by Meg Maguire
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.
5
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 overthinking 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 pro
jects-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.”
