Driving Her Wild

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.