Driving Her Wild. Meg Maguire

      “Nice.”

      “Rich said you’re looking for a roommate.”

      Lindsey nodded. “I am. I feel stupid paying rent for a two-bedroom when I’m hardly ever there. You in the market?”

      “Yeah. Rich said I should come over some weekend, see if it’s a good fit...?”

      “Great! Beats wading through the weirdos I might find online.”

      Excellent. One bit of matchmaking accomplished. Now, how to broach the second? Thankfully, Jenna wasted no time in steering them there.

      “Do you have a boyfriend here?” she asked, eyes wide and eager.

      “No. But I’d like to find one. Or at least get back into dating, now that I’ll finally be in the same city for more than a couple weeks at a time.”

      “Well,” said Lindsey. “We can help with that.”

      But Jenna’s smile had faltered. She didn’t seem to agree.

      “I wanted to ask how Spark works. And how much it costs, all that sort of stuff?” Steph held her breath.

      Jenna nibbled her lip.

      “It’s okay,” Steph said, wanting to offer her a polite out. “If you’re not taking new clients, or...”

      “It’s not that. I just honestly don’t know if I’m allowed to let you join.”

      Steph’s heart sank. She knew she should have changed. She was probably wrecking Jenna’s swanky cachet by even sitting here.

      “Technically you’re my employee, since I own the gym,” Jenna explained.

      “Oh.” That was a small relief. Though still a let-down.

      “Would you let me join the gym?” Lindsey asked Jenna.

      “I hadn’t thought about it like that.” She frowned. “I’ll have to call the head office. But if it’s kosher, of course I’d be happy to have you.”

      Steph’s mood brightened. “I wasn’t sure if... I know Spark is for professional types.”

      “You’re a professional ass-kicker,” Lindsey said. “Plus Mercer’s your employee,” she added to Jenna. “If we’re talking about inappropriate workplace poaching, here.”

      Jenna rolled her eyes and spoke to Steph. “I’ll be frank—I don’t know how our male clients would react to the prospect of a date with a woman who fights. But I think you’d make a very interesting addition, and I’m sure I could find you some matches...if not as many as I might for a woman with a more, um...traditional job.”

      “I figured.” Her profession tended to divide guys into a few distinct camps. The insecure jerks liked to call her femininity into doubt. The perverts suggested she might want to wrestle with them, preferably naked and covered in oil. And the polite but not-into-it guys smiled stonily and immediately ceased viewing her as girlfriend material. But one thing had long ago become clear—the majority of men didn’t relish dating a woman who could best them at chin-ups.

      “I’ve found it challenging myself,” she admitted. “I’d be fine if you marketed me as a martial arts instructor. That’s technically what I am now, and I think it intimidates guys less.”

      “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

      Did she ever. “A nice, grown-up, professional guy. With a half-decent car and some kind of dress sense.” She pictured that hopeless Patrick guy, and all the other incarnations of him she’d dated. “Somebody moderately sophisticated.” Who’d take her to a nice restaurant instead of the corner bar, so she could dress up and feel girly after all these years of training and touring. A man who’d make her feel like a lady, not a chick.

      “I’ll call the powers that be first thing tomorrow morning,” Jenna promised. “Give me your number and I’ll let you know the verdict.”

      She scribbled it on a Post-it, feeling hopeful. As she handed it to Jenna she said, “I promise if I get a date with one of your clients, I won’t go dressed like this, or all banged up. I’m just on a coffee break, and I knew you were closing at five, so...”

      Jenna waved the excuses aside. “If any two matchmakers are sympathetic to the hazards of your job, you’re looking at them.”

      “Okay, great. Fingers crossed. I better get back downstairs.”

      They said goodbye and Steph jogged down the steps, mindful to approach the double doors with caution. In her absence, Patrick had moved his debris and tools to the side, and she hurried through the threshold, half expecting to trigger an explosion.

      The dangerous man in question was at the other end of the gym, standing beside another worker at the emergency exit, scratching his head as they stared at a mess of wires spilling from an electrical panel.

      God help him, Steph thought.

      He was one of those men who just floated cloddishly through his life, helped along by those endeared by his good looks and hapless charm. Probably had sympathetic teachers who’d passed him so he could stay on the hockey team. Likely was coddled by girlfriends even after he’d forgotten their birthdays three years running. She knew his type well enough to make these wild assumptions—her younger brother was exactly the same. The lovable, harmless oaf.

      She touched her nose. Well, perhaps harmless wasn’t quite the word for Patrick.

      Steph loved her brother too much to feel bitter toward this kind of man, but a part of her did find it unfair. She’d had to work three times harder than any man in her field to be taken seriously, had to push herself to succeed, since so few people at the top of the MMA food chain cared to invest their energy or resources on a female fighter. Women didn’t get juicy coaching deals or promotional opportunities, not the way the guys did, and Steph’s biggest payday for a professional fight had probably been as much as what a guy like Rich earned before he’d even signed with an organization.

      She was a hard worker and she loved her job, but she was tired of struggling financially. She hoped she’d find an equally driven man, someone in a competitive—if civilized—field, who could offer the financial security she’d been missing her entire life.

      Her family had been pretty poor, her father losing a good job as a machine mechanic when his factory was bought out in the nineties. After the layoff, Steph’s mom had started working behind the deli counter at their local supermarket to supplement their income “until things picked up.” Two decades later, she was still there.

      Once upon a time, they’d been able to pay for Steph’s first karate classes without a care, but those days were short-lived. If she’d pushed herself to excel—at karate, judo, jujitsu, MMA—it was because being an overachiever had garnered her favoritism. The kind that had allowed her to keep coming to classes at a discount or in exchange for doing odd jobs around the dojo. Martial arts had never been a simple extracurricular to Steph. She’d loved it the way other girls loved horses or ballet or boys. And she’d fought to keep it in her life.

      Still, she’d been doing this for over twenty years. She was tired. She’d never grow weary of the physicality of the sport, but the financial struggle... She was ready to leave that behind her. Wanting a man who could offer that wasn’t shallow—it was practical.

      She eyed Patrick as she stripped out of her warm-ups.

      Handsome, to be sure. Sexy even, and probably perfectly sweet despite the alarming frequency with which he caused her bodily harm. But even if her blood quickened at the sight of him, her rational brain knew what a guy like Patrick would bring—more struggling, little stability. Maybe a great sex life, but that wasn’t a fair trade-off, not if it came at the price of all that uncertainty.

      She wound medical tape around her injured hand and pulled on her gloves, ready for the evening’s first workout. Down here it was business as usual—physical strain,