Making Him Sweat

by Meg Maguire

  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 p
leasurable, 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.”

  4

  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.”