he would, but nope. Not a peep.”

“Do you wish you’d just let the guy mug you?”

“Nah. I’m proud I’m not defenseless.”

“You ever try dating another fighter?”

“I have.” On the road, any given gym was practically man-meat banquet in the run-up to a big event. “But at the end of the day, the last thing I want to talk about after a training session is UFC gossip, or the carb content of a baked potato.”

“I could see that. So what’s this guy do, the one Jenna found you? Do you know?”

She tried and failed to bite back a grin. “He’s a sports medicine doctor.”

“Ooh la la, look at you go. That’s the kind of friend we could use around here. Do me a favor and marry him.”

And since Steph was practically drunk on possibility, she imagined exactly that.

* * *

THE HOT DOCTOR was hot. His digital profile photos proved it, and he was funny to boot, and polite, and he’d typed his Thursday-night introductory email in full sentences, with capital letters and punctuation. His name in the signature—Dylan Benedetti—was followed by an exciting parade of authoritative initials, none of which Steph could translate beyond the M.D. Barring a Bruins medical crisis, they’d be meeting at eleven-fifteen the following night, at a trendy bar only a few blocks from the gym, near Boston Common.

News of Steph’s date spread instantly. Rich ribbed her non-stop through their Friday shift, proving himself a bottomless well of medical innuendo.

Patrick, the least qualified electrician ever licensed in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, was busy testing the new security system all day. Steph found the frequency with which he peered at exposed wires and muttered, “That’s weird,” highly disconcerting. More disconcerting still was that he’d apparently arrived at seven, yet was still working by the time the evening sparring session was winding down. If he wasn’t sandbagging to scam his boss for extra pay, he had to be plain old incompetent.

Steph and Rich were sitting on the mats, facing one another, cooling down after the evening’s sparring. Their soles were pressed together, and they held hands, taking turns leaning backward to stretch the other’s hamstrings and arms and back. The thirty or so members who’d braved the snow and ice for a chance to scrap were doing the same, more than a few looking skeptical about the exercise, or perhaps the hand-holding. Wilinski’s boxer types might have power on their side, but they could stand to adopt Steph’s regimen of flexibility drills. She was only too happy to torture them into better shape.

“Be careful with this fancy doctor guy,” Rich warned. “One flash of that stethoscope and he’ll have you disrobing before your starters even show up.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“He’ll probably want to dress you in one of those paper robes and get freaky with the tongue depressors.”

Steph leaned way back, reveling as Rich winced. His turn came to pull, and she let him tug her all the way forward until her arms and chest met the floor.

Rich laughed and eased her up. “That ain’t natural.”

They got to their feet and Steph could feel the past couple hours’ exertion in her muscles. She should be exhausted to boot, but with every minute that ticked by, bringing her date closer and closer, her heart beat quicker. She’d hoped the workout would burn off the nervous energy, but nope.

Still, she was prepared. She’d taken Jenna’s advice, finding herself an overpriced pair of stylish jeans and a pretty cashmere sweater. The promised snow had arrived, so heels were a non-option, but Steph had brought a pair of dressy black boots that looked good under the jeans.

“Okay!” Rich shouted to the group. “Everybody hit the showers, stat. Steph’s got a hot date and needs to make herself pretty.”

A bunch of the guys taunted her with seedy whistles.

“Make it quick,” Rich added. “He’s a doctor.”

They chided her with extra oooohs before dutifully heading for the exit and locker room.

Steph looked to where The Worst Electrician Ever was messing around with the security panel. “Why is he still here?” she murmured to Rich.

“The locks aren’t engaging or something. He said it’d be fixed in ten minutes.”

They walked to the edge of the mats, and Steph turned on her heel and gave the workout area a quick bow, the respectful reflex ingrained by years of jujitsu. “When exactly did he say that?”

Rich made a face. “’Bout four hours ago?”

Misgiving squirmed in her middle.

Fifteen minutes later, the members had all cleared out and she and Rich exchanged an uneasy look.

“My sister’s car’s in the shop,” Rich said. “I’m supposed to pick her up from her shift at ten-thirty.”

She eyed the clock. She absolutely had to be out of here by eleven sharp, but that gave Patrick forty minutes to fix whatever he’d messed up. “You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

She nodded.

“Right then. Good luck tonight.” He gave her a clap on the shoulder and headed for the exit.

