In these two fan-favorite sports romance stories, winning is everything…

Making Him Sweat

Admitted romantic Jenna Wilinski has just inherited a boxing gym. With it she can finally realize her dream of launching an upscale matchmaking business…provided she can take on the very intimidating—and wickedly hot—boxer who stands in her way! Mercer Rowley vows to protect his “home” from this stubborn, feisty opponent. But man, once the gloves come off, his hands just want to touch her everywhere.

Taking Him Down

Matchmaker Lindsey Tuttle always thought Rich Estrada was a whole lot of sexy. He’s a gorgeous, flirty mixed martial arts fighter—what’s not to lust after? When they find themselves heating up during a make-out session, Lindsey is ready for him…until Rich abruptly ends it. A year later, Rich is back in Boston recovering from an injury. Lindsey figures it’s the perfect time for a rematch to remember.

Praise for Meg Maguire

“Maguire succeeds in socking us with a sterling combo of love, loyalty, family, sweat and tears. 4½ stars!”

—RT Book Reviews on Making Him Sweat

“Making Him Sweat is the first book in a brand-new series by Meg Maguire…that centres around MMA. You know what that means, right? Hot, sweaty, half-naked men. I’m there. I can expect only good things from Maguire!”

—Under the Covers

“If you enjoy reading about super sexy boxers who like to get down and dirty, then definitely give this book a try.”

—Blithely Bookish

“Full of interesting, likable characters and sexy love scenes.”

—Fiction Vixen

“I loved this book! Jenna and Mercer share some delicious sexual tension, but thankfully Ms. Maguire does not torture her readers. I definitely recommend this book and am looking forward to reading the sequel.”

—Badass Book Reviews

“I love fight books…especially where old-school boxing meets the more modern MMA style. This cute book had so many great characters and a good old-fashioned romance.”

—Nocturne Romance Reads

Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down

Meg Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

MAKING HIM SWEAT

TAKING HIM DOWN

Making Him Sweat

Meg Maguire

For Amy, Ruthie and Serena, with crazy gratitude for your time and input. You gals rock my socks. Continually.

Also with thanks to the staff of the Wai Kru mixed martial arts gym in Allston, Massachusetts—especially Michael, for letting me loiter and ogle, and pester him with endless questions about the business of building great fighters.

And of course, thank you to my editor, Brenda, for liking this premise enough to contract the series, and for beating my first draft into submission. I won’t let you down, coach.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER ONE

JENNA’S HEELS CLICKED against the asphalt as she crossed the street. Though they’d proven adorable enough to earn compliments from three different strangers on the ten-minute walk, she’d have to rethink this shoe choice in the future. Boston was made for flats, with its warped old brick sidewalks. Made for flats and for doctors who specialized in ankle injuries.

She survived a final block to reach her destination, a building she’d seen only in photos until this moment. Five stories, a former hosiery factory long since divided and repurposed. She paused to picture a new sign above the entryway, but a river of speed-walkers engulfed her, their brusqueness making it known that 9:00 a.m. downtown was not the time and place for daydreaming.

Leaving the August sunshine behind, she stepped into a cool, wide front corridor, with a worn but handsome hardwood floor and brick walls. She smiled, clutching her purse with cautious hope. With a bit of polishing and some nice light fixtures and greenery, this place could be very stylish indeed.

To her right stood a display case of boxing equipment, its glass overdue for some Windex. Gloves and shorts, headgear, mouth guards, supplement bottles—the accessories of her inheritance, surreal as that felt. She eagerly erased the image on her mental sketch pad and filled in the blanks, adding a couch and a couple of easy chairs, a shiny coffee table covered in magazines. Hopeful, excited people chatting as they waited. Waited for Jenna to make their romantic dreams come true.

In a few months’ time, this would be the home of the Boston branch of Spark, New England’s fastest growing matchmaking company—and Jenna its newest franchise owner. Spark was very old-school, unlike the online services, and that suited Jenna just fine. The web was great for impulsive commitments—such as shoes you’d never tried on—but one’s love life was not a thing to march into blind. Finding Mr. or Miss Right could be mystifying, and as a future matchmaker she was excited to help shine some light through the fog.

At the end of the foyer was a wide stairway leading down to what a banner on the wall proclaimed Wilinski’s Fight Academy—the less savory half of Jenna’s real estate inheritance. At the sight, she dropped back to earth from the clouds. The front doors opened behind her, and she tensed as a stocky man toting a gym bag brushed past and disappeared down the far steps. The misgivings she’d been flirting with for the past couple months flared, setting her body buzzing.

To her left was an office fronted with tall windows, welcoming if not private. Beyond the glass a man sat at a desk, typing on a laptop. If this was who she thought it was, he’d be expecting her. But not the news she had to share.

She took a final, calming breath and approached the open door, studying her adversary before announcing her arrival.

The man looked about thirty, with short brown hair. His thick arms and the formidable build beneath his T-shirt told her he was no stranger to the gym’s recreational punishment. His physique made her heart race. In another context it would’ve been a guilty, pleasurable excitement, but this thumping at her pulse points was pure nerves. A strong, capable body might be an asset for a lover—if you were into that kind of thing, which Jenna most certainly was not—but intimidating from an opponent. And this man was likely to prove himself the latter, once she spelled matters out for him.

She straightened the sweep of her bangs, the hem of her skirt, the set of her shoulders. Abandoning her silly, daydreaming self at the threshold, she knocked on the doorframe.

The man looked up and she saw him scan her in a breath before rising. He had a stern, pensive expression, but she thought she caught a widening of his eyes.

“Jenna?”

She stepped inside. “Yes. Are you Mercer Rowley?”

“I am. Nice to finally meet you.” He came around the desk to shake her hand in his rasped one, the gesture gruff and ungiving, just as she’d expected. No doubt his personality would prove identical.

Still, he was younger than she’d imagined. She’d assumed her father would have left some late middle-aged casualty of the sport at the helm, someone like himself. Well, someone like the character Jenna’s mother and the internet had painted for her in broad, unflattering strokes.

Mercer wheeled an ancient office chair from the corner for Jenna, and took a seat on the edge of the desk. He studied her as she got settled.

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Wow. Jenna Wilinski. You’ve got your dad’s eyes.” He said it slowly, a softness overtaking his voice and face. His gaze moved all over her body. Not ogling, but assessing.

Two could play that game.

Her brain clicked into pro-mode, making an inventory the way the matchmaking seminar she’d completed the previous month had taught her to.

Mercer had a boxer’s nose if she’d ever seen one, broken who-knew-how-many times, and homely ears to match. One scarred eyebrow not as tidily angled as the other. Fearless. Deep, steady breaths—calm under pressure. Perhaps a comforting presence for an anxious woman, or a foil to a chaotic one. He’d chosen a competitive, physical vocation, appealing to a passionate, ambitious type, should he somehow end up in Jenna’s singles database. Though as a selling point, “local color” probably should not equal black-and-blue.

“So,” she said. “My father left you in charge.”

Mercer nodded. “I’ve been training here since I was fifteen, under your dad. Then I started working with the younger guys about three years ago, and managing some aspects of the business. Your dad was grooming me for it the last year or so. Since his final hospitalization.”

Her stomach soured at the realization this stranger had known her father infinitely better than she had. That they’d shared a sport, a working-class accent, some brutal male appetite. That he’d known her father was dying, when she hadn’t been informed he’d had so much as a cold. The man from a handful of old photos, holding her as a baby, carrying her on his massive shoulders when she was a tiny kid. The man from old news headlines, convicted of drug-running and money laundering fifteen years earlier, out of this very building. The sentence had been overturned during an appeal, due to insufficient evidence, but as far as nearly everyone was concerned, Monty Wilinski had been guilty.

“Well, welcome to your inheritance,” Mercer said. “Do you have any interest in fighting? In overseeing the gym, I mean.”

“No, none at all.”

His smile was mild, but warm. She suspected he could have been quite good-looking, if he’d chosen vanity over violence. Striking was how she’d package him to a potential date. A dangerous, inadvisable breed of sexy, the kind that didn’t let a woman ever truly relax. His unwavering gaze made her feel all squirmy and… naked. She clutched her purse strap to still her hands.

“Yeah, your dad didn’t expect you’d be interested,” Mercer said. “Though it was nice of you to come all the way to Boston and see what you’ve signed up for. I’m happy to keep running the place. It shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

Perhaps not, but this man might…. She decided to tear off the bandage, no point dancing around the issue. “It was a stipulation of my father’s will that I keep the gym open.”

He nodded.

“But only through December thirty-first.” Her body went strange and cool and calm as the words rushed out.

Mercer’s lips parted but he didn’t speak for several seconds. “Okay. Right…so. And then what happens? You’re not thinking of closing it, are you?”

“I don’t know.” She hated how hard and stuffy she sounded, but this was her first act as a businesswoman and a boss, and she was determined to prove herself an assertive one. Or fake it. “It’s quite likely that I might.”

Mercer sat up straight, brows drawn into a tight line. “Why would you do that?”

“It hasn’t turned a profit in eighteen months.”

He slumped. “Well, no. But we’re not hemorrhaging money, either. It’s just been a rough patch, with your dad being sick, and the economy… It’ll bounce back. Keep it open and you won’t have to think twice about it, aside from getting deposits in your account back in California or signing the random piece of paper—”

“I’ve moved to Boston, actually. As of this morning.”

He blinked, hazel eyes going glassy as he processed the news. “What do you think you’ll do if you shut us down? Sell the property? The market’s not great—”

“I’m not selling it. If I do decide to close the gym, I’ll probably rent the basement to an outside business.” She indicated the office they were in. “I’m going to use this floor for a company I plan to open.”

“You’re going to close an established business to gamble on a new one?”

Jenna steeled herself, an invisible bell clanging to announce the official start of their bout. Her blood warmed and fizzed with adrenaline. Let the debate begin.

“It’s not a matter of choosing one business over another. But I’ve sunk all my savings into a franchise I’m investing in, and I’m not bankrupting myself to keep the gym on life support. The basement rental could bring in close to ten grand a month. Can the gym do that?”

His face fell. “It’s never made that much.”

She’d seen the past decade’s bank statements—she knew it didn’t. Even in good years, the profit it turned was a modest one. The gym was only still in business because her father had owned the space outright, and because he’d loved the place too much to put it out of its misery, even after the scandal had gutted its membership and scared away all its former sponsors. Without doubt, he’d loved it more than his family. Jenna and her mom could have used that money in the early days, back when they’d essentially been homeless, moving every six months, crashing with one set of relatives after another.

“Unless something seriously changes, the gym’s a charity I can’t afford to support.”

“It’s your inheritance.”

“The property’s my inheritance. My dad’s will made that clear, and I’m happy to conform to his instructions and keep it open until the New Year. It’s the least I can do, considering he left me a nice little slice of Downtown Crossing.”

Mercer’s eyes narrowed, wrecking his poker face. A humorless smirk quirked his lips. “Unless you want to load this building onto a truck and move it a block north, you’re in Chinatown.”

Fine, it wasn’t Summer Street, but it had a downtown zip code, and was rent-free. Jenna didn’t stand a chance of topping this windfall ever again in her life, short of winning the lottery.

Two men in sweat-streaked shirts sauntered past the office windows, glancing in and making Jenna feel distinctly as though she’d been locked in one of those submersible shark-observation cages.

“You can’t close this place.” If Mercer was panicking, he hid it well. Jenna’s own heart was thumping hard. She dreaded confrontation, but Mercer looked like six feet of unflappable muscle wrapped in a white T-shirt. Why did that make her feel so damn edgy?

“It was your dad’s whole life, this gym.”

Yes, indeed it was. “As much as this place might mean to you, it’s my choice. And I haven’t made my decision yet. I’m not allowed to until the end of the year, and you’re welcome to try to change my mind,” she added as a consolation. Jenna thought that time would be far better spent looking for greener pastures. “But this place has been in the red the past year and a half. And it’s got enough savings to stagger on for another, what? Maybe two years, at this rate, before that account’s bled dry?”

Mercer’s jaw clenched. “And I can tell you all the reasons why we’re in the red, and all the things that can be done to change that.”

“I’m sure you can.” And she was sure there’d be some ugly debates in her future over whether she’d be financing any improvements Mercer might have in mind. The gym needed full-on head-to-toe plastic surgery, but its budget would barely cover a concealer stick. Any money she agreed to sink into these changes would surely be too little, far too late. He hadn’t bothered suggesting she sell the gym itself. He knew as well as she did—as even the most foolish investor would—it was a lost cause.

He rubbed his face. “What do you want the ground floor for, anyhow? Why not rent that out?”

She felt her cheeks color, embarrassed to admit such a girlie endeavor to this no-nonsense man. “I’m opening a matchmaking business.”

“Wait. Like fight promotions?”

“No. You know, matchmaking. Arranging dates between compatible people?”

Mercer’s eyebrow rose, the one not hampered by scar tissue.

“Legitimate, romantic dates,” she elaborated, in case he was imagining something more akin to an escort service.

“Hasn’t that gone extinct? Don’t all those desperate people just go online these days?”

“Not everyone. Some people don’t want to shop for a relationship the way they might for car insurance or…” She trailed off, knowing her own feelings on the matter must be showing. “Anyhow, it’ll cater to busy professionals, people who want a personalized, more traditional approach to dating. And it’s not desperate at all. It’s very practical.”

“And you’ll be using the office for that?”

“I will. So during the time the gym stays open, I’ll need to move the display cases and everything in here downstairs.”

Mercer’s gaze swiveled to the ceiling, nearly an eye-roll. “Of course you will.”

“Don’t look so annoyed. I’m being put out, too, you know, consulting with potential clients with bruised, sweaty men staggering past the windows.” She jerked her head toward the entryway, just as another such specimen went by.

“Some women might like that.”

Jenna shot him a skeptical look.

“When’s all this going down? Your evil plans and this new business?”

“My evil plans? I’m not the bad guy here. I know what this place is about. I’ve read the articles.” She eyed the desk, wondering if that was where her father had sat, funneling drug money through the gym’s accounts.

“That was more than a decade ago. And it was a handful of assholes who did that, not your dad. He was acquitted.”

Not before he was convicted, and just after a whole bunch of evidence was very conveniently mishandled.

Mercer leaned to the side, bracing a palm on the desk. It was unnerving, being in this room with this man, sitting feet apart in the same space, at complete and utter odds. There was tension crackling between them, hot and sharp, an electrical current. She wondered if this was what stepping into a boxing ring felt like, conflict as visceral as lust.

Round two, she thought. He’d come out slow, scouting for her weak spots, maybe; now he’d surely start swinging. But he surprised her, his tone turning soft and sincere.

“If your dad was guilty of anything all those years ago, it was trusting the wrong people. He put his faith in guys like me, but that time he got burned. Bad.”

“Maybe.” But likely not.

“He might have been a crappy father and husband, not even much of a businessman, but he wasn’t a criminal. Listen. As shady as this place used to be, and still is, in some people’s eyes—”

“A lot of people’s eyes.”

“It meant the world to your dad, and to dozens of us. Jerks like me, but kids, too—teenagers, you know? If the gym weren’t here, those guys would take whatever energy they pour into training and redirect it the wrong way. I know ’cause I used to be that kid myself, until my mom made me come here and your old man taught me about discipline and dedication. But it’s nothing like it used to be. I’ll show you every last corner of it. Every receipt from the past ten years, if you need proof. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

She sank back in her chair, unwilling to be swayed by his little speech. Jenna was a softie at her core, a woman who sniffled during especially poignant life insurance commercials, sobbed through romantic movies and fell to pieces at weddings. But she’d uprooted herself to take advantage of the one taste of generosity her dad had ever bothered offering her. As tall and built and intimidating as Mercer Rowley might be, she’d prove herself twice as tough a competitor. She hadn’t moved her entire life to this city so she could watch her bottom line slowly get eaten up by the floundering gym—the same way it had eaten up the child support payments her mom never received.

Mercer ran a hand through his short hair. “Look. I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you think goes on here.”

“You’re going to tell me it’s noble, I’m sure. But I know it’s more than that. A boy’s club, for starters, no women allowed—”

“That’s one of the things I’ll look into, now that I’m the manager. And it’s not that they’re not allowed, there’s just no place for them to change.”

“How very welcoming.”

