Driving Her Wild

by Meg Maguire

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, right? Around eleven?”

  She nodded. He’d invited her to brunch, to get to know Lindsey better and check out her apartment. “The way you talk about your mom’s cooking, I wouldn’t miss it. I better get class started.” She got up to pull her gi from her bag, ushering Rich out the door so she could change.

  She tried to get lost in the day’s sessions, lost in the mechanics of her body. But her body was a traitor today, taunting her with memories of that night last week with Patrick. It refused to let her take Rich’s advice and put Patrick on the back burner. Their attraction couldn’t be expected to simply simmer—it was boil or nothing.

  The thought of the mixer—and the dates that might follow with guys who weren’t Patrick Doherty—brought no excitement, no anticipation. Only exhaustion. It made her think maybe there was hope for the current generation, with its fear of commitment, fear of missing out. It seemed Steph’s body had decided she’d found The One, and the thought of auditioning any other man left her cold.

  Maybe this is what you need right now.

  Maybe she needed exactly what Patrick offered—a relationship rooted solely in the now, no pressure over what might come. After all, everything else in her life was about to settle—a steady job, a fixed residence. Maybe wanting to find something long-term on top of all that would prove too much commitment, too fast. She was only thirty, after all. Exactly thirty. There was still time to meet someone, whether her biological clock wanted her to believe that or not. There was still a little time left for sexual freedom, as she eased into her new life.

  Mercer arrived, as did the late-afternoon lull. Steph eyed him, thinking she’d already heard Rich’s take on the situation, and of the two of them, Mercer had more in common with Patrick. They were cast from the same hardworking, level-headed mold. She crossed to where he was mending the padding along the top of the octagon’s fence.

  He smiled as she wandered into the ring. “Heading home, birthday girl?”

  “Pretty soon. Think I’m too wiped for sparring tonight.”

  “Any big plans?”

  “None, but I’m fine with that. Can I um... Could I ask your opinion, as a dude?”

  He shrugged. “Shoot.”

  She leaned into the chain link, avoiding his eyes. “Say you’d been having this casual sort of fling with a woman...”

  “Okay.”

  “And you really like her, but you’re not really supposed to be hooking up, but you keep winding up together, anyway...”

  He laughed. “It’s amazing how easy I can imagine this hypothetical scenario.”

  Steph wondered if he meant Jenna. If so, did that mean Steph’s so-called romance expert had let her sex drive make the occasional ill-informed decision?

  “Well, say you really liked this woman, and she knew it. But she keeps telling you she’s not ready for anything serious with you. She’s been nothing but forthright about it, but you tell her you’d be happy just to keep messing around, like you have been...”

  “You wanna know if the woman would be a selfish jerk if she took the guy up on his offer?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mercer smiled, ripping a length of black duct tape from its roll. “What makes you think the guy isn’t secretly relieved that the woman’s not after something serious?”

  She pictured those gorgeous flowers in the lounge, and that naked excitement and hope in Patrick’s eyes every time he spotted her. “He just isn’t the type.”

  “Well,” Mercer said, “I think most guys would happily take sex as a consolation prize, even if they wanted something more. Maybe for a woman, it would be insulting, make them feel like they got used. But for a guy, I bet sex would soften the blow.”

  “So this woman wouldn’t be guilty of taking advantage of the guy’s crush or whatever?”

  “Not if the guy knew the deal.”

  “Right. Good.”

  Mercer smirked, smoothing another strip of tape in place. “It’s your birthday, Steph. Go get laid. I promise you this guy’s not going to sob into his pillow after you leave, disappointed he got used for sex.”

  She grinned. “Thanks, boss.”

  “I’m not your boss. Jenna is. And trust me—she’s got no right to lecture a woman about taking advantage of a defenseless man. So go nuts.”

  Steph headed back to the lounge. She packed her workout clothes away and stared at her phone, rubbing the screen with her thumb. With a deep breath, she dug out her wallet, finding Patrick’s card. She dialed his number with her heart in her throat.