She crossed the gym to where Patrick was tinkering. “How’s it coming?”

“It’s coming,” he said brightly, turning to beam that stupid-making handsome smile at her.

“I have to be out of here at eleven, at the very latest.”

“No worries. I’m so close, I can taste it.”

“Have you been tasting it since this afternoon?”

“Trust me.”

She didn’t trust him, though. Didn’t trust his skills any more than she might’ve trusted her body in the same room as his, back in her mid-twenties.

“I have to get cleaned up,” she said. “So if you have any business in the men’s locker room, please refrain for the next twenty minutes.”

“Nope. I’m good.”

I just bet you are, she thought, eyeing his arm as he turned back to his puzzle. Good man to have on your July Fourth softball team, good to his mother and his friends, always good for a lusty tumble on a Sunday morning.

Far too good at that last one, surely.

But the instincts that had her imagining such a thing were bad, bad, bad.

Mind over body, she reminded herself. It was what let her fight through the pain and work past her limits, and if she could harness it in a ring, she could do the same in her romantic life.

“All clear?” she shouted into the men’s locker room, finding it empty. She grabbed her gym bag and headed inside. She’d enter as sweaty Steph, and emerge a new woman. She’d stripped and faced dozens of opponents hell-bent on knocking her down. There was no reason she couldn’t dress up and face this latest challenge...even if it had her more nervous than she’d felt in years.

Still, she liked the nerves. Loved the nerves.

She twisted the shower tap, and waited for the hot water that would rinse away the old Steph for the rest of the night.

* * *

PATRICK STARED AT the diagram in his hand, then the panel on the wall.

Diagram, panel. Panel, diagram.

Man, he should sue whatever jerk had marketed this product. Easy five-step installation his ass.

He’d guessed this job would take him two hours—cut the holes, fit the boxes, marry the wiring, home in time for the Bruins’ opening faceoff. Now it was past ten. And he couldn’t just call it a day and deal with it in the morning—that’d mean leaving the gym unlocked all night.

Maybe it wasn’t the security system. Maybe it was the building’s wiring. But he’d checked those connections a thousand times...maybe a thousand and one was the magic number? He opened the metal door in the corner.

Ridiculous. This former factory probably predated electricity, and the basement’s wiring looked like spaghetti, each generation of improvements layered on top of the previous. Patrick was a pretty awful electrician, to be sure—he was a carpenter by trade, bumbling through this contract out of economic necessity—but this was just unfair. Getting this system to work was like grafting bat wings onto an elephant then commanding it to fly.

“C’mon,” he goaded, tinkering with one of the connections.

The lights flickered and he quickly turned the screw the other way, making a mental note to not touch that one again.

A moment later Steph came marching out of the locker room. There was a towel fisted between her breasts, though she still had her bra on and her hair was dry.

“What was that?”

Pretty ballsy of her, considering she was alone in this basement with a strange man. Or maybe not. Patrick pictured the flurry of bad-ass kung fu moves she might lay on him if he pretended to rush her. Better not try it.

“Just a little flicker. Nothing to worry about.” Worrying never helped anything, anyhow.

Her gaze went to the clock mounted above the boxing ring. “You’re nearly done, right?”

“Oh yeah. I’m sure I’ll have it fixed in five.” Mentally, he crossed his fingers. She didn’t strike him as a woman who liked to be kept waiting. “Your nose looks better,” he offered. Not as swollen as yesterday. And she seemed less intent on murdering him, if only by a fraction.

“Just be quick, please.”

“I probably connected the wrong wire or something simple like that. The electrics in this place are ancient. Half the wiring’s still knob and tube, and all the old labels have flaked off.” He smiled hopefully, but she headed back toward the locker room.

Too bad he’d bashed her in the face and tripped her. He’d totally have asked her out if he didn’t suspect she hated him. Although maybe if he fixed this stupid system, she’d change her mind about him. Yeah. Save the day at the very last minute, and she’d forget all about the injuries.

He turned back to the panel, spurred by this mission. Where could he invite her to go? What did lady-ninjas enjoy doing, off the clock? He could just let her pick and go along for the ride. He’d overheard the fighter guys teasing her about a blind date. Those never panned out. She was as good as single. And she was really pretty and different, and it was sexy, the way she looked at him, all...skeptical. He’d gone out with a couple girls since his divorce, but he’d found the process frustrating. Women were so polite on first dates, then you got your hopes up and called the next day, only to find out they weren’t into you...?