“All it needs is a bit of rehab, to make space for a second locker room—”

She cut him off, shaking her head. “Save your breath. I know this place meant more to my father than having a relationship with his daughter, so I’m a hard sell, trust me.”

His eyes widened. “Are you kidding? Your dad never shut up about you.”

The remark felt like a punch to the head, spinning her around.

Mercer went on. “‘Jenna’s team came in first at the swim meet. Jenna got hired as a camp counselor. Jenna’s going to college in Seattle. Jenna got a job on a cruise ship.’”

“Like any of that makes up for him not making any effort to be in my life.”

His face flipped through a range of emotions, but no words passed his twitching lips.

“What? Go on, since you’re such an expert about my relationship with my father.”

His shook his head. “You’re right, it’s none of my business. But I love this place and I loved your dad, and like it or not, you’re stuck with me, unless you feel like finding yourself a new GM.”

Stuck indeed. It wasn’t ideal, opening a dating service for successful professionals smack-dab in the entryway to a disreputable boxing gym. But then again, Mercer had a history here. He might prove a pain in her neck, but she was also turning his life inside out. He’d inherited this mess, same as her…but without the legal empowerment. It had to feel awful. She wouldn’t convince him the gym needed a mercy killing any more than he’d convince her it was worth keeping open.

It was going to be an ugly autumn, but she’d better just accept that.

Her body had been tight as a fist, but she felt the grip softening, relenting. “We’re not going to see eye to eye on this.”

“No.”

“And I mean what I said—I haven’t decided for sure I’m closing the gym when New Year’s rolls around. But don’t…”

“Don’t get my hopes up?”

“Exactly. I’m not trying to be a cold-hearted bitch. But I’ve seen the books. If things don’t change, and fast, there’s no justifying keeping the place open.”

Mercer blew out a long breath, leaning back on the desk to blink up at the ceiling.

She pondered this naked display of angst from a man whose job it surely was to camouflage his emotions behind a wall of strength, real or affected. Before they met she’d prepared herself to be intimidated by his anger, but it was Mercer’s openness that had her stymied. She glanced at his arms, at his fascinating, heavy-knuckled hands. Very odd breed, these fighter types. Her body warmed in a way that had alarmingly little to do with conflict.

Bad, bad, bad.

Romances were like candles. Lust was the flame, and passion the wick. Lust was important of course, but it was the practical compatibilities that made up the wax—shared goals, harmonious personalities, a healthy overlap of values and interests. The more wax you had, the thicker and taller a pillar you could make, and keep that wick burning nice and slow, keep the flame alive years after that initial spark.

With Mercer’s body this close, she felt the scrape of the match head across the striker, but that was the end of it. An invitation to get burned. Nothing more.

“Four months,” Mercer muttered.

“Four and a half.” She hazarded a smile. “Hope you like a challenge.”

He met her eyes. “I do. But this fight would be a hell of a lot easier if I had any control over the accounts and could fund even a few of the improvements this place needs to get profitable again. Your dad never even shelled out to have a website done.”

“I noticed.” If you looked the gym up on Google, eight of the first ten hits had to do with Monty Wilinski’s criminal trial. PR was not on Mercer’s side.

“If you’re honestly willing to give the gym a chance during these next few months, I hope you realize change costs money. Maybe not a lot, but something.”

“It’s my intention to be reasonable.”

Mercer exhaled mightily, seeming ready to put the argument to bed for the moment.

She softened her voice. “I think it’s best for everyone if we keep this between ourselves. This whole trial period thing.”

“On that, we’re agreed…. You want a tour of the place while you’re here? Quick look at your inheritance?”

“No, thank you. Some other time, maybe.”

He nodded, seeming unsurprised. “You know, I forgot to say it, but I’m sorry for your loss.”

His words tugged something in her middle, a pang of sadness she didn’t know how to process. “Well, thank you…. I’m sorry for yours. It sounds like you two were really close.”

“We were. It probably won’t elevate me or him too much for you, but your old man was the closest thing I ever had to a father. Sorry he wasn’t the same to you.”

“Yes. Well.” Jenna stood, trying her best to seem calm and businesslike, stern but not hurt. In her everyday life she wasn’t stern or serious at all, but this place was far from the everyday. She had to keep her game face on, her dukes up, lest she back down too much with this man. If only she’d had training in such things.

She wheeled the chair back to its corner. “I’ll come by and talk to you tomorrow, after I’ve gotten settled.”

Mercer slid from the desk. “I’m usually around here someplace while the gym’s open. If I’m not in the office, you can find me downstairs.”

He offered his hand and Jenna shook it, thrown once more by the feel of it, rough and confident. Rough and confident. She felt a shiver, a little show of approval from a lamentably primitive bit of her female machinery.

* * *

MERCER WATCHED JENNA exit and walk past the office window. He laced his fingers behind his head and exhaled a long, ragged breath.

Glancing around the office, he felt as though he were seeing the brick walls and worn furnishings for the first time. This building might have saved his life as a teenager, drawing him away from the choices that had gotten his best friend killed and landed a few others on a path straight to prison. It’d been the only constant he’d known in a life full of endless moves and evictions and instability, the place where his angry, volatile butt had been put in its place, where he’d learned being strong had jack-shit to do with acting tough.

He’d see the gym close over his dead body.

But four months wasn’t going to cut it. If he could get Jenna to agree to postpone the execution, maybe through the next year… An extra twelve months to start turning things around could make all the difference. There was a tournament fast approaching, and if all went well, a couple of their homegrown fighters could land pro contracts as a result. That would boost membership. They could shed a bit of their black-sheep rep as an old-school boxing gym gone to seed, and start proving they were an up-and-coming force to be reckoned with in the MMA scene.

But that was a big-ass if.

And if Jenna’s word was any good, she’d maybe approve a few hundred bucks here and there to replace old equipment, but for a contractor to build a women’s locker room, for serious advertising, for anything that’d bring in enough new members or the sponsorship to drag them out of the red…? Yeah, right.

Mercer needed some aspirin—Jenna was promising to be a royal pain in his ass. If a rather good-looking one.

And she looked roughly how he’d expected. More stylish, maybe. More grown-up. And sure, she was hot—sort of uptight, college-grad hot, and way out of Mercer’s league. He wondered what Rich would make of her. Then again, his shameless right-hand man would hit on a fire hydrant if you perched a nice enough wig on it.

Mercer—and more than a few of his fellow fighters—had held theoretical candles for Jenna. Monty had spoken about her often and flashed her latest school portraits around, and she was like a celebrity inside these walls. Mercer had built her up as some exotic creature, his mentor’s mysterious daughter off in California, moving to college in Seattle, living some exciting West Coast life, all blue eyes and pink cheeks, shiny brown hair, like a girl from a TV show.

He’d heard nothing but praise about her from Monty since he’d been a teenager, and he’d always assumed they were close, or at least speaking. It wasn’t until the man was dying that he’d confessed to Mercer how much he regretted the way he’d treated Jenna’s mom when they’d still been together, and how deeply it broke his heart that he and his only child had been out of contact for twenty-five years. Nearly her entire life.

Emotional crap had never been Mercer’s strong suit, and Jenna made him feel way too many things for his comfort. Threatened, fascinated, confused, annoyed. Plus a strong and completely inappropriate attraction—like the AC had broken, the office suddenly filled up with muggy August heat.

He shook his head, banishing all that sultry bull. There were pressing crises that demanded his focus, thanks to Jenna Wilinski.

He’d been living for free in the apartment upstairs since Monty had gotten really sick and needed assistance, but it was doubtful Jenna would be eager for him to stay. And if they were stuck splitting the bottom floors between two mismatched businesses for the next few months, he ought to avoid stepping on her toes whenever possible.

Mercer had absolutely no issue being pitted against someone, provided that someone was his physical match. Could even be a man six inches and fifty pounds bigger than Mercer, no problem. Bring it on. But this…

He was used to proving himself with fists and knees and elbows, not the business acumen he frankly didn’t possess, despite the title he’d grudgingly inherited. He was a trainer, not a general manager. Not an accountant or promoter or a secretary, though all those jobs had fallen to him since Monty had passed. Why the old guy had thought Mercer was up to the challenge, he had no clue. Monty had always given him more credit than he deserved, and in the ring it was a pressure he’d relished. But this just sucked.

He was up against a woman, a stranger beloved by the man Mercer had considered his own father. The conflict weighed heavily on his heart, confusing and complicated, not a dynamic he knew how to process. Nothing so simple as stripping down and climbing into a ring to let his fists do the proving.

Though it didn’t change one fact—nothing got Mercer’s blood pumping quite like a good fight.

CHAPTER TWO

JENNA RETURNED THE next morning. Her gaze panned the foyer once more, but the uncertainty of the coming months cast her daydreams in shadows. She’d barely slept at the hotel, tossed around between excitement about her new venture and dread regarding the one she’d been saddled with…and some other curious, confusing feelings about the man at its helm.

The office was locked and dark, so she had no choice but to head for the wide set of steps in the rear and search for Mercer in the gym. She glanced at her clothes, one of a dozen new outfits she’d bought, needing a wardrobe that said competent young business owner. Clothes that might convince a professional man or woman to trust Jenna with their love life, though the choice would probably look stuffy and prim to a concrete basement full of bloodlusting boxers. Her new neighbors, for better or worse. Her new employees until the New Year arrived. Thank goodness their management was Mercer’s territory.

She descended the steps, and the stairs doubled back at a landing with a watercooler and a framed vintage fight poster, Marciano v. Walcott. What struck Jenna first was the smell. Sweat. Rubber and leather. Disinfectant. The odd, pungent potpourri of her father’s legacy. Not a fragrance that softly whispered blossoming romance! But a well-placed fan could probably keep it from wafting into the foyer.

The sounds came next, slapping and grunting and the squeak of equipment joints. Jenna took a final breath and stepped through the open double doors and into the gym.

It wasn’t quite what she’d expected—not the shadowy, smoke-clouded drug-and-gambling den old newspaper articles had so vividly conjured. Roomier, brighter, even orderly. But the rest was as she’d imagined.

A dozen fighters worked out at punching bags and on mats. A pair of men in one of two elevated rings carried on a practice match, tapping one another, not hitting. Her heart hurt, as she’d expected it might.

There was something about fighting she found upsetting. A sport that put so much emphasis on the physical—on hurting people—and whose glory went to individuals. Jenna believed deep in her heart that people needed each other. They needed family and friends and partners and teammates, support systems and tribes. At the end of the day, fighting was about establishing who was the best, standing triumphant in some sweaty ring with your fist in the air, the loser cast aside, all alone.

Jenna had always gravitated to the opposite. As a teen she’d been a camp counselor during the summers, in charge of building communities out of groups of nervous strangers. In college she’d majored in social psychology and enjoyed it, but all the theorizing in the world didn’t give her a fraction of the satisfaction that working with actual people did. In the end, she’d proudly framed her diploma and abandoned her intentions of becoming a therapist in favor of taking a job on a cruise ship as activities director. She was great at that stuff—bringing people together.

She looked around the gym. It’s a lonely sport, she thought. For lonely, distrustful people. Give her a softball league, any day.

It was looking as if she’d come down into this gloomy den for nothing, that Mercer wasn’t here, that she’d have to come back later and feel this awfulness all over again—

“Hook, hook, hook!” The voice jerked her head to the left.

Mercer was shouting at a beefy young man, who dutifully doled out the punches he was ordered, thwacking the padded targets Mercer held between them. Both were shirtless, Mercer as pale as his student was dark, as lean as the young man was bulky. Jenna got distracted by Mercer’s body. Like his nose, like his knuckles, his bare torso was fascinating, attractive in a way that made her wince. She’d never seen a man’s body quite like his, toned and utterly stripped of fat. Efficient and dangerous. Her own body stirred, but surely that was just a weird chemical reaction, panic about being down here mixed with airborne testosterone or something.

As she approached, she donned her best impression of an unaffected, professional businesswoman.

“Mr. Rowley.”

Once a fresh punch landed, Mercer dropped his guard to turn to her. “Jenna, hey.” He spoke to his trainee. “Ten minutes on the rope, then go through those flexibility drills from yesterday.”

The young man nodded and let the two of them be.

“Glad you came by.” Mercer slipped the pads from his hands and set them aside, recinching the drawstring of his warm-up pants. “Bet you’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Should I be hopeful or terrified about this visit?”

She nearly smiled at that. “Pragmatism’s probably wisest. Could we talk someplace less…”

“Feral?”

She nodded.

“Sure. Can you spare five minutes so you don’t have to smell me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll meet you upstairs.” He jogged to the locker room. Jenna watched as he went, surprised by how many muscles comprised the human back.

She loitered in the ground-floor entryway, pretending to browse the equipment case until Mercer came trotting up the steps, dressed in a T-shirt and different pants.

He unlocked the office. “Thanks for waiting.”

Jenna followed him inside, noting his wet hair and a clean, manly smell—soap or deodorant. She sat in the guest chair, thinking this would be her future clients’ view as they awaited her guidance with their romantic goals. Maybe her own Mr. Right would make an appointment in the coming months, walk across this very floor, take a seat before her and suck the breath straight out of her lungs. Okay, maybe not months…not given her track record. Sure, it sounded bad, a matchmaker not being lucky in love. She could admit that. But she wasn’t afraid of commitment or anything. Just cautious. People could stand to be a bit more cautious, a bit more logical, when choosing a partner. Her mom sure could’ve been, back when she’d hooked up with Monty Wilinski.

Mercer sat on the desk, clasping his hands between his knees. “So, what’s going on in that brain of yours? Prepared to give us Neanderthals a fair shake?”

“Yes, I am. My father cared about me enough to leave me this place. The least I can do is offer you guys a chance to prove me wrong. And as much funding as I can reasonably spare.”

He sighed his relief. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. It’s not like I had much choice.”

In her periphery, she sensed gym members crossing the foyer. She just hoped her future clients wouldn’t be too put off by the curious human traffic marching past the office windows. To say nothing of the franchise standards overseer. She made a mental note to have said windows frosted.

“Well, I’ll take grudging tolerance, if that’s all I’m likely to get.” Mercer leaned forward and they shook once more.

“I ought to warn you,” he added, “the next month or so’s going to be chaotic. You’ll be moving in, plus there’s a big mixed martial arts competition arranged for the first week of October.”

Jenna nodded. She knew her father had switched the gym from straight boxing to include kickboxing and other disciplines in the past decade.

“Your dad sank a bit of money into it when the proposal first came up, to get our name on the event,” Mercer went on. “We’ve been co-planning it for over a year with a few other Massachusetts gyms and a promotions outfit. We’ve got a few guys who’re training their hearts out for it. I’m coaching a kid whose career it could launch.” Pride warmed his voice and brightened his eyes, softening his fight-roughened features. “People are going to be really keyed up, so apologies in advance if my head’s all over the place.”

“Understood. Is it taking place here? Downstairs?”

He laughed. She hadn’t heard him laugh before. It did something odd to her middle, the sound seeming to hum low and hot in her belly. Oh dear.

“No, not here,” he said. “It’ll be at an arena outside the city. Have you never watched any UFC?”

Any what? “No.”

“Well, ours isn’t a UFC event, but it’s the same idea, and still a pretty big deal. Got a couple important names on the card, and scouts coming from the major organizations, looking for the next generation of pros. We’re hoping for five thousand people.”

“Whoa.”

“Not much by Vegas standards, but not shabby, either. I’m hoping it’ll be just the shot in the arm this place needs to finally shrug off its lousy rep, earn some due respect and attract new members. Turn those books around,” he added pointedly.

“I’ll have my fingers crossed for you, then.”

“You should come. See what it is your dad helped start.”

She cooled at that. “Maybe.”

“Jenna?”

She raised her brow.

“Is there any chance I can talk you into extending the gym’s…you know. Trial period? Through next year, or even just through the spring?” The sincerity in his eyes broke her heart a little.

“Unless something amazingly encouraging happens, I can’t, no. Not without risking bankrupting both businesses.”

“I figured you’d probably say that.” After a disappointed huff, he slapped his thighs and met her gaze. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Primary mission tackled, Jenna turned her focus to a more awkward one. “I need to see the apartment.” The apartment where her father had lived since he’d walked out on Jenna and her mom. She’d been dreading this, having to sort through his things and confirm exactly how much of a stranger he was to her. “Do you have keys to it?”