  “Patrick Doherty.”

  “Hey, it’s Steph.”

  “Oh. Hey.” There was worry in his voice. This call could easily be in the vein of, Listen, pal—leave me alone or I’ll sic my huge colleagues on your stalker ass.

  “Hey. Um... Would you like to hang out sometime?”

  Silence for a breath, then, “Sure. What kind of hanging out?”

  “Like a date, I guess. A casual one. Like last week.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You’ve heard my concerns a dozen times, but I do like you. And I like what happens when we hang out, just for what it is. And I’d kind of like for it to happen again, maybe after dinner or something.”

  “Wow... Wow. Awesome. I’d love that. Where do you want to go? It’ll have to be someplace kinda cheap—”

  “I’m sick of going out. Would you like to come over for dinner and a movie some night?”

  “How about tonight?”

  “I just finished work, and I’m all gross. And I don’t own a TV, so the movie’s kind of out.”

  “I’ll pick you up. You can come to my place.”

  “Maybe...” She was free the next morning, until that brunch at Rich’s. She could afford a late night.

  “Come on, you had to work on your thirtieth birthday! You shouldn’t have to make your own dinner, too.”

  She eyed the clock. It was still early. “Give me ’til six-thirty so I can go home and get cleaned up, then okay. You’re on.”

  “Awesome!”

  “Just call when you pull up. See you in a bit.”

  “You will indeed,” he said, his smile audible.

  She turned her phone off, surprised not to find any of the what-have-I-just-done? dread dogging her. In fact, she felt relieved, having committed to this baby step. And less guilty, knowing she was doing the fair thing, giving Patrick the same chance she’d offered the guys from Spark. The battle between logic and lust was likely far from resolved, but at least her gut felt settled, for the moment.

  Maybe Patrick would lose some of his allure now that their date was for real. His forbidden-fruit appeal would be gone, and maybe without that clouding her decisions and seducing her reason away, she’d find they actually weren’t compatible. Maybe it’d all prove a non-issue.

  Or maybe they’d fall wildly in love and just live in starry-eyed poverty for the rest of their lives, too happy to care that they couldn’t afford to start a family.

  A departing gym member who lived in South Boston was nice enough to drop Steph at her place so she was able to get her flowers home. The lilies were pungent, filling her tiny apartment with the smell of the South Pacific.

  By the time her hair was dry and her pitiful arsenal of makeup tricks exhausted, snow was flurrying outside her window.

  She wanted what Patrick could offer—easy, casual company—so she didn’t bother dressing for a date. A pair of stretchy black pants, a tee and a long duster sweater. Clothes for lounging on a couch, watching a movie, maybe eating dinner off plates set on their laps, chatting. Later, kissing. Later still... Well, she’d trust her gut on that one, too. Trying to logic her way through the situation these last couple weeks had led to nothing but confusion and doubt. No more thinking. She hugged herself, watching the flakes swirl like gold dust in the yellow streetlights.

  Her buzzer sounded and she hurried over to press the button. “Be down in a minute.”

  F
unny, she thought as she zipped her jacket and flipped off the lights. She’d been picked up by both of her Spark dates this week, and both had texted to announce their arrival. Supposedly well-pedigreed guys...

  And yet it was the under-employed carpenter who took the time to brave the cold and ring her bell.

  As she walked to the elevator, she felt it in every step—excitement. This time last week she’d made this same trip, heading down to meet Dylan for their second date, and all she’d felt then was misgiving. The seemingly right sort of man, who made her feel all wrong.

  She punched the button for the lobby.

  And when the door slid open again, there he was.

  The exactly wrong sort of man, with that smile that made her feel so damn right.

  9

  STEPH RETURNED Patrick’s smile, excitement and nerves clashing in her belly. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” As he leaned in to give her a chivalrous cheek-kiss, she could smell winter on his skin and in his hair.

  “You could’ve just called, you know. And stayed in your nice warm truck.”