A woman like this one wouldn’t bother with the cheery agreeableness. She’d tell him point-blank that walking along the beach in the dead of winter was a terrible idea, unlike that woman he’d met the other week. Alicia? Alyssa? Didn’t matter now. She’d dodged his call asking about a second date, texting a tardy, Not into it. Sorry.

Damn. You spent six years off the market and when you rejoined the dating world, everything was different. You had to treat your Facebook page like a police report and learn how to text. You had to find yourself on Google and try to guess what a stranger would make of the results.

Patrick shook his head, singling out the last connection still to test. He swapped its wire with another, holding his breath.

With a bleep, the security panel’s Satanic little red light turned...green!

“Yes, you beautiful bastard.” Just tighten that screw and—

The lights went out with a crackle. “Uh oh.”

He loosened the screw. Nothing.

Steph’s voice came through the darkness. “Hello?”

“Yeah,” he called. He headed toward the locker room, guided by the scant glow of the streetlights coming through the high windows. “I’m still here.”

“What happened to the lights?”

“I’m not exactly sure. But good news! The locks are working.”

“That’s great, but it’s ten degrees out and I need to dry my hair. Could you get the power back on? I’m in a hurry, here.”

“Hang on.”

He fumbled for his Maglite, illuminating the space between them. Steph was dressed in her towel again, her long wet hair plastered to her neck and shoulders. Quite without meaning to, he let the beam drift down to her chest.

“Can I help you find something?” she demanded.

He hoisted his gaze to her face, along with the beam.

“Oh Jesus.” Her hands flew up to block the blinding light, an elbow clutching the towel in place.

He aimed the flashlight at the ground. “Sorry.” He sure wound up using that word a lot around her. “My bad. And sorry about, you know. Your chest. It’s... That wasn’t my fault. That was just biology. You know. Because you’re in a towel. Sorry.”

He wished she’d just go and get dressed. His attention was being dragged down, down, from her chin to her neck to her collarbone, her freckled skin dotted with water, hair dripping. He hauled his eyes back up. “Maybe you should...you know. Put some clothes on?”

“I’m not done with my shower. Maybe you should fix whatever you broke so I can get on with what I need to.”

Again, his gaze dropped to her breasts, utterly by accident.

She gaped at him. “Oh my God.” And with a mighty glare, she flashed him.

Patrick blinked, barely registering the glimpse of full-frontal female.

She reknotted her towel. “Curiosity satisfied? I’m a natural redhead. I’m sure you were wondering. Now fix. This.”

Never mind the wiring he’d botched—Patrick was more worried about the stuff short-circuiting in his head. “Uh...”

“Listen, Patrick McFlan O’Shanahan or whatever your last name is—”

“It’s Doherty.”

She tossed her arms heavenward. “Of course! Of course it is.”

Never piss off a redhead, his dad’s voice echoed. Too late. “You realize you’re the most Irish-looking thing that ever was, right?”

“I’ve got a date in forty-five minutes. I haven’t had an excuse to smell nice in over six months, let alone one that involves a hot doctor, and I am not missing this. So whatever you messed up, fix it.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Do you want to stay employed?”

Right. Close enough. He could let the rudeness slide in light of him invading her privacy, clocking her in the face, tripping her, trapping her at work late, ogling her, blinding her, and endangering her chances with some fancy doctor.

“It’s probably just a tripped fuse or something.” Or something. Patrick’s electrical chops were suspect under the best of circumstances. He’d been certified by a buddy he’d graduated high school with, and landed this contract through his cousin. So no, Patrick wasn’t the most qualified guy for the gig, but hey—a job was a job. And he goddamn needed this one.

“If for some reason I couldn’t fix it...”

Her brow rose.

“What about what’s his name? The manager? He said he lives upstairs. He could at least come down and maybe take over, so you can go on your—”

“He’s in California ’til Tuesday.”

“Oh.”

“We’re probably the only people in the entire building.”

“Hang on. Let me check the fuse box—could be a totally simple solution.”