“I do. And I already took care of your dad’s stuff.”

“Did you?” She bit her lip, torn between relief and annoyance.

He nodded. “I wound up moving into the spare room about nine months ago, when he was getting really bad.”

“Oh. So you’re still living there now?”

“I am. But needless to say, my name’s not on any lease, so never fear, I’ll vacate the second you say the word. I’m sure you’re eager to get that place rented out to a paying tenant.”

“And you got rid of all my dad’s things?”

“Not all of them. But he asked me to do that, in the run-up to…you know. So you wouldn’t have to.”

So her father had trusted Mercer with his possessions, as well as his business. To spare Jenna the burden, ostensibly, but she couldn’t help but feel she’d been excluded. She’d been left nothing but property and papers and account numbers, impersonal gifts, nothing imbued with a father’s affection for his daughter.

Though what had she expected, really?

“He’d already started giving stuff away toward the end,” Mercer went on. “To the guys he’s trained over the years. I didn’t touch the really sentimental things, pictures and books and letters. I thought you might want to go through that yourself.”

“I would, I guess.”

“He had a lot of photos of you, you know.”

A sensation like a cold breeze tensed her. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Your mom must have sent them.”

“I doubt that.” Never in a million years. “My grandma, maybe.”

“Well, he had tons of them. There’s a big picture of you from some graduation, hanging right over the sofa.”

Too many emotions surged through her, bringing tears she wouldn’t shed in front of this stranger. “It was thoughtful of you to take care of that,” she said tightly. “I’d like to move into the apartment, if it suits me.” And seeing that it was free, she knew it would. “But I didn’t realize anyone was living there.”

“Squatting now, technically.”

“Only technically.” She warmed a little toward Mercer, grateful he was turning out to be a reasonable guy in the face of her showing up with plans to upend his livelihood. She’d return the favor. “I won’t ask you to move out until you’ve got something lined up. Maybe two weeks? By September first?”

“I’d appreciate that. You want to see the place now?”

“Sure.”

Mercer locked the office behind them and led Jenna to the back, through a door beyond the steps to the gym and up a flight to the second floor. Doing her best to ignore the flex of his shoulders under his T-shirt, she followed him down a hall toward the front of the building, where he unlocked the apartment—one dead bolt among several. Not the best omen for the neighborhood, but she’d heard repeatedly that Chinatown was on its way up. She could be a part of that, start fading the ugly mark her dad had left. Her branch of Spark could be a great addition to the swanky new tapas bar and upscale florist that also shared the huge, block-long building.

The door opened into a high-ceilinged living room, the far end drenched in noontime sunlight from the tall windows. The furniture was sparse and dated, but the raw space was an interior decorator’s dream.

She looked to the wall above the couch, where a large framed photo of her hung, a flashback to her high school graduation. She quickly glanced away. “It’s what, twelve hundred square feet?”

“Maybe not even that, but two bedrooms, nice kitchen if you remodeled it. Laundry, great storage.”

Jenna was already itchy to get to work on this place. Her first apartment, all to herself… A thought occurred to her, surely too complicated to even consider negotiating. Yet her mouth burst out with, “Can I see the spare room?”

“I guess your dad’s room is the spare room now.”

“My dad’s room, then.”

He led her past a big combination kitchen and dining room that was begging for new appliances and a fresh coat of paint. Then Mercer’s back drew her eyes again, that interesting shifting of muscle behind taut cotton.

He pushed in the door to a modest bedroom, bare except for a bed frame and dresser. Its window opened onto a fire escape, facing an intersection and the garish sign for a Thai restaurant. An interesting view, but not one conducive to privacy or peace. She looked around, taking in the squares where posters or picture frames had preserved the slate-blue paint on three walls, brick comprising the final one.

She turned to Mercer. “Was this always his room, do you know?”

“I couldn’t tell you for sure, but the last few years, at least. Is that too weird?”

“I don’t know. He’s basically a stranger to me.” She’d expected to feel something stronger, standing inside these walls, but so far she felt only detached curiosity.

“Want to see the other room? In case it’s more to your taste?”

She nodded and followed him to the far side of the apartment. The second room was furnished, neat but small, with a similar street view. Next door was the bathroom, also tiny.

“Everything’s been retrofitted as residential, obviously,” Mercer said. “And before the condo boom, so kinda wonky and half-assed—like the gigantic living room and kitchen and the closet-sized everything else. It’s actually a toss-up which is bigger, my room or the pantry.”

She perked at the notion of having her own pantry. “I don’t mind. Makes it interesting. How’s the neighborhood?”

“Willing to admit you’re in Chinatown yet?”

She smirked. “Sure.”

He leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “It’s not perfect. But a thousand times nicer than when I was a kid.”

“For no rent, it doesn’t have to be Beacon Hill.”

“On the plus side, there’s not much worth burgling from a boxing gym. And security’s free between six a.m. and ten at night.”

She peeked inside the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “What do you mean?”

“There’s only about eight hours a day when there’s not at least one trained thug wandering around downstairs.”

“Oh, right.” She straightened to smile at him. “How very convenient.” For reasons not entirely clear to her, she found Mercer reassuring. Physically, maybe. She swallowed, her gaze dropping to his chest before she caught herself. Shutting the cabinet, she mustered the nerve to ask, “How would you feel if I moved in before you moved out?”

“And we’re roommates until I find my next place?”

She nodded.

“It’s your apartment.”

“Well, I’m asking how you’d feel about it.”

He shrugged. “I can put up with anybody for two weeks.”

She looked down to hide her grin, shaking her head. She could sense him smiling back, feel his nearness as tangibly as sunshine warming her skin. Dangerous.

“And hell.” Mercer leaned an arm along the doorframe and brought his face a little closer to hers, making something hot and unwelcome spike in Jenna’s pulse. He smirked. “Maybe us shacking up together is just the chance I need to grow on you—change your mind about ruining all our lives.”

Praying he couldn’t see how his nearness had flushed her cheeks, she stepped back and pretended to inspect the shower. “It’ll save me a chunk of change on a hotel. Just don’t be insulted if I run a background check on you.”

“Don’t be disappointed when you discover I’m not a felon. Let me know if you need help moving anything. I’ll mobilize the troops.” He nodded to the floor to mean the men laboring two stories below.

“I’ll get moved in this week, I imagine.”

“You’re the boss.”

The boss. An intriguing notion. Boss to a small, inherited army of brutes for now. To a well-groomed team of assistants in a couple months’ time, all things going as planned.

They wandered back to the living room and Jenna stared down at the busy street from the front windows. There was an Asian grocery store and produce stand across the way, flanked by a dry cleaners and nail salon. Not the most elegant neighbors on that side of the block. But she’d wow her clients with a stylish foyer refurb, maybe find some cool framed prints of Chinatown and play up the neighborhood’s colorful history.

She turned to find Mercer’s attention not on the view, but her face. In the sunlight his hazel eyes were the warm, brownish green of a ripe pear. His gaze was direct and unflickering, intense as a floodlight. It seemed as though he were reading her thoughts. For a long moment, they just stared at one another. Too long a moment.

She swallowed, gaze flitting from his bare arm to the shape of his chest, the stubble peppering his jaw, the curve of his lower lip. He mirrored the scrutiny, and in place of the casual calm he’d shown before, there was something else. Something…mischievous.

“I’ve got an extra set of keys down in the office, if you want them today.” His voice sounded so close, and so cool and assured when that stare was anything but.

She nodded, banishing the hyperawareness fogging her head. “That’d be good.”

“You okay staying in your dad’s old room?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring my suitcases over in the morning. If I can arrange to have a mattress delivered by tomorrow night, that is.”

“Works for me. Any furniture you need help with?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll buy most of the stuff new.”

“Gotcha.”

She sighed, feeling too many things. Overwhelmed, elated, terrified. Attracted, most unnerving of all. “Thank you,” she said again. “I know it’s probably not easy being this courteous to me, considering my bias.”

“What choice have I got?”

“Because I’m your boss?”

“Nah. Because I loved your dad. And he loved you. So I have to at least pretend to respect your wishes, as much as they suck.”

She laughed. “Well, I guess that’ll have to do.”

* * *

JENNA CAME BACK late the next morning, unlocking the door to her new apartment with the keys Mercer had given her.

“Hello?” She waited for a reply, but none came. Good. That gave her plenty of time to wander around in peace, before the awkward dance of cohabitating with the enemy began.

Okay, fine. Enemy was too dramatic a word. Mercer was nice enough, and he was too young to have been complicit in the gym’s infamous criminal activities. It weighed on her, holding his fate in her hands. The uncertainty of the unmade decision loomed like a dark cloud. A big, dark, muscular, Mercer Rowley-shaped cloud.

She dragged her suitcases through the door, struck once again by the size of the living room. Big enough to add a wet bar or breakfast nook, a cozy little home office…. Too much to wrap her head around this soon, and besides, the franchise had to take precedence. All in good time. All in small, manageable steps.

Step one, she unpacked a bag of her favorite coffee and figured out how to work the machine on the counter. While it brewed, she wandered from room to room, making a list of stuff she’d need to buy. Big list. Moderate budget.

She’d lived on the cruise ship for ten months a year for the past six years, her room and board included. During the downtime between seasons she’d stayed rent-free with her mom and stepdad, so she’d gotten used to being greeted by a robust number whenever she checked her bank balance. Goodbye to all that. Still, this was what she’d been saving for all that time, even if she hadn’t known it. A worthy investment—her new business, her first adult home. Something bigger than herself, a grand, exciting, romantic adventure. A calling. She could just sense it.

She covered the living room and dining area, thoroughly ogled her new pantry. Mercer had a single shelf stocked, mostly canned soups and vegetables, boxes of rice pilaf and similar bachelorish fare. Just add meat.

After nosing around the bathroom and her bedroom, Jenna came to the guest room. The door was closed and she knocked, just to be safe. No reply, she pushed it open, panning her gaze around her temporary roommate’s tidy territory. A nice double bed frame. She wondered if that was hers to keep when he moved out. She liked his view more than the one from her father’s window, and thought maybe she’d take this room when Mercer left.

As she went to inspect the open closet, she spotted something on the computer desk—a yellow folder with Business Notes scribbled on its tab. Frowning, she lifted the cover, promising herself she’d only peek at the top page.

Ten minutes later, she’d read half the contents.

It turned out Jenna wasn’t the only one who’d made plans. The folder held a stack of glossy brochures from elite training facilities, with various offerings circled and starred, plus page after typed page of Mercer’s ideas for improving the gym, even quotes from contractors. Most intriguing of all were two prospectuses from local colleges—one for a nutrition science associate program, another for sports medicine, along with their blank applications.

“Hey.”

Jenna gasped and spun around, finding Mercer leaning in the threshold, peeling a banana. She closed the folder and set it back in its place. “I’m sorry. I was snooping.”

He shrugged. “Technically, it’s your room.”

“Maybe, but that wasn’t appropriate. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I forgive you.” He said it in a lofty, joking tone of supreme and holy magnanimity, giving Jenna permission to relax.

She glanced back at the folder. “Looks like you have some big plans.”

“That I do. No clue where the funding might come from, but eventually I intend to haul this place out of the gutter and into the twenty-first century. Or I had. I guess that’s all in your hands, now.”

That stung. Jenna switched topics. “And you want to go to school to be a nutritionist?” She pictured his can-laden shelf, thinking he could use a few pointers.

“I don’t really know…just batting ideas around. But I’m thirty-four, which is ancient in this business. If I was good enough to be a serious pro, I’d have been told so fifteen years ago.”

She frowned sympathetically.

He swallowed a bite of banana. “Nah, don’t feel bad. Fighting was never about that for me. As long as I’m fit enough to keep sparring with the younger guys, and to throw my hat in for the odd amateur tournament, I’m happy.”

Certainly fit enough, some troublemaking bit of Jenna’s brain interjected.

“Tough life, being a professional. I may not be the smartest guy you ever met, but I’d like to preserve the few marbles I’ve got left.” He tapped his temple. “Maybe figure out how to preserve my boys’ marbles, too. That’s where that stuff from the sports medicine program comes in.”

“Your boys? Sorry, do you have kids?”

“No, no, the guys I train.”

“Oh, right. What did my father have you doing, before he passed away? What’s your job title?”

He laughed. “You make it sound like I’ve got business cards. But I was mainly a trainer, and your old man’s unofficial assistant. I helped him with the accounts and organized events, handled some of the outside managers and promoters. All-purpose flunky. This place is my life, as pathetic as that might sound to you.”

“It doesn’t sound pathetic.” Without thinking, Jenna took a seat on the end of his bed, then immediately regretted it. Was the move too familiar, or too much of a liberty, on top of nosing through his file? Or just too much contact with Mercer’s bed? It was too much of something. And her discomfort got worse when he wandered over and sat beside her. The square of comforter separating their thighs made a woefully flimsy buffer.

“I, um, I’ve got folders just like that one, for the franchise I’m opening,” she managed to say. “It’s not pathetic at all.” And maybe we’re not so different, deep down.

“Working with the young guys is great, but I’d love to learn more about the science behind it all, too. Maybe get certified to rehab injured fighters. Branch out, make the place more than a gym.”

“Sounds ambitious,” Jenna offered, sad to know this man’s hopes were dying, just as her own were blooming. The energy between them shifted, that lustful sensation deepening to something more tender. More vulnerable. She shivered.

“That was always a pipe dream, though. Especially since I’m stuck as the GM, now—not much time left over for implementing any of my grand plans, even if we did have the money.” Mercer stood. “Sorry to startle you. I just needed to grab a bite before the noon session starts. I guess I’ll see you around later, roomie.”

“Yeah. Sorry again. For snooping.”

“If it ain’t hidden, it ain’t secret, boss-lady. But thanks just the same for the apology.”

“Sure.”

Seconds later she heard the front door click and she released a giant, guilty breath.

“Smooth, Jenna. Very smooth.”

CHAPTER THREE

WHILE SHE WAS out scrounging lunch the next day, a call on Jenna’s cell confirmed her mattress and box spring would arrive in the afternoon. She moved sheets and covers to the top of her shopping list, checked her mapping app and memorized the short route to Macy’s.

She felt back in her element as she stepped inside the store, with its perfume smells, its colors, its familiarity and civility. And bedclothes! She hadn’t shopped for sheets since she’d been getting ready to move away to college. She ran her hands over the samples—smooth cotton, flannel, clingy jersey, sateen and its ritzier, pricier cousin, silk. She wondered what sort of man she might meet here in her new city, someone worthy of inviting to enjoy her new sheets. A silk man, surely. Or satin. What sort of sheets did Mercer favor, she wondered—

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, batting the dangerous query aside. She checked the screen, greeted by another heartening taste of the familiar.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, Jen! What are you up to? Is this a good time?”

“Yes, fine. I’m sheet-shopping.”

They chatted about Jenna’s initial impressions of the building and the gym, and her mother sighed noisily, a sound she reserved exclusively for whenever the topic of her ex-husband came up. “Just don’t let this Mercer person bully you into compromising too much. Those types can be very pushy.”

“He’s remarkably civil, considering what a threat I must seem like to him.”

Another sigh. Jenna could supply the unspoken words for herself—he sounds much more reasonable than your father ever would have been. But since his passing, her mom had finally found it in herself to censor her opinions on the matter.

“Well, that’s a relief. And a surprise.”

“Yes, a very nice surprise.” And a very nice-looking surprise, Jenna added to herself. Oops. “He was actually living with Monty, up until he died.” It always felt funny, calling him that. But he wasn’t her dad. Her stepfather was Dad. She considered mentioning she was letting Mercer stay for the time being, but that wouldn’t earn her any maternal endorsements.

By three-thirty she was back at the apartment with her acquisitions. The place was empty again, and dark, the sun behind the tall buildings now. She headed for a lamp and turned the switch, but nothing happened. She tried another with the same luck.

“Huh.” She’d have to hope Mercer was working. Before she left the apartment, she tossed her new bedclothes in the washer and checked her face by the last of the day’s light. She ran a brush through her hair, rolling her eyes at herself. Silly impulse. The fact that she wasn’t bleeding from an open wound ought to impress the barbarian horde.

