Project Produce(45)
“Ah, it’s a scratch. He’s had worse.” The gym manager leaned over my shoulder and stared at Dylan. He squinted, looking closer. “Damn, I think that might need a stitch.”
“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t opened your big mouth in the middle of a match, I wouldn’t need stitches, you old geezer.”
“Stitches?” I paled. “I scarred you?”
“Boy’s too dang pretty. He needs a few marks to keep him from gettin’ cocky.”
“Confident.” Dylan winked at me.
Yeah, yeah, we both know cocky implies a pickle, confident implies a zucchini, and there’s nothing small about you, Zuc.
“‘Sides,” the manager shook his head, “if he’d been payin’ attention to his fight instead of gawkin’ at you, he’d be fine.” He pulled Dylan to his feet and pressed a rag over the cut. “Hold this while I get my kit.” Then he waddled off.
“He’s going to sew you up?” I grabbed onto Dylan when he swayed and he leaned on me, his arm looped over my shoulder. God, I liked the feel of all those hard muscles pressed close to my side. We stayed arm-in-arm as I helped him into the manager’s office. “Aren’t you worried?”
“Gus is the best there is. Been sewing up his patrons for nearly forty years now. I’m more worried about how I’m going to explain this one to the guys.”
“Explain what?”
“How I got my ass whooped by a small-town girl.”
“Just tell them I’m a knockout.” I tossed him a saucy wink. “Told ya I could hold my own.” Good Lord, I couldn’t believe I just said that. I was getting way too comfortable with this guy.
Note to self: That’s your cue!
I just kept my arm around him, smirking like an imbecile. Why couldn’t I make myself let go and leave?
He shook his head, pressing the rag tighter to his forehead. “You’re a knockout, all right, but that was a lucky punch. I demand a rematch.”
We stopped walking, still arm-in-arm. “Bring it on, Detective.”
“Name the time and place, Mac.”
“If you two are done verbally fornicatin’, I’d like to get this over with. I’ve got a business to run, ya know.”
I shot Dylan a last smug smile. “Ding. Ding. Saved by the bell. And I’ve got to get to work.”
He squeezed my side. “You let me know when you’re ready for round two.”
I rolled my eyes and walked off to the locker room to change, giving him another glimpse of my jiggling insecurity that somehow didn’t feel so huge anymore.
Why oh why did I say I wanted to be just friends?
***
That afternoon, I sat in my apartment, feeling totally creeped out. After asking my boss what had happened to the undercover security guy, I’d found out he didn’t exist. So who in the world was Inspector Gadget?
Then my boss gave me an unexpected afternoon off. He’d said things were slow, so he’d told me to head home and crack open the books. I hadn’t argued because I needed the extra time to prepare my progress report.
The Angels had done an awesome job gathering research for me, but they still hadn’t interviewed a zucchini. So that meant I still had to, but I had enough of a start for a progress report. Now I just had to put it all together, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate anymore.
Go figure. After a lunch break of sparring with Hot Britches, I had all the academic skills of an amoeba. I blew out a breath. Why had I ever suggested we just be friends? I asked myself once again. I knew exactly why. I didn’t need a man in my life right now. Didn’t trust men. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to sleep with him. I shivered. So not gonna happen.
I glanced out the window to take my mind off of that. What a change from this morning’s snowstorm. The weather had turned bright and sunny, and the temperature had risen to forty degrees. I felt stir-crazy sitting there in the apartment, even though I was supposed to be working on my project. Maybe I just needed to clear my head. Ever since lunch, something had clicked inside me, a need to feel alive that only exercise could bring. I couldn’t afford to join a gym, so I’d stopped at Wal-Mart and spent the last of my mad money on a new, lime-green warm-up suit. That would sure as heck cure me of winter blahs.
Back home, my life had been drab and boring. I’d fallen into a depression right before I’d met Bob, but my parents didn’t want the scandal of me going to see a shrink. Not even one in the big city. Syracuse had been the big city to them. We’d all thought Bob was a dream come true, the answer to my depression, but he’d made my life far worse. If they knew I’d gone as far as Queens, they’d be worried sick.