  “And waste all these chances to woo you?” He held the foyer door for her.

  The truck was idling a few spaces down. He opened her side and Steph tossed her overnight bag behind their seats.

  “Thanks for coming all this way to pick me up,” she said as they slammed their doors.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Was it a long drive?”

  He turned them onto the road. “Little over an hour, with the traffic.”

  “Oh jeez. You must have left right after we hung up.” She eyed his ensemble—no coat or gloves or hat to be seen. He must’ve practically launched himself out the door, teeth chattering for the first couple miles, as he waited for the truck to warm up.

  He grinned in the red glow of a traffic light. “I was eager.”

  “What’d you do all day?”

  “Well, I spent forever trying to pick out the perfect flowers for this woman I have a crush on.”

  She had to smile. And since she’d given him permission to revel in said crush for the duration of this date, it was nice to not feel compelled to quash his eagerness. “They’re lovely. My apartment smells like Bora Bora.”

  “Then I delivered them and totally struck out, so I went home and job-searched for a few hours. And it all came to naught and I was really depressed, except then the woman I like called to ask me out. So actually it turned out to be the best day ever.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “You are treacherously adorable.” And your wife was a fool. If Steph were making as much money as he’d implied his ex had been, she’d be only too happy to support a partner as lovable as this man.

  You don’t know her, though. And you barely know Patrick. It was easy to make these judgments with only the most basic facts and stupefying lust to guide her.

  They made easy small talk on the drive, about the North Shore and the pros and cons of living in a summer town.

  As they pulled into Patrick’s driveway, Steph could hear the ocean. His house was a long one-story plus a pitched live-in attic, a Cape Cod with the requisite thick wooden shingles.

  “Have you considered renting your place out during the tourist season?” she asked as they unbuckled their seat belts. “And crashing with family for the summer? You could probably make more than you pay for your mortgage.”

  “Double it, I imagine,” he said, and opened his door, getting her bag from behind the seats. “I didn’t have my shit together last summer—the divorce chaos interrupted my plans to refinish the floors halfway through the job. But if I haven’t been foreclosed on by the time May rolls around, it’s a great option.”

  “You wouldn’t mind strangers staying in your home, with all the work you’ve put into it?” she asked as they clomped up the steps to his ocean-view deck.

  “Not at all. I’m proud of my home. And waterfront’s at such a premium around here, I like the idea of some poor landlocked family getting to borrow all this for a few weeks.”

  He opened the sliding doors at the back of the house and waved Steph into a cozy sunroom. She pushed her boots off in the corner, inspecting the space when Patrick switched on the lights. Nothing flashy at first glance, but the walls were lined with recessed shelving, full of books and board games and photo frames and keepsakes.

  “Wow,” she said, taking it all in. “Did you do the shelves?”

  “I did. And all the crown molding.” He pointed to the elegant woodwork adorning the seams where the ceiling met the walls. “This place was a real fixer-upper. The ocean’s not exactly a carpenter’s best friend, but it’s worth the work for that view.”

  “I’m sure. Especially if you enjoy the work.”

  His smile confirmed what she already knew—he loved the work. And that love for one’s craft was what kept Steph waking up, eager to train, despite all the aches and bruises and stitches her passion offered as rewards for her dedication.

  He led the way into the next room, a large den. Steph rubbed her arms. “It’s freezing in here.”

  Patrick set her bag on a couch and went to the wall, flipping up the thermostat panel. “I know, sorry. Money’s so tight, I’ve been turning the heat way down and bundling up. I didn’t think to crank it before I left to grab you.”

  “Your pipes could freeze.”

  “I keep the taps dripping.” He shut the panel and rolled up his sleeves, turning his attention to the brick fireplace opposite a big picture window.

  “You’re making a fire? Cool.”

  “It’s your birthday—of course I’ll build you a fire.”

  She watched as he did. Strong shoulders, solid frame, forearms twitching as he arranged the kindling and logs.