Downstairs in the humid gym, she found Mercer in trainer-mode once again, though luckily with a shirt on. Far less distracting that way. He was observing some of the younger guys working out on the bags, and shouting the odd pointer. He spotted her as she approached, speaking loudly over the hip-hop music playing from unseen speakers.

“Heya, boss. How you doing?”

She had to admit, he was awfully nice. Awfully polite and accommodating, considering her intentions for his beloved gym. Though he did have every reason to butter her up. She’d be naive to go misdiagnosing his kindness as anything too personal.

“I’m fine, Mercer. How are you?”

“I’d be better if this kid would quit dragging his feet.” He nodded in the direction of the young man he’d been working with the previous afternoon. “I didn’t introduce you guys yesterday. How rude of me.”

Mercer shouted and swept an arm to beckon the man over. He put on a fight announcer’s voice. “A-a-a-nd from Boston, Massachusetts, nineteen years old, two hundred fifteen pounds, De-e-e-lante Waters! Jenna, this is Delante—Mattapan’s answer to a young Holyfield. Delante, this is Jenna, Monty’s daughter.”

She was struck again by the young man’s size—broad and meaty, way heavier than Mercer, though three or four inches shorter. Jenna shook his hand, feeling hesitance in the gesture, a shyness in his averted gaze not evident in any other aspect of the kid. “Hey,” he mumbled. His hair was braided into a labyrinth of cornrows, ending into two puffy tufts at the nape of his neck.

“What’s feeling lazy, pigtails?” Mercer asked him.

A shrug. “Footwork?”

“Couldn’t agree more. Go to it. I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”

Delante left them to head for another part of the gym and Mercer turned to Jenna. “I didn’t ask you the other day, but what do you think? Is this place what you imagined?”

She made a grudging face. “It’s different than I expected. Less awful than my mom and the old news stories had me assuming.”

“Be still my heart.” Mercer smirked, and it made Jenna’s middle squirm pleasantly.

Wait. Were they flirting?

“What were you expecting?” he asked. “A meth lab?”

“It’s nice, I guess. I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

Mercer’s gaze dropped. “Mind taking your shoes off?”

“Oh, sorry.” Just as she stepped out of her flats, she caught sight of a young trainee running a mop over the mats beneath a row of punching bags, sopping up sweat. Note to self—wash feet.

Another man approached, dressed to fight in shorts, barefoot, with fingerless gloves on his hands. He had longish hair and dark, aristocratic features, a Spanish prince with an aquiline nose and a raging black eye. He and Mercer clasped hands and gave one another matching shoulder slaps before they looked to Jenna.

“Jenna, this is Rich Estrada. Rich, this is Jenna Wilinski.”

Rich smiled—an easy, deadly, sigh-inducing smile, and took her hand in his gloved one. His smooth foreign airs evaporated the second he opened his mouth. His accent was pure Boston sandpaper, even heavier than Mercer’s. “Good to meet ya. You must take after your mom, huh? Your dad was a fugly son of a bitch, God rest his soul.”

“Thanks?” Jenna said through a laugh, and released his hand.

“Whatcha think of your sweaty-ass legacy?” Rich asked, crossing his scary arms over his chest.

She glanced at Mercer, unsure if he’d shared her so-called evil plans with his colleagues and made her a basement full of enemies. Hopefully not.

“She’s acclimating,” Mercer offered, then spoke to Jenna. “Rich is fighting in that MMA tournament in October, and he’s our resident Muay Thai trainer.”

“Moy what now?”

“Your dad sent him to study kickboxing in Thailand for a year, when this place was transitioning from pure boxing to mixed disciplines. Our loss when he hits it big and leaves us for some juicy pro contract.”

Rich shrugged, dismissing his credentials.

“Now he’s the gym’s great white hope for a bit of positive press.”

“Great Colombian hope,” Rich corrected.

Jenna smiled politely, fighting a twinge of angst to know her dad had paid for this man to travel and get a once-in-a-lifetime education—no matter how brutal—when she hadn’t received so much as a graduation card from him. Still, no use letting the hurt take deeper root. She’d wasted enough time on that. Heck, maybe he’d simply wanted sons.

She gave Rich’s body a brief assessment, hoping maybe he’d stir that heat in her the way Mercer did and prove it was just an indiscriminate, misguided lust, a chemical misfire brought on by their ridiculous physiques. Nothing. But a second’s glance at Mercer’s mere forearm? Zing. Damn it.

“I won’t keep you,” she said to Mercer. “But I can’t for the life of me figure out why the lights won’t come on in the apartment.”

“Oh, sorry. I should have told you. There’s a master switch right as you enter, bit higher than you’d expect. Stupid design. Throwback to when the place was slated to be offices.”

“I better go. The mattress people should be here soon.”

“Cool. I’ll be up around seven or so.”

Jenna bade the men a good afternoon and headed for the steps. She wondered what they would say about her once she was out of earshot. If they knew about her plans for the matchmaking franchise, they probably thought she was some silly fish out of water, a frivolous romantic.

No more silly or frivolous than teaching men to beat the crap out of each other, she decided. Both valid passions. Then she made the mistake of picturing Mercer engaged in his passion, stripped to the waist in a ring, gleaming with sweat, his face set with concentration.

Oh, bad. Very bad.

The delivery truck was pulling up as she reached the foyer, and before Jenna knew it, her bed was in place and made up with her new sheets and covers. The next step would be to find a supermarket, then get better acquainted with the kitchen.

An hour later she was unpacking her groceries, fantasizing about how she’d refinish the counters, what color to paint the walls, when the snap of the dead bolt pulled her out of her home-improvement fantasies. Mercer entered and waved from across the living room.

She mustered a smile to cover up the nerves he triggered. “Hey, roommate.”

“Hey, landlady. Did your mattress guys show up?”

“Yup. You done working for the day?”

“I am.” He pushed off his shoes by the door and crossed to stand on the other side of the counter, eyeing her new purchases—coffee grinder, salad spinner, her first ever brand-new set of knives. “Very fancy,” he said, examining her gleaming French press. “Must get that from your mom. Your dad ate the same dinner every night, for as long as I knew him.”

“Really? What?”

“Roast beef sub from this dingy Polish hole-in-the-wall. Even made me sneak them into the hospital for him, once or twice. Probably kept that place in business, single-handed.”

Jenna turned her attention back to her groceries, peeling stickers from her produce, avoiding Mercer’s eyes.

“Sorry. Is it uncomfortable, me talking about him?” Leave it to a boxer to read all her little cues. Probably an ace at poker, too.

“That’s too strong a word,” she said with a shrug. “Just weird.”

“What’s your mom like?”

“What did my dad tell you she was like?” Jenna countered.

“He never said much, really. Which just meant he wasn’t crazy about her, but was too nice to say so. Talked way more about you.”

“Yeah. I’m sure he had plenty to say, considering he hadn’t seen me since I was four and we moved away. Since we talked maybe twice on the phone, the whole rest of my childhood.” Awkward calls, both on her birthday if she remembered correctly. False and overly cheerful, like chatting with a mall Santa.

“Well, he was really proud of you, anyhow.”

Jenna sighed quietly, deciding now was the perfect time to open the wine she’d bought. She held it up to show Mercer. “Would you like a glass?”

He shook his head. “I don’t drink much when I’m training.”

“Not good for keeping in peak condition?”

Mercer reached over the counter to pull out a drawer and hand her a corkscrew, giving Jenna quite a nice view of his flexing arm.

“I actually meant I don’t drink when I’m training other guys, getting one of the kids in shape for a match. I try to set a good example.”

She filled a tumbler, mentally adding stemware to her growing shopping list. A definite must, should she find the time to finagle a date of her own, off the clock. She shot Mercer a smirk. “And you think teaching your trainees how to beat people senseless is a good example?”

He returned her smile, the gesture making him truly, properly handsome for a moment. She caught herself fixating on the contours of his chest and shoulders beneath his T-shirt, those deadly—literally deadly—arms braced on the counter.

“It’s strange to look at you,” Jenna said, corking the bottle, “knowing my dad had a part in raising you.”

“Do you have a stepfather?”

“Yeah. My mom remarried when I was ten. That’s probably a big part of why I never got in touch with my father. My stepdad’s a great guy. I mean, he’s my dad.”

He’d changed their lives, nearly overnight. Her mom had been a wreck up until then, depressed and desperate and always struggling with multiple jobs, overwhelmed by the stress of being a single mother. Then her stepdad had shown up, and everything transformed. Her mother had blossomed with a good man’s affection and support, and for the first time in her life, Jenna had understood how essential it was to feel secure. Like you weren’t alone. And it went far beyond some old damsel-in-distress refrain—her stepdad had transformed, too. He’d told them so a thousand times. He’d offered them stability—financially and in so many other ways, but he’d benefited just as much. You’re the family I didn’t even know I deserved, he’d said one Thanksgiving. It was as if all their jagged edges had fit together like joints, the whole so much stronger than its pieces.

From then on, Jenna had gone forth in awe of the Healing Power of True Love—cue harp music—as only an adolescent girl could. As it turned out, she was great at spotting matches. Three sets of friends she’d gotten together in college were now married or engaged, another two pairs happily living together. More than once she’d been approached by people she’d introduced as strangers the year before on the cruise ship, back for another trip and wanting to tell her they were still together. It hadn’t occurred to her it might just be her ideal career, not until she’d chanced upon an article about Spark, and read that the business was looking to expand to new markets. And like a sign from above, she’d inherited this place, not even six months later.

She sipped her wine. “I always thought it would be an insult to my stepdad if I went looking for my biological father, having only been told what a jerk he was.”

Mercer winced.

“He was really good to you, huh?” Jenna asked.

“He was. Hard as hell, but that’s what I needed. That’s what a lot of kids need. Somebody who’ll hold them to a higher standard, come down on them when they screw up. Forgive them when they try to do right.”

She nodded thoughtfully and the conversation lagged. Mercer disappeared downstairs, returning with a laptop and a pad and pen, and setting up at the dining room table.

Jenna took another sip of her wine and deemed it worthy of her first evening in her new home. The faded paint and the jumble of her dead father’s furniture—to say nothing of the stray boxer in the spare room—would need to go, but she wasn’t in too much of a hurry. Like the wine, Mercer’s presence put her mind at ease. Though his body, it seemed, was doomed to put hers on high alert.

“Jesus,” he murmured, eyes on his screen. “Eighteen hundred for a studio apartment on Comm Ave? You’re shitting me.”

“No kidding. I did a little research myself, in case this place didn’t pan out. I’ve never paid rent before, and man was I in for sticker shock.”

“Never paid rent?”

“I worked for a cruise line for ages, and it’s one of the perks.”

“Huh. What did you do?”

“I was the activities director. I organized cocktail parties and dances and things like that.”

“Is that good training for being a…whatever it is? Dating agent?”

“Matchmaker. And it is. I planned tons of events for singles. And I’ve had official training, since I applied to be a franchisee. I’m pretty good at matchmaking. I’m really good at it,” she corrected. “It’s exciting, watching people you introduce fall for each other.” The most exciting thing in the world…except perhaps for falling in love yourself. Jenna hoped to confirm that theory, someday. Yeah, fine, maybe her romances so far hadn’t been as epic as she’d envisioned, but she had faith.

“Not much like watching people you train step into a boxing ring to meet their matches, I bet,” Mercer said.

She laughed. “No, I hope not. But maybe you guys do dating differently around here. Guess I’ll find out.”

“You’re from Boston, though, right?”

“Technically. But I don’t remember anything from before we moved to Sacramento. Where did you grow up?”

“All over. Mission Hill and East Boston for a while, then Back Bay, before the yuppies invaded.”

“Is your family still there?”

“My mom got pushed out when her building was turned into condos. She’s in Brookline, now.”

Mercer went back to his clicking and squinting and scowling, and Jenna got her ingredients organized.

“I’m doing a stir-fry,” she said as she peeled the plastic from her new cutting board. “Should I make enough for two?”

His chair squeaked and he wandered back to the counter. “If you’re genuinely offering, sure. But I can make my own dinner if you’re only being polite.”

She glanced up, just long enough to get caught in that unwavering stare. “I don’t mind. It’s just as easy to cook for two.”

“Okay, then.”

Jenna decanted a slew of new spices into matching bottles, and as she opened a sack of rice she asked, “How hungry are you?”

“Hungry.”

The proclamation gave her a fresh shiver, a silly stirring of her libido she’d be wise to ignore. She measured enough brown rice for three people and got it simmering, checked the time and oiled her new wok. While the rice cooked, she set to work slicing vegetables and chicken. Mercer watched her hands with unhidden interest.

“I feel like I’m hosting a cooking show.”

“It’s fascinating.”

“I gather you don’t cook much, judging from what you think passes for staples in the pantry.”

“Casualty of my upbringing. My mom was never home so I grew up on microwave meals and takeout. But when I moved to Brazil I realized I actually have a palate. And that foods that aren’t beige and deep-fried taste pretty good, and make me a better fighter.”

“Brazil?”

He nodded. “Your dad sent me there to study jujitsu for a year, when it was becoming clear that MMA wasn’t a fad. Same idea as when Rich went to Thailand. He wanted us to bring back what we learned and incorporate it in the workouts. I’d prefer to get a proper, full-time jujitsu trainer on staff, but we can’t afford it at the moment.”

Jenna frowned to herself. Two men her father had paid to send abroad. Still, she’d been lucky to grow up with an amazing father figure. Mercer didn’t seem to have had such a privilege built into his home life. She steered the topic back to food. “So my father didn’t instill nutrition as part of your training?”

He laughed. “Nah. Monty was a red-meat-and-cigars kind of old-schooler. He barked a lot about carbs when we were bulking up or slimming down for a weigh-in, but that was the extent of his dietary advice. What’s that?” He pointed to the vegetable she was chopping.

“Bok choy.”

“And that?”

“That’s a ginger root. If you feel like being useful,” she added, handing him a cheese grater and sliding a plate across the counter, “you can shave me a little pile of it. A teaspoon or so.”

He tore away the grater’s packaging and got to work. “Whew, there’s a smell.”

“Nice, isn’t it?”

He took a deep whiff. “Actually, yeah.”

She could feel herself relaxing, perhaps from the wine, perhaps from managing to see Mercer as something simpler than a partner or roadblock, or a rival for her father’s love. As a friend, maybe. In time, if temporarily. She hoped so—it’d make working with him far easier, and soften the blow when she inevitably had to end the gym’s suffering.

“Can I give you some cash for this stuff?” he asked.

“If you do end up helping me move furniture, this is the least of what I owe you.” She drained her glass and poured herself a couple extra ounces. “You sure you don’t want any of this? It’s very good.”

Mercer kept his attention on the grater and sighed dramatically. “You women. Evil temptresses.”

“Is that a yes?”

He shook his head. “This is why I tell my kids to stay away from girls when they’re training. Chicks and alcohol—nothing but trouble.”

She could feel another seed of flirtation sprouting, changing the atmosphere between them. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No way. You’re all more hassle than you’re worth.”

She stopped chopping to shoot him a look. “Remind me not to use that quote for the men-seeking-women section of my future website.”

He grinned. “If I had a fight coming up, I’d opt for a broken rib over a clingy girlfriend. No contest which is more crippling.”

“Now that’s just mean.”

“Nah, it’s just true. You’re distracting. With all your worrying and your phone calls and your…shapely parts.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it of a feminine mind-control spell, and the flirtation seed officially put down roots.

“Guess I won’t be signing you on as a client.”

“Save that nonsense for the reformed frat boys cluttering up State Street. If you’re too busy or lazy to go out and find a woman for yourself, you’re probably too busy or lazy to keep her happy.”

Jenna took a deep breath and asked a question that had been irking her since she’d snooped through his folder. “What do you think you’ll do, when the gym closes?”

“Not even going to soften that with an ‘if,’ huh? Well, I’ll probably go to work for another place, as a trainer.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. And it might be better for your career, working somewhere a bit more reputable. Somewhere with more Google hits for its fighters’ accomplishments than its criminal scandals.”

Mercer made a face, looking as though he were smelling something far more pungent than ginger. “Doesn’t sit right, working someplace else. Guys like me are loyal, sometimes to a fault, and it’d feel like I was spitting on everything your dad ever did for me.”

She let one of his words bounce around in her head—loyal. Territorial. Protective. A strong man, capable of fighting to the death for his family. Her cavewoman libido stirred anew, a pleasurable, ill-advised warmth blooming in her body.