Her eyes were blazing hot, burning his back as he crossed to the panel in the far corner. He stole a backward glance as he swung the metal door open. She hadn’t budged. She was just standing there, glaring daggers at him, arms locked over her chest—her modest but perfectly feminine chest. He fiddled with the connections by the shaky beam of the flashlight, but nothing. Not so much as a flicker. Frowning his apology, he returned to the seething statue formerly known as...Sara? No, that wasn’t it.

“I’ll just run up to my truck and grab a book. It’s got, like, every electrical issue there is and how to fix it.”

Her narrowed eyes said he’d better be literally running.

“Hang on.” He jogged for the front exit. He fairly slammed bodily into one of the double doors—the bar depressed but the lock didn’t budge. “Ow. Damn.” He shook his aching wrist. He gave the other side a fruitless push. “It’s fine,” he called as he hurried toward the rear emergency exit. “Just some glitch with the new system.”

He grabbed the handle and twisted it down—nothing. Twisted it up, another big heap of nothing. “Oh come on.”

“No,” she said, striding over by the light of her phone and elbowing him aside. “No, no, no.” She grasped the handle, twisting and tugging and pushing and pulling in every possible combination. “Oh, you are kidding me.” She checked her screen, her sigh rattling with frustration and despair.

“Let me just disarm the system.” He ran for the front.

“No need to rush,” she called. “There’s no way I’m making it on time now.”

But there was also no way Patrick was giving her any more reasons to think he was useless. If he was going to screw all this up, the least he could do was be speedy about it.

He flipped the security system’s plastic panel up, but something was wrong. No red light, but no green light, either. The screen was black. That shouldn’t be. It was supposed to connect to the same power supply the emergency lights ran off—

What emergency lights? he had to wonder. They hadn’t come on when he’d blown the main ones. “Oh crap.”

“No,” she said, stalking over. “No ‘oh crap.’ Why ‘oh crap’?”

“Listen, I’m sorry, but I can’t fix this. I don’t even know what I did.”

She blinked at him. “But that’s your job. You’re the guy we’d call to come and fix this.”

“If I could get at my book, maybe I’d stand a chance. But this thing’s as dead as the lights.” He tapped the security console with his flashlight.

She rubbed her temples. “You are a terrible electrician.”

“I know. But I’m an amazing carpenter.”

She gaped. “Then what are you doing here, botching a job you’re not even qualified for?”

Keeping a roof over my head? “Don’t worry, I’m licensed.”

“Somehow that doesn’t comfort me.” She wandered a few paces away, face lit by her phone’s screen. She put it to her ear, staring at Patrick as it dialed.

“Hello, Dylan...? Yes, it is. Um, I’ve been better. I’m really sorry about this, but I have to miss our date. I’m sorry it’s so last minute, but I’m trapped at work...No, I’m actually trapped at work. We’re having a new security system installed and the electrician’s managed to lock us in with no power...Yes, I’m looking at him right now. I’ll tell him.” She put the phone to her shoulder and told Patrick, “He says you owe him a date.”

“I’m not really into doctors.”

She spoke to her phone. “I’m so sorry about this. Want to touch base when you’re back in town...? Okay. Great.”

Patrick whispered loudly, “Tell him I said you look great naked, and he’s totally missing out.”

For a breath she beamed poison at him, then returned to her call. “No, thank you, really. I was looking forward to tonight...What are the chances, right? Yeah, you, too. Good night.” She hung up looking defeated, but calmer.

“Won’t it be cute,” Patrick said, “when you guys get married, and you get to tell this story during the toast?”

It didn’t look as though cute were quite the word she’d have picked to describe this situation. “You have a half hour to get us out of here before I call the fire department.” She turned to head back to the locker room.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He tailed her, stumbling over a gym mat. “Don’t do that.”

She wheeled around. “Why on earth not? We’re trapped in a building with no power, with no working exits and no way to fix it. How is this not fire department–worthy?”

“Because whatever comes after that is probably going to cost an arm and a leg—getting some emergency electrician out here, or whatever they’d do. And whatever comes after that will definitely get me fired.”

“No offense, but you ought to be fired.”

“Listen...” He dredged his memory for her name, but the image of her naked body seemed to have crowded it out. “Sorry—what’s your name again?”

“Steph.”

“Right, right. Listen, Steph, I’ve got a mortgage to pay and—” The flashlight beam had dropped to her chest again. He raised it enough to register the murder in her eyes. “Sorry. I can’t lose this job.”

