Driving Her Wild. Meg Maguire
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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