She glanced at Mercer’s arms as he picked strands of ginger from the grater. One of his forearms bore a bruise as big as a coaster, and she fixated on those knuckles again—pronounced and scarred. A phrase flashed across her mind—the human animal. She swallowed, wishing she could blame these thoughts on the wine. It didn’t bode well for a matchmaker to let lust trick her into an infatuation with a self-proclaimed commitmentphobe. Oh yes, very good instincts at work.

Jenna got the wok heating. “Tell me about Brazil.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Oh, anything. I’m a romantic. Did you have any steamy love affairs down there?”

“I trained and competed for thirteen months straight, two hours’ bumpy drive from the nearest real town. The only thing steamy for me in Brazil was the climate. Even if I’d had the chance, I’d have passed out from exhaustion on top of the poor woman.”

“Aw, such a waste.”

“Oh yeah. Cruel of me to deny the ladies of the world that famous Boston suaveness.”

Jenna tossed the chicken and vegetables into the pan. A tad buzzed, she turned to scrutinize her roommate for a long moment, eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“You know, you’d be handsome if you hadn’t been hit in the face so many times.”

A slow, wicked smile answered her, and something flared between them, something hot and mutual, tangible as the heat rising from the stove. “Is that your idea of a seduction?”

She shook her head.

“Just as well. You should’ve seen me before the fighting. Way uglier than this. All the broken bones have done me good. Quite the face-lift.”

She laughed.

“You know,” Mercer said, “you’d be cute yourself, if you weren’t hell-bent on wrecking my life.”

Her face went warm from both aspects of his comment, and she hid her blush by tending to the sizzling stir-fry.

“So, Miss Matchmaker. You leave some poor guy crying back in California?”

“I was exiled on a ship for six years, remember?”

“And you never bothered hooking yourself up while you were helping all those lonely tourists?”

She shrugged. “I dated a few guys, sure. Coworkers, of course.”

“Of course?”

“Well, there’s no point getting involved with the guests, when they’re only going to be around for a week. Which is fine for a fling, I guess, if unprofessional…”

“But you’re not a fling-y kind of girl?”

“No, I’m not. And cruise ships are really incestuous places. You blink, and everyone’s hooked up with everyone else—the lifeguard with the lounge singer, the nanny with the tango instructor. Sort of complicates a guy’s appeal, knowing he’s kissed half your friends by the time he gets to you.”

“I can see how that might wreck the mystique.”

“Plus the gossip on those ships is shameless. And I like that sort of stuff to stay private.”

“Bit traditional, then?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” She offered a mysterious little grin and turned back to the stove. It was a curious sensation, knowing he was standing there, just on the other side of the counter. That life, that weird set of experiences and skills. And holy hell, that body. Jenna usually caught herself falling for tall, slender men. Mercer was tall enough, but slender…no. Not burly, either, but…cut. Yes, that was the adjective. If he ever wound up in her Boston bachelor database, she’d be stuck with the inadequate drop-down menu designation of athletic to qualify that build. And if Mercer was athletic, then Bill Gates was well-off.

“So, you won’t be competing in that tournament next month?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Nah. I’m strictly there as Delante’s corner. Gonna run that kid into the ground for the next six weeks.” He grinned as though he relished such a chance. “Keep him too busy and too exhausted to worry about girls or any of the other nonsense waiting for him back in his neighborhood.”

“He’s like your project.”

“I guess. But I don’t do it for me. I didn’t lose a year’s sleep and nag myself hoarse to keep him from quitting high school because it was fun.”

“Why, then?”

“You just see something in a guy. You can tell when a kid’s got it, like this energy. He stands out. And you want to make him see it, too.”

“And what did my dad see in you?”

Mercer laughed. “Hell, I dunno. I was never going to go pro, not big-time, and I’m sure he knew it. I think he just let me believe maybe I could, so I’d have something worth working toward, give me some direction. I guess he just liked me.”

“What were you like, before boxing?”

“Pretty rotten apple. Or on my way there. My mom figured if her stupid-ass son was so hell-bent on getting himself in fights, maybe he could make something of it.”

“Guess she was right.”

He nodded. “Moms usually are. It’s a tough age, fourteen, fifteen. You think you’re a man, even though you’re so incredibly not. If you don’t know what you’re good at by then, your identity starts latching on to whatever you’re bad at. Whatever’s got people paying attention to you. That’s my theory, anyhow.”

“I think there’s some wisdom in that.”

They fell silent, and Jenna felt that pleasant wave of nerves again. It would probably only last as long as her wine buzz, but she had a crush on Mercer. The feeling wouldn’t be there when she woke, and their acquaintanceship was already complicated. They shared three key things—an apartment, a business and her dad—and tenuously so. They couldn’t possibly add a romantic entanglement to that list and not expect it to implode. Still, why did Mercer’s personality have to wind up being as appealing as his body?

“So, you don’t really date, then,” she heard herself asking as she turned down the burner under the veggies.

“Why, you need recruits for your harem?”

“It’s called a client database. Are you just a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy, then? Three rounds and tap out?”

He laughed. “For a girl who won’t kiss and tell, you’re awful nosy about other people’s love lives.”

She blushed. “Just the wine talking.”

“Well, I don’t really do serious relationships. Between my mom and your dad, I got a pretty thorough education in how much pain love can saddle you with, if you get it wrong. And most folks I know seem to get it wrong.”

“That’s why they need me,” she said brightly. “To steer them in the right direction.”

“No offense, but taking dating guidance from a single woman sounds like being taught to bird-watch from a blind guy.”

Jenna gaped, playing up her offense. She grabbed a wet sponge and whipped it at him.

Laughing, Mercer batted it away. “Or hiring a homeless guy as your Realtor.”

Scanning for a weapon, she reeled out the sink sprayer and gave it a quick, solid squeeze. Mercer studied the damp patch spreading down the front of his T-shirt, still chuckling. He looked up. “If you weren’t a girl, my boss and my landlady, you’d be so dead right now.”

The faintest smell of burning rice drew her attention, which was just as well—she was enjoying herself far too much.

“Get us some bowls, Mr. Rowley. It’s time to eat.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WINE WAS TEMPTING.

Mercer stole a glance at Jenna across the kitchen. Also tempting. Also the worst idea in the history of the world, given the balancing act the next few months were going to demand. Plus she was into commitment and compatibility. Mercer wasn’t a womanizer by any means, but he’d definitely spent more time in his cumulative flings than in a real relationship. He and Jenna played in very different leagues when it came to dating—hell, different sports—and matching the pair of them could only end in unintentional fouls and injuries.

Still, he could flirt. Nothing wrong with that. Might lighten the mood, break the ice, melt some of the tension that had marred their initial introduction…and turn the heat up under that other tension they had going on, which was far more fun.

“So,” he said as they sat down at the table. “If I signed up with your little dating service, what type of woman would you match me with?”

“A fairly desperate one, I imagine,” she teased.

“So I’m your type, then?”

She shot him a playful, killing look, probably wishing the sprayer were still within her reach. “Yes, very funny. But you told me yourself, you’re not interested in a relationship. I’m not going to waste my time trying to find love for men who’re only up for a random roll in the hay.”

“I never said that’s what I’m about. Not exactly.”

“Anyway, you’d have to go through an exhaustive interview before I could figure out who you’d hit it off with. I barely know anything about you.”

He took the first bite of his dinner, finally understanding why it might be worth going to all the trouble Jenna had. Beat the hell out of takeout. “This is delicious.”

“Thank you.”

“But go on. Ask me one of your dating-thing questions. Interview me.”

She looked to the ceiling, dredging up a mental questionnaire. How on earth was this Monty’s daughter? She’d been putting on a semiconvincing tough-cookie act with him when it came to the business stuff, but beneath that thin shell she was a softie through and through. Mercer watched her shiny brown hair as it swung about her shoulders, wondering how it would feel wound around his fingers.

“Okay,” she said. “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

He frowned, genuinely surprised to realize he hadn’t the faintest clue. “Um, in a perfect world?”

“Sure.”

“In a perfect world I’d still be here, running this place. But it’d be way different. All those things you snooped through and more.”

“And…?”

“What else is there?”

Her fork clattered against her bowl and she gave him a supremely annoyed look. “You didn’t even mention a wife or kids or any kind of personal life.” She shook her head and resumed eating. “No way you’re getting anywhere near my clientele.”

“That’s not fair. You tricked me.”

“Didn’t. Even. Register.”

“Fine, stick a wife in the picture. I’d be a great husband. To the right woman.” An exactly, perfectly right woman for him. There was no way he was taking a chance, only to wake up heartbroken or ditched, maybe miles away from a kid or two once the divorce dust settled. And if Mercer ever met such a woman, he’d know. Until then, no sense trying to make do with anything less.

Jenna rolled her eyes and speared a pea pod on her fork.

“What? I would be a great husband. Fix your car, rub your feet. Beat people up for you.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Grill a mean steak, rewire your toaster. Great kisser.”

“All men think they’re great kissers. Just like you all think you’re the only decent driver on the road.”

“Maybe, but I am. Amazing kisser. Dangerously amazing. Your panties would, like, disintegrate, I’m such an awesome kisser.”

“Uh-huh.” Jenna seemed to bite back a smile.

“Don’t act like that’s not important. Like you’ve never been on a date and thought the guy was pretty okay until he went in for the good-night kiss and it was all…” He made a grossed-out face.

“It’s important, but it’s not everything.”

“People should make out, like, ten minutes into a first date, and make sure that chemistry’s there. If it’s not, why waste the money on dinner?”

“Some people won’t feel that with a person they don’t know yet. Most women, I suspect, at the risk of sounding sexist.”

“Well, that’s what I’d tell my clients to do.”

“You’d make a terrible matchmaker. And an even worse first date.”

“Just leading with my strengths. I’d kiss you so good, you wouldn’t even notice what a cheap restaurant I took you to.”

She laughed again.

Mercer was happy to let the topic linger, enjoying flirting more than was advisable. But to his disappointment, Jenna changed the subject.

“Where’d you get your name from? I’ve never met a Mercer before.”

“It was my great-uncle’s name. He was a prizefighter in Baltimore, actually, back in the fifties. ‘No-Mercy’ Mercer McGill, he was called.”

“Wow, now there’s a name.”

“Tell me about it. Lucky bastard.”

“Do you have a fight nickname?”

“Nah. I was never a headliner. Decent record, though, brief as my semipro career was. Five and two, three knockouts. Don’t think my odds were ever much to write home about.”

Jenna went noticeably still, not speaking for a protracted moment. “There was probably tons of that going on. Gambling.”

“Sure. Goes hand in hand with the sport, for better or worse.”

“My dad must have been good at it…guessing outcomes.”

There was bitterness in her voice, impossible to miss. Mercer felt it, too, her condemnation of her dad—hell, his dad, for all intents and purposes—putting him on the defensive. Nearly everybody believed Monty had been involved all those years ago, though Mercer refused to think him capable of it. Not the man who’d personally drawn him away from what would’ve surely been a similarly ugly path.

“Actually, your dad never gambled.”

She met his eyes. “No? Why not? Was it forbidden if you’re involved with one of the competitors?”

“Like that stops anybody. But no, he just wasn’t interested in that side of it. He thought it bred corruption and match-fixing.”

“Huh.” Her perplexed expression told him she’d been fed a much different story.

“Okay, actually, that was a lie,” Mercer said. “Your dad did gamble on fights. Once on me, to win.”

She relaxed, clearly vindicated.

“I won that match, think I got paid about five hundred dollars. Then your dad takes me aside in the locker room and tells me, ‘Son, you just made yourself three grand. I’m sending you to Brazil.’ He handed me this wad of cash and I was like, excuse me?”

“That’s how he paid to send you abroad?”

Mercer nodded. “Didn’t even know he’d been planning anything like that. Same with Rich. Made us both earn our way. Guess that’s how he thought of it. Only two bets I ever heard of him placing.”

Jenna seemed to mull all of this over as they ate, a crease of confusion pinched between her brows. Goddamned cute.

When they were done, Mercer took their bowls to the sink. “That was the best meal I’ve had in ages. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Nice to have the time and space to cook again.”

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, her gaze moving restlessly around the apartment. Eventually she asked, “Do we have cable?”

“Yeah. Go nuts.”

“Are you sticking around here for the night?”

“I was going to. Rich is overseeing the evening session. Is that a problem?”

She smiled tightly. “No, no. It’s just that on Wednesdays I usually watch this show. It’s really stupid, so I don’t need to subject you to it.”

“What?”

“This dumb dating show.”

“What do you care what I think about your crappy taste in TV?”

“Fine. Just tell me if it’s too loud or anything.”

Mercer put the dishes in the sink to soak while Jenna got settled on the couch, messing with the remotes. He grabbed his notes and laptop and took a seat on the far cushion.

It felt funny—funny in a nice way—sharing a sofa with a woman. He hadn’t had a date in a few months, thanks to Delante’s increasingly high-maintenance training regimen. Felt good, sensing the soft presence of a female body. And not just any female body. The mystery girl he’d been curious about for years, who’d grown into quite a knockout, albeit a buttoned-up one.

The show started then promptly went to commercials. Jenna rose to get herself a fresh tumbler of wine. Mercer raised an eyebrow as she sat back down, legs folded under her swishy skirt, throw pillow hugged to her middle.

“What?”

“Nothing. Keep drinking and I’ll trick you into thinking I’m charming.”

She laughed, a tiny little huff through her nose. Pretty nose. Pretty mouth, blue eyes squinty when she smiled. He eyed the smooth, pale skin of her neck and the very tops of her breasts, wondering what it might taste like, and how soft it would feel against his lips, under his fight-roughened palms and fingertips.

She caught him staring. “Yes?”

“Just looking at you. Wondering how you dodged all your dad’s homely genes.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Might pass for one if you finish that glass.”

She shook her head, smiling.

“Polish off the bottle and maybe I’ll pass for Brad Pitt.”

A snort.

“You—”

She shushed him. “My stupid show’s back on. Quit flirting with me.”

Mercer waited for perhaps half a minute before he leaned across the center cushion to whisper loudly, “I was not flirting with you.”

She sipped her wine, attention glued to the screen. “I know flirting when I see it.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic—” She shushed him again and Mercer leaned over even farther, so far he knew he looked ridiculous, practically lying down between them. He lowered his voice back to fake-whisper level. “You probably see flirting all over the place. You probably think those filthy hippies at Park Street with clipboard surveys are just interested in a date with you.”

She turned to blink down at him, the cutest pantomime of annoyance he’d ever seen.

He sat up. “Fine. Live in denial.”

Mercer went back to pretending to research apartments, and Jenna went back to what he assumed was pretending to watch her show. Ten minutes later, though, he knew she really was ignoring him. She made a disgusted noise.

“What?”

She shook her head. “I knew she’d pick him,” she said, waving at the screen.

“Pick who for what?”

“Pick this hair-gelled personal trainer meathead for her getaway date, when she should have gone with the science teacher. What is wrong with these women?”

“As a trainer and a meathead, I find your outrage offensive.”

She tried and failed to hide a smile.

“How can I sign you up for this show?” he asked.

“I don’t kiss and tell. No way I’d ever let cameras follow me around while I made out with strange guys. Or worse! You should see the stuff that some of these girls will do on national TV.” She sighed and sipped her wine.

“You drunk yet?”

“I’ve barely had two glasses. Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering if I need to be worried. You get all buzzed, all worked up watching your little make-out show… You might try and take advantage of me.”

Her lips tightened with a poorly suppressed smirk. “You think you’re really cute, don’t you?”

Mercer shrugged. Cute, no. He wouldn’t be winning any beauty pageants, but after nearly twenty years of boxing, he could read other people’s faces like billboards. Their emotions, fatigue, pain…attraction.

And Jenna’s smirk told him everything he needed to know. The trouble was, he didn’t have the first clue what to do with that information.

* * *

THEY DIDN’T SPEAK AGAIN until Jenna’s show was over and a program about home decorating came on. She sat up straighter, thinking she might get some ideas for the apartment. Plus it’d be smart to force her mind off its awareness of Mercer’s body, mere feet from hers. She glanced to the cushion beside him, at the pad he hadn’t taken a note on since sitting down.

“Could I borrow that?” she asked, pointing to it.

He handed it to her. “Knock yourself out.”