“You can’t perform this job.” She snatched the flashlight from him, illuminating her chin ghost-story style, the more seductive parts of her mercifully lost in the shadows.

“Let me call my cousin. He owns the company and he’s a way better electrician than me. I’ll get him to help me figure out what I messed up, and maybe you, me and him are the only people who’ll ever need to know about any of this...?” He let her see how desperate he felt, gave her the shifty hound-dog eyebrows and everything.

“Do you have any concept of how unprofessional this is?”

He ignored the temptation to suggest that flashing strange men in your place of work wasn’t exactly Employee of the Year material, either. “I do.”

“If there was a fire, we would die in here. And given how great my evening’s going so far, that’s the obvious next step.”

“Please. Let me call my cousin, and if he can’t walk me through it...” What, then? He didn’t have the first clue, but he really couldn’t lose this job. If he did, his house would go next, an idea too awful to contemplate. “Lemme call him, okay? Please, Steph?”

Her shoulders dropped. “Fine. I’m going to finish my shower, and if you still don’t have a clue by the time I’m dressed, I will call 9-1-1. I’m not sleeping in here all night.”

“Great. I’ll need my flashlight back, though.”

She slapped it onto his palm, hard enough to sting, and relit her phone, illuminating her way into the locker room.


3

STEPH TOWELED OFF by her phone’s scant glow and pulled on her date clothes.

Any second now, she chanted in her head. Any second now, the lights would come back on. Please, let them come back on. She didn’t want to spend the night here. Her evening had sucked hard enough already.

But she also didn’t want to get Patrick fired. Technically he probably deserved it, but he reminded her too much of her younger brother, Tim. Sweet guy, but so clueless. She’d be angry to hear about anybody getting Tim fired for screwing something up—which he probably did every single day at the auto shop where he worked—and it made the idea of doing the same to Patrick feel gross. Though she would firmly suggest he look into a third vocation.

She found him in the back corner of the gym before the open fuse box, talking on his phone, flashlight gripped between his arm and ribs.

“No,” he was saying, “it doesn’t have one. This thing’s practically made of mammoth tusks. Half of it’s still K and T.”

Steph tugged the flashlight free, aiming it at the panel as he poked and fussed.

“Thanks,” he mouthed.

The fuse box was a massive thing, with rows and rows of toggle switches and several dead, frayed wires leading nowhere. This building was easily over a hundred years old, and not well maintained. Perhaps this would be a tricky puzzle for even a decent electrician to solve. Maybe he was a decent electrician. Maybe his evening was proving even more frustrating than hers. She felt embarrassed for bitching him out.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think so. Hang on.” He set his phone down and pulled on a pair of gloves from his tool belt. Steph stepped away a pace, watching his back flex as he messed with something or other. She could see the shapes of his lats and traps and the swell of his deltoid, and wondered how he’d gotten those. She’d always had a weakness for a man with a nice back. She pondered what he might look like, doing push-ups with his shirt off—

Suddenly, a miracle.

She gasped as the overhead lights flickered to life with buzzes and ticks. Patrick whooped and picked up his phone. “You hear that? You are a lifesaver. I owe you. Again. Okay, go back to sleep. Oh—who won tonight? Nice. Later, man.”

He turned to Steph, beaming and incredulous. Smiling this way, he made her forget how annoying he was in light of how handsome he was. Nothing flashy, just an honest sort of face, but that smile lit him up. It lit her up, too, in ways she’d sworn she was done feeling toward guys like Patrick Doherty.

“Okay,” he said. “Now all I have to do is make sure the security system’s working and we can get the hell out of here.”

They walked to the front of the gym.

“Green light!” he said as the panel came into view. But his smile drooped as they got closer. Not green—yellow.

“What does yellow mean?” Steph asked, pushing on the bar of the door. Still locked.

“I dunno.”

They peered at the little digital screen. Custom settings lost. Enter access PIN to reactivate default settings.

“That’s okay,” Patrick said. “It’ll only take a minute to re-program the hours.” He crouched for the manual, finding the label printed with the device’s serial number and code.

“Four nine four, zero two two...” He hit Enter. The light turned red. PIN not recognized.

