by Meg Maguire
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 k
inda 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.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Figured. Better keep trying my luck at the local dive, one drink at a time. Though if this thing with the hot doctor doesn’t work out...” Patrick began.
This again? “Yes?”
“Would you want to maybe go out with me sometime?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
His face fell. “Is it because I’m recently divorced? Should I not be telling women that?”
“No, you’re just not my type.” Not anymore. Never again.
“That’s too bad. But I guess I can see how I might not be, if doctors are more your scene.” Sadness drew his brows together, a look that said he felt he should’ve guessed as much—that he should’ve known from the circumstances of his divorce that he wasn’t cutting it these days as romantic material. Poor man. Steph’s heart twisted anew.
“Plus I did sort of wreck your entire day,” he added.
She managed a smile. “Not my entire day.” Only the most exciting part, the chance she’d been dreaming about since she’d decided to leave the road behind. But still. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. And you haven’t made me bleed tonight, which is an improvement.” She laughed suddenly.
“What?”
“Hold up your hands.”
He did, and she pretended to count his fingers. “Wow, all ten. So you’re only a danger to others.”
He smiled, some pink rising in his cheeks. “I’ve been jumpy all week, trying to dumb-luck my way through this contract. I’m not nearly this much of a klutz when I’m doing my own thing.”
“I’m sure.”
“Plus the time with the extension cord—that was because you made me nervous.”
“Did I?”
“The first time I met you, I whacked you in the face. Plus you know...you’ve got sort of crazy eyes.”
“Crazy eyes?”
“Yeah, you’ve got them now.”
She sighed, knowing he was right. Her mom called that look Penny’s War Face. Her annoyance was about as covert as a swinging mace.
“Plus you were all sweaty,” Patrick added, a bit too innocently.
“That’s kind of my job.”
“I know, but you smell really good, all sweaty.”
She shot him a doubtful look.
“Like sex,” he concluded with a nervous, guilty grin.
“Oh Lord.”
“It’s true. Made my brain short-circuit. So really, the tripping thing was mainly yo
ur fault.”
“Please don’t flirt with me.”
“Like that really good, sloppy sex, the kind you have when you stumble home half-drunk after the Fourth of July fireworks?” He grinned.
Damn, she knew that sex, too. Knew the exciting weight of a fun, fearless, sexy guy like Patrick tumbling across tangled covers with her. She knew that sex, punctuated with smiles and swears and dares and laughter. With playful, whapping pillows and the sort of deep, resonant orgasms that only came when you felt free and happy with a guy, partners in that awesome silliness. A man like Patrick could provide between the sheets. But it wasn’t enough. Not at thirty.
You’re not thirty yet, an evil voice in her head whispered. Maybe one last little taste of what you’re saying goodbye to?
But a date was not one last little taste. So what exactly was she thinking of? She eyed his mouth. His shoulder and biceps and those big fingers. His damnable smile.
“I’m real easy,” Patrick said. “As a date, I mean. This could be our date, if you want.”
“This?”
“Sure. We’ve got movies. And two single people. Done!”
Steph rolled her eyes at him, but Patrick was already leaving his recliner. He killed the overhead fluorescents and shut the door partway, effectively dimming the lights.
“Oh, no.”
“What movie?” he asked, kneeling before the DVDs.
“This isn’t a date.”
“It may as well be. We’ve got time to kill.” He flipped through the spines. “Man, there’s a lot of Hebrew movies in here.”
“I believe that’s Thai you’re looking at.”
“Oh, right.”
“Though speaking of which...” She left her chair and crouched beside him in front of the shelf, finding what she was after.
“What is it?” Patrick asked.
“You’ll like it. It’s one of the most irresistible fight flicks ever made.”
She popped it in the DVD tray as Patrick switched the video input. She relaxed in her chair. Patrick went to the side of his, pushing their armrests flush. She shot him a look as he took his seat.
“What? It’s a date.”
“So you seem to think.” But she settled back in her chair, rendered involuntarily giddy by the flirtation. It’d been ages since a guy had tried making anything resembling a move on Steph, and she’d forgotten how nice it felt.