Mercer had written two headings at the top of the page—Yes and Maybe. Both were crossed out, and beneath he’d started a different list, one that included the items Sell kidney and Rob a bank. Thank goodness Jenna had landed an apartment for free. She didn’t envy his challenge.

She flipped the pad to a fresh page and awaited the wisdom of the show’s host, pen poised. But fifteen minutes or more passed and she’d absorbed nothing.

She kept thinking about what he’d said, about his supposed kissing prowess. Jenna hadn’t kissed a guy—really kissed a guy—in ages. Polite smooches at the ends of a few first dates, but no deep, sexy, toe-curling kissing. She hadn’t really given it much thought until Mercer had roused her curiosity, along with the dating show’s on-screen lip-locking. She missed being kissed like that. Plus with Mercer, she might feel those interesting, scarred hands on her jaw, maybe run her own palms down his extraordinary arms. She blinked, waking from the trance. She grabbed the remote and switched off the television.

“Off to bed?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m starting to zone out.” She glanced at his computer. “Are you still depressing yourself with apartment listings?”

“Gave that up a while ago. Just catching up on some admin. Probably time I called it a night, too. I’m meeting Delante at seven tomorrow in Somerville. Gonna make him run the stairs in the Porter Square T station until his legs fall off.”

“While you what? Sip a coffee on a bench?”

“Nah, I’ll join him. Keep my own game up.”

Again, she ogled his powerful arm. Bad. Bad eyes.

She rose and headed to the kitchen to clean up the dinner mess. She heard Mercer’s laptop click closed and the couch creak.

“Don’t,” he said, walking over. “Let me do all that.”

She opened the dishwasher and began rinsing the bowls. “I don’t mind. It’s still novel for me to even have a kitchen to clean.”

He muscled her to the side and she submitted. “Fine.” She turned instead to the items scattered across the counter, finding homes for her spices and new utensils. She nudged Mercer’s unnaturally hard shoulder and he shifted to let her get to the trash can beneath the sink. She shut the cupboard door and stood at the exact moment he reached for her wineglass. Their chests brushed, faces inches apart. She felt her eyes widen, mirroring his.

“’Scuse me.”

“Sorry.”

Neither moved. Their eyes darted and she felt her lips part. His did the same. Unbidden, her chin tilted up, and Mercer’s dipped in response.

“This is…” She trailed off.

“Yeah.” They were so close, she felt his breath on her lips.

They were trapped, stuck in some mutual daze, mouths edging closer. She felt a warm, damp hand on her neck, heard the clink as he set her glass aside to free the other. She shivered at the rasp of his fingertips, then melted as his lips met hers. As she softened, he grew bolder, angling his head, kissing her deeply.

The hand cupping her neck was just as rough and commanding as she’d imagined. His tongue swept against hers, his kiss aggressive but controlled, and she felt consumed in a way she hadn’t in ages. She grabbed his arm and the hardness there left her reeling. She’d never felt a kiss like this, never connected with a man on such a visceral, physical level, as if their mouths were made for one another, their bodies meant to join this way. Other ways.

But a voice was screaming in the back of her head, telling her to stop, stop, stop. Lust had slammed its foot on the gas, and if she didn’t find the brake, they were going straight into a tree, a ditch, off the edge of a cliff.

She pushed firmly at his chest with both hands, and with a final deep taste, Mercer let her go. He licked his lips.

She took slow breaths, willing the madness to pass.

This man was too complicated. He was her employee, her roommate. The son her father had wanted, a man whose very livelihood was at odds with hers. He was a dozen things that made this an awful, awful idea. But standing this close, the energy between them felt anything but complicated. It was a question with a single solution, and that solution was to feel his body against hers.

She grabbed his neck, and he was kissing her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her, guiding her, pushing her lower back against the counter. His leg went between hers, driving her skirt a couple inches higher. He gathered her hair in his hands as she stroked her palms up his shoulders, his neck, cupped the back of his head and felt the soft bristle of his short hair. Between the deep strokes of his tongue and the press and tease of his lips, she heard his sounds—tiny grunts and moans. She imagined how much deeper and louder they’d be if they made a terrible decision and took this to one of the bedrooms…

No, no, no.

But as he kissed her, so firm and explicit, she knew this was hotter than any sex she’d had in the past five years. This wasn’t attraction as she’d ever experienced it. It made her feel wild and helpless and electrified. So many things, all of them scary and exhilarating.

Mercer’s kisses grew graceless and needy, and just as he seemed to be losing control, he broke away. The separation left Jenna aching. He looked drunk, his nose and ears and lips flushed, exactly where Jenna felt the heat. This insanity was mutual, and dangerous.

For long moments they stood that way, hands slowly slipping from one another’s hair, breaths deepening, eyes locked on each other’s mouths. Jenna cleared her throat, lust fading enough to expose a deep vein of embarrassment. She clasped her hands at her waist and felt blood flooding her cheeks, ashamed to have lost control of herself with a man she barely knew.

“You know, you’re right.” Mercer ran his tongue over his lower lip. “That’s good wine.”

She could think of nothing to say—no reprimand or smart remark or even a dumbfounded “Well.” She closed her mouth and looked away. Mercer took a step back, then another.

The water was still running and he turned to the sink, resuming the dishes. Jenna pursed her tender lips, knowing she ought to say something. As she stowed the cutting board he handed her, she managed a weak “That was very…unexpected.”

He shot her a teasing look, though a tighter, more cautious one than she’d grown to anticipate. “I suppose you’re going to blame that on me?”

She mustered a weak laugh. “No. Wish I could, though.” It scared her to know she was capable of such reckless attraction, so much stronger than logic.

“That was…that was a bad idea,” she murmured.

“Probably.”

“Definitely,” she corrected, getting a hold of herself, smoothing her skirt and top.

“Let’s just call that research or something, for your business.”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, good. I was just, um, comparing kissing data on East- versus West-Coast men. To better understand my new market.”

Finally, another genuinely devious glance. “So how’d Boston measure up?”

“Bit more aggressive than I’d expected.” Crap, they were flirting again.

“Aggressive, huh? How do you want to get kissed, then? All gentle, like I just took you to the ballet or a funeral or something?”

“I never said I didn’t like it.”

That shut him up a moment. “Well, good. Oh, wait, no. Bad.”

She nodded. “Really bad.”

“Really complicated.”

For a few breaths they looked at each other with matching, perplexed expressions. Then Mercer said, “Sort of complicated. Or when you think about it, actually, it’s really pretty uncomplicated. I mean, you’d never get hung up on me, since I’m like the opposite of your type.”

“And you wouldn’t get hung up on me, since I doubt you could commit to a sandwich long enough to finish it.”

Mercer shut off the faucet and dried his hands on a dishtowel. “So really, that was a totally harmless accident.”

Harmless, yes. Harmless as an alcoholic’s first sip of liquor. She closed the cupboard. “Right… Well, good.”

“Perfect.”

“Yes, perfect.” For a few moments, they shared a diplomatic calm, crisis averted. Then disaster struck, and Jenna couldn’t for the life of her pinpoint whose fault it was when they were suddenly lip-locked again.

He was fiercer than ever, and she wasn’t any better behaved. She stroked his shoulders and back, welcomed the heat and insistence of his tongue, the possessive weight of his palms on her waist and neck. They staggered a dozen paces to the couch, narrowly avoiding crushing Mercer’s computer as he pulled her down to straddle his lap. It was dangerous how perfectly level their mouths were in this position. More dangerous still was how good his thighs felt as her knees sank into the cushions—hard and substantial. A hot palm pressed Jenna’s bare, lower back, at the gap between her skirt and top.

She freed her mouth long enough to murmur, “This is such a stupid idea.”

Mercer kissed her deeply for another breath before replying. “Yeah. Massively stupid.”

But her body said it was pure genius, the thing she’d been put on this earth for. The only thing that mattered.

She held the back of his head, taking the lead. He massaged her skin, his other hand holding her hip, gently but unmistakably coaxing her closer. She obeyed, edging her center to his. Her skirt was gathered between their waists and she felt his erection through her panties and his jeans—hard as his arms and ten times as thrilling. His kisses faltered as he moaned, the noise giving her shivers. The strongest man she’d ever touched, totally helpless.

His hands went to her waist, guiding her in small thrusts against him. She leaned back and they both studied the scene, the point where their bodies met, his gaze rising to her breasts and throat, hers drawn as always to those powerful arms. He looked into her eyes.

“We should probably stop.”

“Yes, we probably should,” she agreed, yet neither put the advice into practice.

She leaned close again but the kissing was different. Mercer changed, distracted by the friction. His kisses were shallow, breath heavy. Sexy as hell. Though his hands still dictated her hips’ rhythm, she knew he was at her mercy. She knew, too, she could have anything she wanted. She could run her curious palms over every fascinating inch of his exceptional body, issue any order and expect to have it followed. She could lead him by the collar to her never-slept-on mattress and christen the hell out of it. She could sleep with the gruffest, fittest, most shameless man she’d ever been attracted to and find out if he screwed as well as he kissed—

But no. No, no, no.

Jenna didn’t screw, for starters.

She also couldn’t sleep with a guy and not have it mean something. She’d wake up in deep trouble, unable to pretend she was capable of having sex without assigning significance to the act. Or scarier still, the fact that she wanted to have sex with Mercer meant she already felt something for him. That one was too much to contemplate. She shuffled back on her knees, separating their crotches, and flipped her skirt back down her thighs. “We really ought to stop. Like, really.”

He nodded, the gesture looking hazy and crazed.

If romances were candles, as Jenna’s philosophy suggested, then she and Mercer were a stick of dynamite. Nothing but a sizzling flame gobbling up the fuse en route to imminent disaster. They’d be over before her ears quit ringing. Then what?

A whole lot of fallout, that’s what. A big old mess to clean up.

Good thing they’d managed to snuff things before it was too late. Her love life deserved to be as well thought out as her future clients’. And that meant observing one of the franchise’s cardinal bits of advice—never sleep with someone before the fourth date. Well done, Jenna. The man loads the dishwasher and suddenly you’re on his lap.

Mercer let her get to her feet.

She tidied her hair, caught her breath and did a very good job of not stealing a glance at the front of his jeans. Shutting herself in her room, she switched on the light and opened the window, welcoming the traffic sounds to chase the last of that impulsive lust from her consciousness.

Crisis dodged. Logic restored.

Then again, if logic was the main ingredient needed to make a lasting, passionate match, why wasn’t Jenna still with her college flame? Or indeed her high school sweetheart? Two perfectly logical, perfectly likable men, but that hadn’t kept her attached in the long run. Hadn’t kept her up nights or left her pulse racing this way. She sat on the bed and rubbed her face, touched her lips, tender from Mercer’s kisses.

Thank God in heaven she didn’t have herself as a client.

CHAPTER FIVE

AFTER THEY FINALLY, successfully separated, Mercer and Jenna had shared an awkward dance, negotiating the bathroom before retiring to their rooms for the night.

Mercer didn’t think he’d gotten that worked up since tenth grade, and he entertained some rather unprofessional fantasies about his new roommate-slash-boss-slash-landlady before going to sleep. Still, that was safer than actually implementing any of his dick’s many inspired ideas about what to do with the woman.

He woke up confused about the exchange, but resolved to let it go. He’d never wasted much time over-thinking a sexual encounter before, and this was the last situation that needed overthinking. She was too many things to him, without also adding “crush” to the list.

He had plenty to worry about already, Delante first and foremost. He’d come under Mercer’s tutelage the way Mercer had come under Monty’s—grudgingly, shoved by a desperate mom at the end of her rope. That had been enough to get Mercer invested in the kid, but it took no time to realize Delante was special. A natural talent who thrived like a dying plant suddenly watered. Add the fact that the kid had a highly marketable projects-to-greatness urban underdog appeal, and Mercer knew he had something major on his hands.

If he could just keep Delante’s head as focused as his punches, the guy could be signing a pro contract before the crowd had even filed out of the arena following next month’s tournament. It was good for Delante, no doubt. Great for the gym, too—a boost right when they needed one most. Nothing fostered new memberships like launching a big name, and the boxers who’d come out of the gym in the eighties were ancient history. MMA was the future. Rich was rising in the ranks, too, a respected semipro with a lot of managers’ eyes on him, but Delante was almost a decade younger, ripe for a long, enviable career.

They met early, and Mercer worked him into the ground, running and dodging commuters up and down the endless Porter Square Station stairs, until a T security guy told them to knock it off. They jogged the four miles through Cambridge and Boston back to Chinatown, greeted by an irksome sight when they finally reached the gym.

“Cool down and hit the showers,” Mercer said, knowing he had to end Delante’s torture earlier than he’d planned. Delante hauled his tired ass inside the building and Mercer stared up at the big plastic banner hung over the entryway, almost completely obscuring the gym’s sign.

Future home of Spark: Boston! it proclaimed in a bold, modern font. Your local branch of the Northeast’s most respected dating service for busy professionals. Your perfect match is just a heartbeat away! Below were web and email addresses.

Mercer read it three times, frown growing deeper with each pass. The businesses were cohabitating, sure. But it wrenched his guts, because the facts were plain. He had a single season to turn the gym around—the blink of an eye—and if the neighborhood knew the details, they’d no doubt be rooting for him to fail. For all he knew, Jenna was rooting for the same, all the better for her new venture’s image. All the better that she get busy hiding the gym’s very existence.

How easily Mercer had let himself forget what side she stood on the second they’d been tangled on the couch.

He jogged up the steps and into the foyer. The office was lit but locked, and he could see Jenna’s half-finished lunch on the desk. He ran up to the apartment, but she wasn’t there, either. Must have gone out on an errand.

He headed back to the gym, ditching his shoes and thinking he’d better find somebody down there to spar and work off some of his angst. Angst that felt distinctly like misplaced lust. Felt like way too many things. Feelings. Blergh.

And feelings promptly punched him in the face as he near-literally ran into Jenna heading up the steps.

“Hey,” she said, her smile polite but nervous. Nervous because of the sign or because of them getting to second base on the couch, Mercer couldn’t pinpoint.

“I was just looking for you,” she said.

“I was just looking for you.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “We gotta talk about that sign.”

“I know. I’m sorry—that’s why I was trying to find you. The franchise people came to take a tour of the space. I didn’t know they’d put that up so soon. Or, you know…quite so prominently. I didn’t see it until after the men with the ladder had gone.”

Mercer sighed, irritation lifting a little. One less emotion. Good. But there were still plenty underneath, all charged with that physical tension from the night before. Except down here…

Down here, Mercer could keep his priorities straight.

“That sign’s going to cause a stir with the guys. I haven’t told anybody the deal yet. But we’ve been needing new equipment for years, and suddenly there’s the money to open an entirely new franchise? You’re not going to make any friends that way.”

She crossed her arms, and God help him, that defiant little gesture had his anger morphing to lust in a heartbeat.

“I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to run a business.”

“Two businesses.”

She was kind or smart enough not to add, For now. “I haven’t forgotten that.”

He glanced at her feet. “Take your shoes off. These mats have enough holes in them already.”

She yanked off her heels. “I know it looks bad. That’s why I apologized. But this place is your territory. Spark is mine.”

“I can’t have a bunch of keyed-up fighters questioning the future of this place so soon.” It hurt too much to even know the score himself. “Not with an important tournament coming up.”

“I get it, and I’m sorry. Like I said, I didn’t ask them to put the sign where they did. Maybe we could find a ladder and move it up, so it doesn’t look so…”

“Condemning?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, sounding exhausted. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah, we will. What’s up with you, anyway? You look beat.”

Another loaded breath. “It’s fine. It was just stressful, showing the managers around, not knowing what they’d make of the place. It was approved last month on paper, but who knows what improvements the franchise overseer will demand to get it up to Spark standards. Or how much it’ll cost. But they said they like the neighborhood—I hadn’t been sure they would.”

“And the neighbors?” he asked, jerking his head to mean the gym.

She smiled, a tight, apologetic gesture. “I won’t pretend they were giddy about it.”

“No, I’m sure they weren’t.” Suddenly exhausted himself, Mercer cast his gaze around, searching for a change of topic. A distraction from both the conflict and the attraction that had him so screwed up in the head.

“There’s something I was meaning to show you, next time you were down here.”

“Oh?”

