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.
She gaped at him. “Oh my God.” And with a mighty glare, she flashed him.
Patrick blinked, barely registering the glimpse of full-frontal female.
She reknotted her towel. “Curiosity satisfied? I’m a natural redhead. I’m sure you were wondering. Now fix. This.”
Never mind the wiring he’d botched—Patrick was more worried about the stuff short-circuiting in his head. “Uh...”
“Listen, Patrick McFlan O’Shanahan or whatever your last name is—”
“It’s Doherty.”
She tossed her arms heavenward. “Of course! Of course it is.”
Never piss off a redhead, his dad’s voice echoed. Too late. “You realize you’re the most Irish-looking thing that ever was, right?”
“I’ve got a date in forty-five minutes. I haven’t had an excuse to smell nice in over six months, let alone one that involves a hot doctor, and I am not missing this. So whatever you messed up, fix it.”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Do you want to stay employed?”
Right. Close enough. He could let the rudeness slide in light of him invading her privacy, clocking her in the face, tripping her, trapping her at work late, ogling her, blinding her, and endangering her chances with some fancy doctor.
“It’s probably just a tripped fuse or something.” Or something. Patrick’s electrical chops were suspect under the best of circumstances. He’d been certified by a buddy he’d graduated high school with, and landed this contract through his cousin. So no, Patrick wasn’t the most qualified guy for the gig, but hey—a job was a job. And he goddamn needed this one.
“If for some reason I couldn’t fix it...”
Her brow rose.
“What about what’s his name? The manager? He said he lives upstairs. He could at least come down and maybe take over, so you can go on your—”
“He’s in California ’til Tuesday.”
“Oh.”
“We’re probably the only people in the entire building.”
“Hang on. Let me check the fuse box—could be a totally simple solution.”
Her eyes were blazing hot, burning his back as he crossed to the panel in the far corner. He stole