  How had she even gotten here? He hadn’t coerced her, yet she’d resisted him the entire way. He’d seduced her somehow. With his kindness and charm, his handsome face and the memories burned onto her libido from the way her body matched his.

  “What’s for dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m only good at about five things, and I’ve only got the ingredients for one of them. You down with macaroni and cheese?”

  She laughed. “Powdered or Velveeta?”

  He smiled over his shoulder, dimples flashing. “I’m not that ghetto.”

  Once the fire was crackling, he led her to a homey dine-in kitchen. Its light bathed the tall, brittle grass and the sand outside in a warm glow.

  “Get comfy. You want a drink? I’ve got beers, and my sister left a couple bottles of wine last time she visited.”

  Steph took a seat at the table. “I’ll try your sister’s wine.”

  He rummaged and brought out two reds from a pantry. “I’m sure they’re good. She’s got good taste in stuff like that.”

  Steph picked a bottle at random and Patrick uncorked it, filling a blue plastic picnic goblet for her.

  “I know the stemware’s hideous,” he said, handing it over. “I lost the real stuff in the divorce.”

  “I promise I couldn’t care less.” She sipped the wine. A bit dry, but every time she had expensive wine at restaurants, it was dry like this. She bet a person with a half-decent palate would say it was great. “It’s great,” she decided aloud.

  Patrick cracked open a beer and got to work. He boiled fat pasta shells, stirred them with butter in a baking dish. The cheesy component he made out of cheddar, cream, more butter, a few spices and an egg, stirring it all in and topping it with breadcrumbs and pepper. It was a heart-attack casserole, but a side effect of Steph’s job was that she could eat pretty much whatever she wanted.

  “Should be about thirty minutes,” Patrick said, shutting the oven door and setting the timer.

  “It already smells amazing.”

  He grabbed her wine from the counter and led her back to his den. “My TV’s hooked up to the web, so you’ve got your choice of anything we can stream.”

  They got settled on the couch and Steph was entrusted with the remote. She found
them a high-budget Hollywood action movie neither had seen, and hit Play.

  Patrick smiled at her. “This feels familiar. Only we’re not locked in a gym and I don’t have to read any subtitles.”

  She blushed, knowing neither the fire nor the wine had any part in the heat warming her face. It was Patrick, and how pleasant it felt, being close to him. How easy. And yet how exciting.

  “Thank you for having me over,” she said after a time, speaking to her glass.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  She met his eyes. “I know I’ve been nothing but cagey toward you.”

  “Well, I’ve been nothing but pushy.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “No. I hate being pushed around.” Outside of the bedroom, anyhow. “So I know it’s not that. Just eager. And open. I still have no clue how I feel about dating at the moment, but you deserve a fair shake.”

  “Because I wore you down?”

  She laughed. “Maybe.”

  He took her hand, twining their fingers, and that easy warmth spread through her body.

  He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll take it.”

  Before their mouths met, their noses brushed. Then the lightest touch of his lips, the soft scrape of his stubble. He let her hand go to palm her jaw, and the world dissolved.

  Oh, these kisses, the ones that haunted her at night. Every time their mouths came together, she was blown away anew by the intensity of this connection. And tonight there was something different. A tenderness layered beneath the passion, his touch making her feel cradled and coveted at once. A touch that welcomed trust even as it promised ferocity. A sensuality that—

  BRRRRRUUUUZZZZZZZZ.

  She gasped at the metallic wail of the oven timer, hand flying to her chest.

  Patrick laughed and got to his feet. “You okay?”

  “Jesus. Are we ever going to enjoy a make-out session that’s not interrupted by a phone or a door buzzer or an alarm?”

  Smiling, he jogged to the kitchen. Over the ringing he shouted, “Come serve yourself.”

  They ate just as she’d imagined, off their laps, watching the movie. Or half watching the movie. She couldn’t be sure about Patrick, but Steph’s attention was still glued firmly to her couchmate.