He led her to the back wall. It was plastered with old boxing posters. Photos of the greats, newspaper and magazine stories about local fighters hung behind Lucite. He tapped an item in the middle and she came close to peer at it. It was a yellowed article from her hometown paper, with a picture of Jenna at age twelve or so, in a bathing cap and suit, holding up a medal for her team’s showing in a county swim meet. He watched her face, her blue eyes widening only to then narrow, lips pursed in a tight line.

“He put that right up there, with all the stories about his favorite fighters,” Mercer offered.

“Yeah. That’s sweet.” She was forcing a pleasant response, but Mercer couldn’t even guess what emotion she was aiming for.

He pressed on anyway, compelled as always to defend her dad. “He was really proud of you. Never shut up about you.”

“Great. Thanks for showing me that. It’s very touching.” She was so lousy at faking enthusiasm, she almost sounded sarcastic. Mercer felt suddenly diminished, reduced to a sweaty, weary heap of aching muscles. Maybe it had just been the wine for her, all along.

“Well. I’ll let you get back to your work.”

She nodded. “You too.”

“I’ll get one of the guys to help me with the sign. Hoist it up a couple feet so it’s clear our two ventures are just cohabitating. And I’ll get busy letting everyone know you’re taking over the office and all that, for the dating thing.”

“Thanks. Tell them they’re free to ask me about it. If anyone’s confused or concerned.”

He smiled grimly. “I’ll be first in line.”

Her gaze jumped to the article he’d shown her.

“He was a good guy,” Mercer said. “I’d prove it to you, if you gave me half a chance.”

She chewed on a reply but swallowed it, unspoken. “See you around the apartment.”

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

Jenna began to walk away, taking Mercer’s energy with her. Then she turned, and a little glimmer of her sweet self broke through the crust. “If you like frittata, I can make enough for two tonight.”

He warmed at the offer, so tempted to toss a teasing remark back and remind her what happened the last time they’d shared a meal. “I’m not sure what that is. But if it’s food, then yeah, that’d be real nice.”

“Seven-thirty?”

“I’m leading a session at seven, but make it eight-fifteen and it’s a date, Miss Matchmaker.”

Finally, she smiled. And just like that, he was screwed. Two seconds’ flirting and he wanted her again, worse than ever.

Shit. He better schedule himself a sadistic workout for the late afternoon. Better haul his body up those steps too tired to chew, let alone to muster the energy to mess around. Because near-high-school dropout or not, Mercer was smart enough to know that if Jenna couldn’t manage to keep them strictly platonic tonight… he didn’t stand a chance in hell.

* * *

WHEN MERCER ENTERED the apartment just after eight, Jenna stood a little straighter behind the counter, chopping peppers, steeling herself.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself, roommate.”

He looked dead tired. Maybe just the by-product of a long, physical workday, or maybe he felt as beat-down as she did, following the unfortunate misunderstanding with the sign. On top of that, she’d spent almost the entire day in the office, and no less than twenty gym members had interrupted to express their condolences, most of them then regaling her with legendary tales of her larger-than-life father. Thoughtful gestures, though each one she smiled through had only reminded her how close he’d been to these strangers, to everyone but her. She felt as tired as Mercer looked.

After disappearing into his room with his gym bag, Mercer came to loiter on the opposite side of the counter. He eyed the bowl of egg mixture. “What’s this called again?”

“Frittata. Not quite an omelet, not quite a quiche.”

“I’m not entirely sure what a quiche is. So, how was your day?”

“Long. Spent most of it getting pummeled with all the stuff the franchise overseers are going to be sweeping through to do in the next couple months.”

“Nothing like a good pummeling. What sort of stuff?”

“They’re sending a bunch of people tomorrow, a design team to drop off the upholstery swatches and paint chips I’m allowed to choose from when I decorate my office. And some last-minute inspection stuff, technicalities before the space gets official approval.”

“You need me to clean the gym’s clutter out of there?”

“Not immediately, but soon.” Jenna turned back to the cutting board. “How was your day, aside from that unpleasant surprise? Thanks for moving the sign, by the way.”

“No problem. And my day was long.”

“How were your stairs?”

“Also long.” He leaned his forearms on the counter, watching her busy hands. “But whatever keeps the kid too beat to worry about bullshit back home, or worse. Girls.”

“Right. No greater threat to you mercenary types than we ladies.”

Mercer smirked.

As Jenna sliced mushrooms, she mustered the courage to say, “Speaking of the danger of women… The dangers of sex and romance, that is.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m issuing us a mutual restraining order tonight.”

He laughed, and though he was clearly confused, it was nice to see him really smiling again. “Pardon?”

“I think we should stay separated by at least four feet at all times. For our own good.” Though even as she said it, she felt heat blooming in her body, felt her resolve turning soft and lazy.

Mercer seemed to consider the proposal, standing up straight and measuring the counter with his gaze. He took a step back. “About like that?”

“Yes. It just seems safer. Well, maybe safe’s not the word—less complicated.”

“So, that means you still like me, even when you’re not drunk?” A different smile, one Jenna enjoyed far too much.

“I was not drunk. And don’t flirt with me. That’s off-limits as well. I don’t know what exactly’s going on with us, attraction-wise. But no need to make it worse. No passing by each other in small spaces, no suggestive remarks…”

“No assaulting me with the sink sprayer?”

“Sadly, no. None of that stuff.” She sighed, knowing that flirting their way around this topic wasn’t going to do a lick of good. “I don’t…I don’t trust myself around you, and we’re the last two people who need to get confused about who we are to each other.”

“You feel confused about last night? I thought it was pretty straightforward.”

She made an exasperated noise. “I’m trying to be serious for a second. That’s yet another reason to be careful around each other until you move out. I don’t work the way I suspect you do, with sex. It’s very… complicated.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

She shot him a stern look, then went back to chopping. “I’m a pretty stereotypical woman when it comes to sex. It changes everything, emotionally, whether I want it to or not. You seem like a stereotypical man about it. If we did it—which we won’t—”

“Noted.”

“—you’d probably feel the same way about me the next day.”

“And as a stereotypical woman you’d find that infuriating.”

“Likely. Hence the restraining order.”

Mercer crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “You’re right. You’d definitely feel different about me the next day. I’m even better at sex than I am at kissing.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Sorry. I’ll quit it.” He paused a moment before going on. “And I’m with you, incidentally. I think us messing around is a lousy idea, too. It’s just fun winding you up.”

Though she forced herself to nod and say, “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Jenna felt a pang to hear Mercer agree. She knew in her head that made no sense, but a tiny, illogical part of her couldn’t help but think, How can it be terrible, when it feels so wonderful?

They ate on the couch, the empty cushion between them taunting. So far, yet so close. Jenna found a news special on TV covering a very bloody civil war. If that couldn’t kill the restlessness warming her body, nothing would. Sadly, she caught herself glancing Mercer’s way every minute or two, remembering everything that had happened on that end of the couch, twenty-four hours earlier. Clearly, her attraction was more potent than violent overseas unrest.

Mercer had gone quiet, and stayed that way through the meal. He was rattled, and from what, she couldn’t be sure. By her fessing up to the fact that there was no such thing as strings-free sex to her? Surely that would give a man like Mercer much-needed pause. Or perhaps from the simple fact that his entire life had been turned upside down in the past four days. By her. Also a distinct possibility, and an ugly one. Guilt soured Jenna’s stomach.

When dinner was done Mercer took her plate, and Jenna honored their restraining order and let him do the dishes alone. Though she did steal a couple glances at his shoulders as he worked, those swells of muscle highlighted by the kitchen’s overhead bulbs. Oops.

She changed into lounge pants and a T-shirt and cardigan and got cozy on her end of the couch. There was a pre-grand-opening client recruitment party to organize for mid-September, and now was the perfect time to fill her head with lists. Get her mind off the man sharing her home.

When Mercer finished cleaning the kitchen, he eyed her for a moment before announcing, “I’m gonna head downstairs for a little while.”

“If I don’t see you before I go to bed, good night.”

He nodded, filled a water bottle from the sink and left, dead bolt snapping behind him. Jenna released a held breath.

She should have gone to bed at ten. By eleven, surely. Yet when quarter to midnight rolled around, she was still watching TV, barely taking in the program. She wasn’t preoccupied by party to-dos, either. Her list was exactly one item long. Hire assistant. No, it was still Mercer, keeping her distracted, her feelings for him pacing low in her belly, a restless, reckless awareness.

But at twelve-thirty, curiosity became concern. Mercer’s “little while” was now pushing three hours, and the gym was long closed for the night.

She grabbed her keys, slid into flip-flops and went down to the first floor. The office was dark, but the stairs to the gym were lit.

She heard Mercer before she saw him, the thump of his fist and the hiss of his sharp breaths. The space felt huge in the darkness, its smell mysterious, heady and foreign as a jungle.

Only the lights illuminating the row of heavy bags along one wall were switched on. Mercer was dressed in shorts, barefoot and shirtless, gloves on his hands. The bulbs cast him in harsh, dramatic shadows, his shoulders shining with sweat. The bag was suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, and it jangled with every kick and punch, every knee and elbow he whacked it with. He danced from foot to foot, lost in his own world, in his imaginary battle.

Jenna’s legs went wobbly, heat pooling in traitorous places. This man didn’t waste any of the physical gifts humans were born with, every muscle honed and disciplined and punished, day after day, until he made violence look like art. That this workout was likely inspired by the angst she’d roused in him dampened her pleasure.

After another minute’s assault, Mercer paused to grab a bottle of water from the mat beside him. Jenna approached.

When he set the bottle down, she caught his eye and he started. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me when I’m wearing these.” He held up his gloved hands.

“Sorry. What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“If I had to guess, you’re working off how annoyed you must be at me.”

He blinked, looking more startled than when he’d spotted her.

“We can talk about it, if you want. But maybe this is how you prefer to—”

“I’m not angry at you.” He looked troubled. “I’m definitely not down here wailing on something because I wish I could wail on you.”

“No, I didn’t think that.”

“I’m trying to wear myself out.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Three times he opened his mouth, poised to say something, only to close it again.

“What?”

He shook his head. “It’ll sound like flirting and you’ll chew me out again, so forget it.”

“No, what?”

He huffed a breath through his nose. “I’m down here wearing myself out, so the second I put my head on the pillow I’ll be unconscious. ’Cause if I don’t, my brain’s gonna be full of thoughts that probably violate some mental restraining order you didn’t tell me about.”

Jenna’s turn to start. For a split second her mind supplied a vision of such a thing, of Mercer succumbing to fantasies about whatever inappropriate things he felt she was denying them. She shoved the image away. His body was dangerous and distracting enough, here in reality. No good could come of hypothesizing about the few bits of him she’d yet to lay her eyes—or hands—on.

With a huff, Mercer sat cross-legged on the mat. He ripped the Velcro straps from his wrists and tugged off his gloves. His hands were wrapped in white tape, and he ran them over his head, blowing out a heavy breath.

Jenna sat a few paces away, hugging her knees.

“Maybe I should just move out now,” Mercer said.

“To where?”

“I dunno. Sublet somewhere, cash in a favor and crash on somebody’s couch till I find a place I can afford. It was nice of you to let me stay, but that was before we knew we’re…”

“Allergic to each other?” It earned her a grudging smile.

“I know you think this is simple for me,” he said. “Like I think sex is as incidental as a movie we might watch together. I wish it was. But you’re my mentor’s daughter. And the woman who turned up here prepared to end my life as I know it.”

Unsure what to say to that, she kept her mouth shut.

“I dunno what the hell to make of you, Jenna. My body has plans for yours—plans I can usually take or leave, because sex doesn’t come first for me, believe it or not. My responsibilities do, and you’re the worst possible woman I could let myself get distracted by.”

“I’m sure.” She was spacey, lost in what he’d said about his body having plans for hers. She felt strangely honored to be singled out, maybe targeted, curious beyond belief.

“What I joked with you about in the kitchen was bullshit. This isn’t simple to me at all.”

Not sure how to process what he was telling her, she looked to his legs, to the red smear streaked along one shin. “You’re bleeding.”

He glanced down. “Oh, right. I’ve got no feeling left there anymore. No decent kickboxer does.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met. Why don’t you come upstairs and get cleaned up?”

A monstrous sigh. “Yeah, fine. I can barely move now, so my work here’s probably done.”

Jenna stood and offered him a hand. He clasped it in his wrapped one and she helped haul him to his feet. The cotton tape felt exotic against her palm, his hand big and scarred and fascinating as always. Allergic indeed.

She was ready to take her hand back, but he held it in his grip, his eyes on hers. “Why’d you come down here, anyway?”

“To see if you were okay.”

“I really seemed like that much of a mess?”

She nodded.

“Better work on my game face.”

He dropped his gaze and her hand, then wandered to grab his water bottle and shirt, slipped flip-flops on his feet. She tried and failed to keep her eyes off his bare chest and stomach and arms, that body looking as reckless as the urges it inspired in her. But they were in firm agreement on one fact—hooking up was a terrible idea. It nearly disappointed her. If Mercer had kept that door open on his end, she just might have let herself be yanked inside.

He hit the lights and locked up, and they trudged up the two flights and down the hall to the apartment.

She shut the door behind them and it felt as if something ought to be said. An apology tendered, or even a joke to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

“That’s a really nerdy sweater,” Mercer said.

She laughed, relieved by his levity but pretending offense. She looked down at her argyle cardigan. “It’s librarian chic.”

Neither spoke for a moment, though she knew he was struggling for the next quip, same as her. Words came, but not ones she’d expected.

“I don’t want you to move out. I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you have to move out sooner than we’d discussed.”

“It might make everything simpler.”

“It might. But I’m already turning your life upside down by even being here. You’re acting a lot more civil about us coexisting than most people would, knowing what could happen come January. If letting you live here makes the transition easier, it’s the least I can do.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She sighed, staring at their feet, if only to keep her eyes off the more arousing bits of Mercer. Even with her gaze preoccupied, his scent was all around her, heady and exciting, as thrilling as a physical touch.

“This is going to be complicated, no matter what we do,” he murmured. “No matter if I stay or go, or whatever rules we invent to keep from sexually assaulting each other, or how hard we try to rationalize everything.”

She nodded.

“So it can’t actually get much worse.”

“Not that I can foresee,” she said.

“Right.”

She sensed it as he stood a little straighter, and she raised her chin to scan his face. He still looked beat, but there was a glimmer of resolution. He’d made peace with their situation.

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

She started. “Excuse me?”

“Things between us can’t get any worse, so I’m gonna go ahead and make a move on you. Only way I’ll be able to get any sleep tonight.”

“Don’t do that.” Do it. Do it.

He put his wrapped hand to her jaw, leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. He kept it slow to start, giving Jenna a chance to protest, a chance to cling to her charade of propriety.

No way in hell.

She kissed him back, tasting salt on his lips—the flavor of a man who’d spent the past few hours trying to beat the desire out of his body. Desire for her. His tongue brushed hers and she grabbed his arm, thrilling anew at its hardness, its size. He kissed her until soft moans hummed from his throat, until he’d backed her against the door and her palms had slid south, from his chest to his stomach to his hips. Next and final stop—Bad Decisionville.

He broke away, taking a step back. The look in his eyes was wild and his tongue traced the corner of his lips. He began unwinding the tape from his hands, exciting as a striptease. Jenna held her breath until he spoke.

“I’m gonna take a shower. That gives you ten minutes to change your mind about where this is heading. If you come to your senses, shut your bedroom door. If you’re as stupid as me, leave it open, and we’ll find out what the hell else is supposed to happen between us.”

CHAPTER SIX

JENNA WAS FROZEN, dumbfounded as she watched Mercer turn the corner to the bathroom. Ten minutes? Ten minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to decide what to do.

Then again, ten minutes was plenty of time to change into cuter underwear, and wasn’t that her answer, right there?

She jogged to her room and flung her suitcase open, rifling for anything that matched, preferably involving lace. Quick as a pit crew, she stripped and changed into her best bra and boy shorts, found a black camisole and yanked her pj’s back up her legs. It’d be dumb to pretend this was any kind of smooth seduction, so she didn’t bother wishing for candles, for a chance to freshen her makeup. All they needed was a bed.

Actually, all they probably needed was a floor.

Oh crap, and condoms—which she didn’t have.

