Driving Her Wild

“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.”