“Hmm.” He entered the digits again. PIN not recognized. 5 incorrect PINs will result in system lockdown. Two chances blown.

“Let me see.” Steph gave it a try, but he hadn’t misread the numbers. PIN not recognized. 5 incorrect PINs will result in system lockdown. “What the hell?”

“It worked earlier. Maybe there’s some other code in here, for this situation...” He flipped through the booklet. “Or I could look up troubleshooting tips on my phone.”

Dear God, the so-called expert they’d hired was going to Google his way out of this? Wilinski’s really did need all the help it could get.

“This is still an improvement,” he said.

“How?”

“We’ve got power again. And lucky for you, I got that new flat-screen all wired up. Why don’t you watch a movie or something? I’m sure I’ll figure this out in no time.”

Steph wished she believed him, but nothing he’d yet done had instilled her with even the tiniest speck of confidence. “Fine.”

She dried her hair in the locker room then grabbed a sports drink from the fridge in the office, jotting it on the lengthy I.O.U. list Mercer kept taped to the wall.

In the screening room there was a shelf lined with VHS tapes and DVDs—old boxing matches and MMA footage, plus a nice library of fight flicks. She picked The Karate Kid, her favorite from kindergarten. The movie had probably shaped the entire course of her life. She hit Play. Two recliners sat side by side, and she plopped into one with a weary huff.

She was supposed to be at a bar, nursing a vodka and tonic and hitting it off with Dr. Dylan. Yet here she was, drinking Powerade at work well after closing time. Story of her life. The past couple years, she’d often lamented feeling trapped in the gym. This was just sick—the first week of her fight retirement and here she was, literally trapped in one.

She was just nodding off, mouthing along with the movie dialogue, when a knock on the doorframe jerked her wide awake.

Patrick was smiling in a way she didn’t trust one bit.

“So?”

“Yeah, so...”

She groaned. “Seriously?”

“I got nothing, here. If I punch in one more PIN and it doesn’t work, the cops get called.”

“Can you call the security company?”

“I did. They’re sending a guy out.”

She relaxed back in her chair.

“He’ll have a service PIN that’ll disarm the system from the outside. But he has to do it in person—it requires a code and a key. He can’t just give me the digits.”

“Oh well.”

“But the guy on call is over in Chicopee, so...”

“What? Oh come on. That’s two hours away!”

“Sorry.” Patrick unbuckled his tool belt, set it aside and sank heavily into the other recliner with a wailing of springs. “This time it really isn’t my fault.”

Good God, two more hours...? But what was the alternative? Call 9-1-1 and get the door busted in, probably wind up stuck here answering questions and filling out police forms, with both the manager and owner out of town... Plus if this really wasn’t Patrick’s fault, it’d be a shame to drop him in trouble over whatever fees they might get charged if the fire department had to bail them out. She could appreciate that as lousy as her evening was turning out, at least she wasn’t worried about whether or not she’d still have a job come morning.

“Okay,” she said with a mighty shrug of surrender. This night was just destined to suck. Might as well embrace it. “I guess we’ll just have to wait it out.”

He turned in his chair, leaning his arm along the headrest. “I appreciate it. And I’m sorry.”

“You’re still a terrible electrician,” she reminded him. “But maybe this could have happened to anyone, given how old the wiring must be. And maybe it’s the company’s fault the system’s not working. Though it’s weird both those things should have gone wrong in one night. To one man.”

“Luck of the Irish.”

“You would know, Patrick Doherty.”

“Maybe it’s fate that we got trapped here together.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m single,” he said casually. “You’re single, for as long as I can keep you out of that hot doctor’s clutches...”

“Please don’t hit on me. This evening has been enough of an ordeal already. Let me just watch my movie and take a nap, and we’ll both pray the security guy can fix all this in like, two seconds. Then we’ll never speak of it again.”

She shut her eyes, but Patrick didn’t make it even a full minute before interrupting her snooze. “So, your job...”

She sighed, meeting his eyes. “What about my job?”

“So are you like a pro-lady-wrestler, or...”

If looks could kill, hers would’ve punched straight through his heart and out the other side. “I’m a jujitsu instructor.”

“That’s what that’s called, all that rolling around in a karate outfit you were doing the other day? Joo jitzoo?”

Lordy. At least he hadn’t called them pajamas, she supposed. “It’s called a gi.”