Maybe that was for the best. She wasn’t going to follow the Spark guidelines for how far and how fast to go with a man, but she didn’t need to go all the way before even making it to date number one.

The water running in the bathroom shut off and panic—exciting and pleasurable panic—gripped her. She lowered the dimmer and sat on her bed, heart in her throat, until she heard the bathroom door open. Footsteps, then silence, more footsteps and the kitchen went dark.

Footsteps, and Mercer was in the threshold in a T-shirt and boxers. He looked her in the eye. “This door get blown open?”

“No. I guess I left it open.”

“Guess you did.” And that was all anyone said for a little while.

She’d been afraid it would be awkward now, with intention behind whatever was coming, instead of those earlier mutual, spontaneous lapses in good sense. But it wasn’t awkward. It was mindless and fast, wholly instinctual.

He was on her in seconds, pushing her onto her back, his weight feeling sinful against her hips as he braced himself above her. She welcomed his kiss, deep and aggressive and everything Mercer, as primal as a man ought to be. He lit her up like no one ever had, on a pure and animal level, a connection no measure of logic could predict.

He got his knees between hers and she swept her palms down his body, filled her lungs with the smell of his soap, felt the beads of water still clinging to his bare arms. Between her legs she could feel him, stiff and ready. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had boundaries to establish. She commanded her mouth to find a purpose outside of tasting his, and tore her lips away.

“How far are we going?”

“Won’t know till we get there.”

“I haven’t got any condoms.” She gasped, unsure how she’d gone from lying on her back to being held to his chest, legs wrapped around his waist. He stood and carried her out of the room and past the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“Faster than bringing the condoms to you.” He pushed the door to his dark room open with his shoulder and set her on his bed. It felt sexy, sitting there, smelling him everywhere in this private space. Still, Jenna wasn’t sure how comfortable she actually wanted to get.

As he rooted through a dresser drawer, she said, “I wasn’t upset about not having condoms.”

He turned to her, streetlight glinting off the shiny plastic square in his hand. “Oh?”

“Give it to me.”

He crossed to the bed and handed it over. Jenna tucked it beneath a pillow. “I’m in charge of when that thing gets used. If it gets used.”

“The woman always is.”

“Good.”

“Where were we?”

In a breath they were on their sides, legs tangling, hands exploring. The kissing grew shallow and their breathing heavy. Everything about him was sexy. His wet hair, the firmness of his shoulders and his chest, the heat of his skin. Memories flashed through her head, of watching him in the gym not even an hour before. He could do extraordinary things to an opponent with that deadly body. What on earth could he do to her?

She sighed as Mercer cupped her breast and edged his body lower, kissing her collarbone as he fondled her. She shifted her legs, welcoming the taunting brush of his erection against her thigh. She tugged the front of his shirt up a few inches and stroked her palm over his bare, hard stomach, fingertips brushing his waistband and the soft hair hiding just behind it.

“Jenna.”

There was a rasp to his voice, the same gruffness she imagined might possess him as he stepped into a ring. Damn, she was objectifying him again. But she’d never moved this fast with a guy before, and he was the perfect man—the perfect body—to be reckless with. Whatever they had, it was bigger than either of them.

Charged with lust, she tugged until he peeled his shirt away. With a coaxing push, he rolled onto his back. Jenna slung a leg over his waist to straddle him. She couldn’t get close enough to this man.

He swore, hands flying to her hips to hold their bodies tight, center to center. She pulled her camisole up and off. They were bathed in yellowy streetlight, harsh and gritty and urban, just like the man beneath her. The honk of a car horn, the screech of brakes, the quarreling of strangers below on the sidewalk…bring it on. Whatever happened, she wanted the quintessential Boston experience, as brash and unapologetic as this fling.

Mercer’s hands slid up her belly to her breasts, kneading as she undulated her hips, torturing them both with the friction through her damnable pajama bottoms.

“Let your hair down,” he said.

She tugged the elastic from her ponytail.

“Jesus, you’re sexy.”

And you’re extraordinary, she wanted to tell him, as she memorized every exceptional, intimidating contour of his bare body. She missed his hand wraps, even fantasized what those padded gym mats would feel like under her back… There she went again, with the fetish she hadn’t even known she had.

“Take those frigging pants off, for the love of Christ.” He tugged at the drawstring and she rolled to the side, both of them fighting to be the one to strip them away. No man had ever made her feel this wanted before, as if he couldn’t control himself, nor had any man made her feel the same in return. A need this fierce and primal.

He climbed on top of her, shoved his knees beneath her thighs and ground their bodies together, just slightly too rough for comfort, just exactly perfect. His breaths became grunts, so like the noises she’d heard him make when he was working out. She scraped her nails down his side, angling her hips and welcoming the rough drag of his hard cock against her soft folds. He tilted his hips back, letting her feel the insistent press of his head between her legs, the thin barriers of cotton as maddening as a straightjacket.

“This is such a stupid idea,” Mercer said, sounding happy about it.

“I know.” She got lost staring at his torso, at the explicit flex of his chest and abs as he rubbed his erection against her. All this plus an even more enticing sight, if she chose to make use of that all-access pass she’d tucked beneath the pillow. With another man, she’d have said no, save it for the next date, savor the baby steps. But this might be—this should be—the only night she and Mercer made this mistake together. If she was going to binge, no point stopping at a slice; she’d eat the whole damn cake.

She pushed at his chest. “Get your shorts off.”

She joined him, both of them sitting up and wrestling away their underwear. Then he was on her again, the hot press of his bare cock against her thigh tightening her like a spring.

“Mercer.”

A groan answered her as he fumbled his hand between their bodies, centering his shaft along her lips. She was beyond ready, and with one, two, three strokes he was slick from her, their friction wet and dangerous and hotter than the best sex she’d ever had. He clasped her knees, gaze locked on the action happening between them. That fascinating face looked strained and fierce, lips parted. He was intriguing at rest, handsome when he smiled. But this…this was the only expression she ever wanted to see him wearing. Only one look could possibly thrill her more, and that would be the one he wore when he slid inside her.

She shoved her arm under the pillow, and the crinkle of the plastic snapped his attention to her hand.

She ripped open the condom and he took it from her, leaning back to roll it down his length. He was a bigger man than she’d had before, but the intimidation was fleeting. Before she could take a final, bracing breath, he was at her entrance. No asking, “Are you ready?” No caution. No resistance or protest from her body as he pushed inside, so deep their hips touched.

He swore again, and she dragged her nails down his ribs and sides. Even in the sickly ambient light she could see the red stripes that rose on his skin.

With a groan he braced his arms at her sides, thighs nudging hers wider, and began to thrust. She wrapped her legs around his waist, angled her hips to welcome him as deep as she could. She’d never felt this need before, this urgent craving to be possessed by someone. He was surely wrecking her for every slender, deferring academic who might come after, wrecking her entire perception of what her “type” was.

“You feel amazing.” His eyes were shut, as though he wanted nothing distracting him from the sensation.

“So do you.” He felt exactly as he should—big, rough, forceful. She watched his body owning hers, her pleasure mounting.

His eyes opened. “You need anything special? To get off?”

Not exactly poetry, but his words encapsulated what this was, a mutual itch-scratching, two animals taking what they wanted from each other.

“My clit.”

Mercer leaned back on his haunches, slowing his thrusts, catching his breath. When it seemed the madness had left him, he put his palm to her mound, thumb on her clitoris. “Tell me how,” he said, starting to rub.

“Lighter. And faster.”

He followed her instructions perfectly, the rough pad of his thumb stroking her even better than she could do herself. And it went far beyond the touch—it was the sight of his body, the smell of him, the slap of his skin against hers. The least romantic, most frantic sex of her life. And it blew every slow, candlelit seduction clear out of the water.

He felt right. So right it scared her.

As she edged closer to release, she fantasized about how he would be when he neared the finish himself. Fast. Fast and vocal. Picturing it had her speeding toward orgasm, imagining his face, mean and needy. She swore as the first spasm struck, grasped his arm and neck and held on, riding the pleasure until it turned to pain, his thumb against her clit too much to take. She pulled his hand away, panting and dizzy.

“Jesus, Jenna.” He surprised her then. He kept his hips still, dropping to his elbows to slide his hands beneath her back, kissing her neck and jaw as she caught her breath.

She cleared her throat. “You were right. You’re even better at sex than you are at kissing.”

He made a satisfied, happy noise against her throat, then rose on straight arms and looked her in the eyes.

She stroked his arms. “Your turn. What do you need?”

He laughed. “About eight seconds of your time, I suspect.”

“What would you like, then?”

“To make you do some work.”

“You’re on.”

He slid out and they switched positions, Mercer piling three pillows at the head of the bed so that as he lay down, he was only half-reclined. He put his hands to his hips. “C’mere.”

She straddled him, welcoming his hard heat back inside her body. He couldn’t ever be deep enough, close enough.

He brought his knees up, cradling her in his lap. Bracing her hands against the wall, she found her rhythm, thrilling at his grunts and groans and the way his eyes seemed to record everything she was doing. She paused as he unhooked her bra, then she slipped it off for him. As she began to move again, he put his hands to her breasts, not holding them, merely letting her nipples brush his palms with each roll of her hips. She could feel her excitement mounting all over again, from his touch, from the taunting friction of his base on her clit with each withdrawal. Raw brick beneath her palms. Raw, male breaths punctuating their sex.

“That’s so good. I’m so close,” he muttered.

So was Jenna. Her body craved the same motions his did, and as her second climax began to rise, his pleasure was reaching its own crescendo. He grasped her hips, issuing orders, forcing the speed and aggression he needed.

“Yeah.” His teeth were gritted, eyes narrowed. His hips trembled beneath her, body begging. The look on his face excited her more than any physical sensation.

She came apart just as he neared the edge. He realized what was happening, the idea of it seeming to strike him like a whip. He swore. He held her hips still, thrusting up into her as he came, holding her hard.

When he let her go, she flopped to the mattress beside him. He left her only for a second to ditch the condom, and for minutes on end the room was filled with their heavy inhalations, occasionally accompanied by the odd voice from the street, the flare of an engine starting up, the slam of a car door.

You can’t wake up next to him tomorrow. She had to get back to her own bed….

She blinked, realizing she’d nodded off. Better find her clothes and…

Again she jerked awake. Mercer’s deep breathing said he’d succumbed to postsex male narcolepsy. Sounded awfully inviting. Still, she really ought to…

The thought abandoned her, and Jenna fell asleep, logical brain finally silent.

“WHOA.”

Mercer woke early, surprised for a moment to find a woman beside him. And not just any woman.

The clock said it was five-forty and the room had gone chilly. He wanted to pull the covers over Jenna, but he couldn’t free them without waking her. And waking her would probably rouse her from her orgasm-induced judgment lapse, and that would send her lovely, pale, naked body retreating to her own room. Tricky one.

Slow as tar, he crept from the bed, then padded to the living room and grabbed the old afghan from the back of the couch. He managed to drape it over her, but she roused as he climbed into bed beside her. Damn.

She made a soft noise of alarm.

He brushed the hair from her face. “Go back to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly six. You sure you didn’t mean to ask, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’”

“I know exactly what I’m doing here,” she mumbled. “Arguing with you, which is no surprise.” She yawned, then tucked herself tighter under the covers.

Pleased she hadn’t bolted awake and out the door, Mercer relaxed, feeling warm from far more than the blanket.

Such a bad instinct, though. There was a semiuniversal rule observed by professional fighters—no sex in the three weeks preceding a match. Just stay away from women, period. They made you nuts, screwed with your focus, cooled your fire. All that pent-up testosterone was best saved and redirected to make yourself go berserk in the ring. Mercer hadn’t had a paid fight of his own in three years, but he still thought it was a wise philosophy. He loved women in all kinds of capacities, but life was infinitely simpler when there wasn’t one in the picture. Jenna complicated his life plenty with their clothes still on, and it was probably the worst romantic decision he’d ever made, waking up here naked with her. Though it hadn’t felt like a decision. Felt like goddamn force of nature.

Just as Mercer was settling back down for another hour’s sleep, reality intruded. Loudly. His phone buzzed on the side table, and when he saw Rich’s number on the screen, it could only mean one thing. He hit Talk before the ringer could kick in, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Lemme guess—your crappy-ass car’s broke down on the Tobin Bridge.”

“No, I’m downstairs. I just forgot my gym keys.”

Mercer rolled his eyes. “We’ve gotta get a keypad.”

“C’mon, man. Bobby’s down here. Don’t make this OCD bastard late for his workout.”

Mercer heard the man in question grumble something in the background.

“Fine. Lemme get some clothes on.” He clicked the phone off and headed back to his room. Jenna was sitting up, afghan hugged to her chest.

“Sorry. Rich locked himself out. I have to go down and let him in.”

She nodded through a yawn.

Mercer yanked boxers up his legs and grabbed a T-shirt. “Go back to sleep.”

He jogged downstairs and glared at his friend a moment through the glass door, then flipped the bolt.

“Thanks, man.” Rich swept in, giant Bobby and his gym bag right behind him, and Mercer led them down to the gym and unlocked the double doors.

Bobby was as OCD as Rich made out, and as soon as the lights were on he was heading for the warm-up area, clearly irked to be two minutes behind his daily regimen.

Rich gave Mercer and his outfit a glance. “Don’t dress up on my account. But now you’re awake, you wanna put some pants on and run drills with me?” He swiped a couple elbows in the air between them.

“Hell no. I’m going back to bed.”

“Wow, grumpy. I interrupt something good?”

It was a joke, but Mercer flinched, a deadly tell to a fellow fighter.

Rich’s face fell. “Oh shit. Sorry, man. I did, didn’t I?”

“Never mind. I’ll see you at ten with coffee.”

“Coffee and all the horny details,” Rich teased, but when Mercer didn’t reply quick enough, Rich’s expression shifted again, realization dawning. “Whoa. It’s not Jenna, is it? Did you bone Jenna?”

Mercer caught Rich in the shin with a kick. “I didn’t bone anybody.”

“Did you make sweet, sensitive love to Jenna, though? Because that is weird. Monty’s daughter… Basically your dad’s daughter. That makes her, like, your stepsister, Merce.”

“Shut up.”

“He would murder you if he was alive.”

“I’ll murder you right now if you don’t shut the hell up about it.”

Rich put his hands up. “Fine. But it’s wicked creepy, just so you know.”

“See you later.” Mercer jogged back up the stairs, annoyed. And was even more annoyed to hear the shower running when he got to the apartment.

Probably for the best. Maybe they’d been spared an awkward shared waking, or some quick tumble that would’ve only made things more confusing. He wouldn’t have minded a peek at her naked body in the daylight, though.

An idea he’d been toying with resurfaced, and Mercer decided it was a good one. When Jenna emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around her trunk, he offered her a goofy smile. She returned it with something a bit cagier, a good-natured smirk.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning. Sorry about that. Not the most relaxing way to wake up.”

She shrugged and Mercer wished he hadn’t noticed the dots of water on her shoulders, or how goddamn sexy she looked with wet hair and eyelashes and no makeup.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Probably good that I’m up so early. I have a million things to do today.”

“I’ll bet. And actually, I’ll make all that a little easier for you, and get out of your hair for the weekend.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Delante could use a couple nights away from his family drama. I’m gonna drive him down to Hartford, have him spar with a couple guys a buddy of mine trains there. Get him focused. Plus it’ll get me away from you, since my boy’s not the only one around here who’s losing their focus.”

She blushed, and Mercer wondered if she thought he meant her, or himself. Both of them, probably. And it looked as though it’d take nothing less than crossing state lines to keep them apart.

“Not the worst idea,” she agreed.

“Probably be back Sunday noontime. If I don’t run into you before I head out, have a good weekend.”

“You too. You want coffee? I’ll start it once I’m dressed.”

“Nah, I better get downstairs. Start figuring out how to get my shifts here covered on such short notice.”

“Okay. Well, have a good trip, if I don’t see you.”

“I will.”

With a nervous-looking smile, she headed for her room, closing the door softly. Mercer’s breath had been high in his chest, and he let it out with a noisy sigh. Definitely for the best that he clear out for a couple nights. One look at her and he’d remember everything that had happened the night before, jump her and either get himself slapped or laid again, and he wasn’t honestly sure which was preferable.

He headed down to the gym. The more steps he put between his body and Jenna’s, the safer it was for everyone involved.

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