“But it’s basically wrestling, right?”

“Brazilian jujitsu evolved from judo, and yeah, it’s a grappling-based martial art. But I don’t get greased up in a sequined bra and booty shorts and body-slam other women.”

“What do you do?”

“Have you never seen cage fighting?”

“Not really.”

That would never do. She sat up straight, chair back snapping to attention.

This wasn’t how Steph had planned on spending her evening, but she might as well make good use of the time by educating yet another person on what MMA was all about. She went to the shelf, finding a VHS of one of the best pro events there’d ever been from way back in the sport’s more lawless days. Patrick had to help her, switching the video input to the VCR.

“See?” he asked, crouching beside her, switching cables, close enough for her to catch the annoyingly pleasant scent of his skin. “I’m not completely useless.”

Steph hit Play and they returned to their seats. “Now pay attention and I’ll show you exactly how un-like pro-wrestling this is.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you ever watch boxing?”

“I don’t follow it, but yeah, I’ve seen a few matches.”

“Kickboxing?”

“Does that Van Damme movie count?”

“Nearly. Anyhow, MMA is way more like boxing than pro-wrestling. For starters, it’s real.”

The event coverage started up and she fast-forwarded, skipping over a particularly bloody preliminary match.

“Whoa,” Patrick muttered.

She stopped when the tape reached the main event. It was an epic fight—nonstop action, the perfect mix of stand-up and grappling, a million exciting reversals and near-submissions.

“So, wait,” Patrick said halfway through the first round.

She turned, finding his lips pursed, brow furrowed adorably.

“Yes?”

“So you actually do this?”

“I do. Or I did. I’m just a trainer now, so I won’t be doing much more than sparring. I’m getting old for it.” Some fighters could stay professionally viable all the way to forty, but Steph wasn’t destined to be one of them. She could feel the sport taking its toll in her joints, and her post-match aches and pains lingered far longer than they had when she was twenty.

“But you got hit in the face and stuff?”

“I did. Plenty.”

Patrick’s blue eyes studied her. “It doesn’t show.”

“Well. Thank you.”

“Except for your nose, but that’s my fault.”

She waited for him to get predictably obnoxious with the topic, and ask if rolling around with women turned her on, if anybody ever had wardrobe malfunctions, if perhaps she’d like to wrestle with him, here and now. But after a moment’s contemplation, all he said was, “Huh.”

“Huh what?” She hit Pause on the remote.

“I dunno. That’s cool. Can you...”

Can I what? Pin you? Come on, out with it. I’ve heard them all.

“So can you stop somebody from like, attacking you?”

She blinked, surprised at the question. “Not if they’ve got a gun. But yeah. I fought off a mugger once. And one time I was hiking with my friend and somebody’s dog attacked her, so I kicked it.”

His eyes grew wide with horror. “You kicked a dog?”

“It was attacking my friend! It should have been on a leash.”

“Poor dog. It was probably just protecting its owner.”

“It punctured her skin!”

“Poor dog,” Patrick said again, and Steph realized he was winding her up.

“You own a dog, don’t you?” How could he not?

He frowned. “I did. I lost her in my divorce.”

Divorced. So Patrick Doherty wasn’t just floating through his easy life, drifting blindly from one opportunity to the next on a cloud of lovability.

“What breed?” she asked.

“Pug.”

She had to laugh.

“What?”

“I dunno. You just seem like a Golden sort of guy.”

“Well, I wanted a black Lab, like I grew up with. But my ex was in love with those pugs. And she was a great dog—really sweet. Just not the kind you can toss a Frisbee for on the beach.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-five in April.”

“Were you married long?”

“Almost four years. We split up the Christmas before last.”

As someone currently hell-bent on finding a partner, Steph couldn’t help but want to ask what had gone wrong for Patrick and his. She held her tongue.

He smiled at her, a warm and disarming gesture. “You can ask what happened. I can tell you want to.”

She bit her lip. “What happened?”

“I kinda wish I knew.” Leave it to poor, charming, clueless Patrick to not even know what had ended his marriage.

“I was really happy. I loved my wife, I loved our home. I loved how we spent our free time. I was just checking my watch, thinking we’d probably socked away enough money to start talking about the whole baby thing.”

“But she hadn’t been thinking the same?”

He shook his head. “Not the way I was. She told me, ‘I want to be able to stop working when I become a mother, but that’s never going to happen, is it?’ She’s a corporate accountant—she made way more money than me. I said hey, I’d be happy to only take weekend work and do the stay-at-home-dad thing. But that wasn’t cutting it for her. I wasn’t cutting it.”

“Ouch.”

“All this resentment came pouring out of her like a volcano. All this anger I’d never even realized she felt toward me. I just...” He shrugged, looking utterly lost. “My own wife thought I was a failure, and I didn’t even have the first clue. I’d thought we were fine. It was so weird, like we’d been living in these two completely separate realities.”

Steph’s heart hurt for him. How often had her dad beat himself up with those same feelings of provider inadequacy?

“You said you’re really a carpenter?”

He nodded. “I’m a great carpenter. Craftsman-type stuff, ornate trim and cabinetry. I moved to the North Shore thinking there’d be tons of work, restoring all those amazing old colonials.” His eyes lit up, simply talking about it. “And at first, there was tons of work. Everyone was buying and flipping fixer-uppers during the boom. I was turning jobs down left and right, cherry-picking the coolest ones. That’s how things were when I met my wife.”

“Then the real-estate bubble burst?”

“Yeah. Now I’m lucky if I get even one job a month, fixing somebody’s deck for a quarter of what I might charge doing the custom stuff I’m really good at.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t be here now, wrecking your day, if I didn’t need the money. My mortgage was steep to begin with. Take away my ex’s income and it’s a bear, even after the refinancing.”

“Can you not sell it?”

His gaze dropped to the armrest, where he rubbed at the worn leather with his big fingertips. “Maybe I could. At a loss, though. And I’ve put so much work into that place...it’d break my heart. It’s a great old house—not huge, but right on the beach, in Newburyport. I’ve put years of my life into fixing it up, thinking it was where my kids would grow up. And I mean, they still could. Who knows? But not if I can’t keep up with the payments.”

She nodded, sadness deepening. She could appreciate that—pouring your heart and soul and sweat into a purpose for months and months, only for it to come to naught. She’d trained for and lost enough matches in her career to understand that heartbreak perfectly.

“That sucks,” was all she could think to say. She reached over and gave his forearm a commiserating pat, same as she would have if one of her brothers had broken some bad news. But this touch felt nothing like she’d expected. The contact zinged straight up her fingers and arm, dropping through her middle like a gulp of hot chocolate, warmth sinking right into her toes. Oh no.

She snatched her hand away, clasping her fingers. No no no. She was not entertaining this attraction for a second.

This was all wrong.

It was probably pushing 1:00 a.m. She might’ve been kissed by Dr. Dylan Benedetti already, had this evening gone to plan. Yet here she was, locked at work with the embodiment of every guy she’d ever dated and sworn to put behind her...and he’d just zinged her. It had to be some kind of test.

But she could admit Patrick wasn’t quite like all those exes. He was in his thirties for one, with a marriage already under his belt. Lovable cloddishness aside, he was a man, not a guy. He’d suffered more disappointment and shouldered more responsibility than she’d have guessed. And these extra dimensions only made her sexual attraction feel all the more charged and unwieldy. And reckless.

Steph hit Play. They watched the tape through to the end of the match, and she stole sidelong glances, smirking at the way Patrick winced.

She shut it off. “So that’s MMA.”

“That’s barbaric.”

“The rules have gotten stricter since that event. No knees to the face once a guy’s on the ground, that kind of thing.”

“And that’s what you do? Or did?”

She nodded.

“On TV?”

“Not always, but a few times.”

“It must pay well.”

She shrugged. “At the top, yeah.”

“Were you at the top?”

“No. But it’s what I love. I made enough to make it worth it.”

“Until now.”

She stretched, and let her arms flop along the back of the recliner, feeling the hour. “I’ll be thirty in a couple weeks. My body doesn’t bounce back the way it used to, and I’m tired of all the traveling. I’m ready to settle down.”

“With a hot doctor.”

She smiled. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

“Blind date, right? Who hooked you guys up?”

Her cheeks warmed. “The matchmaking agency upstairs.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of trying that...I’ve had crappy luck doing the bar scene again, and the online stuff intimidates me. I have no idea what to say to make myself sound interesting. Going through an actual service must be expensive though.”




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