by Meg Maguire
“Why did you include these?” she murmured. Had he meant for her to find them?
She slid a random envelope from the bag.
Dear Monty,
Everything you said, and more. It’s been six days since we said goodbye in Hyannis, but it feels like ages...
Blushing, Jenna set that one aside after a quick skim. It must have been from early in their courtship.
Their affair. The date put it at twelve years earlier, before the criminal scandal had gone down. The next was much the same, and one thing became clear—her father and this woman had been madly in love. Secretly, it seemed, and not without a shadow of guilt lurking behind the effusive, romantic proclamations. The next letter caught her attention. It was short, and there was something cautious about the way it was written...suspiciously vague.
My dearest Monty,
If you love me, you’ll do what we talked about. My children need their father. I’m a proud woman, but I’ll get on my knees and beg for this. For my family. I risked everything for what we had, and now I’m asking you to do the same.
It was signed only as L, and Jenna noted the envelope was missing a return address. She had to squint to make out the date stamp. A few months before her father’s trial. She shivered.
She heard the bathroom door open and the fan switch off.
“Mercer. Come here a second.”
He joined her, towel wrapped around his waist. “What’s up?”
“Read this.”
She watched his hazel eyes zig and zag across the paper then turn glassy.
“Do you think...? What do you think?”
He set the letter down, blinking. “It sounds like she asked him to take a fall.”
“Do you think there’s a chance he never even knew? If maybe her husband was doing all that criminal stuff without my dad ever knowing?”
“It’s possible.”
Jenna slumped back against the cushions. “The more I find out about him, the more confused I feel.”
Mercer, on the other hand, looked strangely placid. “Give me half the letters. We’ll read them together.”
She slid a slim stack of envelopes out of the paper bag and divided them. As the two of them read, they paused to share aloud any bits that seemed to pertain to the crimes. The story began to gel, leaving Jenna with conflicting emotions.
She felt sad. For her father. He’d clearly loved this woman, enough for their secret affair to have lasted nearly three years, to judge by the postmarks. They’d escaped on short getaways, away from the city, and Jenna inferred from a couple letters that Monty had occasionally lent her family money. Her husband didn’t seem to have been the most reliable provider. When Monty had eventually realized her husband had been using his role at the gym to distribute illicit drugs and launder the money through the books, things had gotten complicated. But eventually, his decision became clear.
Monty,
What you’re doing... I can’t begin to express my gratitude. Or Frank’s. He’d be the first to admit he’s earned his share of regrets, but because of you, being taken away from his children won’t be one of them. I always knew you had a good heart—it’s what made me fall in love with you. I never could have imagined you’d risk your reputation, your business, your very freedom... But don’t lose faith. If there’s any way to keep you out, we’ll find it.
And they had. The letters didn’t spell anything out explicitly, but Frank Temple must have had connections somewhere up high—or the funds to create some—as the evidence against Monty had ultimately been mishandled and thrown out, his name cleared on paper if not in people’s minds.
Jenna had to wonder why he’d taken the heat. Because Lorraine had asked him to, or because he had so much less to lose? Or because he’d loved her.
“This is the last one,” Mercer said, squinting at the envelope. “Jeez. It came way later—only last winter.” He read it silently, then passed it to Jenna.
Dear Monty,
You are persistent, aren’t you? Almost ten years since I’ve replied, and yet your letters just keep coming. But of course this time, I had to write. Your condolences and the flowers were much appreciated. I know if Frank hadn’t gone so suddenly, he’d have wanted to reconnect. And apologize. But he was always proud, I’m sure you know that.
I hope you’re doing well. I’m going to be moving in with my daughter and her new husband for a while, but I’m not going to share the address. I’ve put Frank to rest, and it’s time you did the same with your feelings. I loved you as best I could, for as long as I dared, but please. Don’t keep writing.
Best regards,
Lorraine
She set it aside. “Jesus.”
Mercer checked the date again. “Your father was already really sick then. He must not have bothered to tell her.”
“That’s so sad. All the letters he must have sent her...and me. Never getting anything back. That’s so...lonely.” A sob bucked her shoulders and Mercer hugged her as the tears flowed anew.
He stroked her hair. “He was surrounded by guys who idolized him. He just didn’t have such great luck with women, I guess.”
Jenna pulled back, rubbing her eyes. “He really was innocent. And nobody believes it.”
Mercer smiled weakly. “I did.”
She laughed, the sound swallowed by a hiccup. “Yeah, you did. And now I do....”
“It’s all in the past anyhow. But at least you got some closure.”
“What if...?” She pursed her lips, thinking. “What if this changed things? What if I went to the standards overseer and explained...?”
“None of this will change the legacy the press wrote about your dad.”
“No, but she’s a cofounder of Spark.” It was a long shot, and Jenna felt so manic just now, she knew she’d need to examine it again in the morning, but still. A long shot was still a shot. “She must believe in romance, and in the stuff people do when they love someone. She’s human. Maybe I can talk to her, appeal to her sympathetic side....” It meant too much not to count for something.
“You can try,” Mercer said.
“I will.” Jenna sat up straight. “I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.”
11
JENNA SWITCHED OFF her phone and laid her head on her desk, the ultimate death knell of Wilinski’s ringing low and mournful in her heart.
A knock brought her chin back up. Mercer poked his head around the office door so suddenly she wondered if he’d been spying. “Hey.”
“Hey, come in.”
“Your face tells me the verdict’s not the miracle you were hoping for.”
She shook her head. “‘It just doesn’t look good.’ That’s what she said after...” Jenna checked her phone’s call log. “After exactly twenty-two minutes and thirty-one seconds of my very best groveling.”
“Bummer.”
“For a self-proclaimed romantic, that woman has very hard heartstrings.”
Try as she might, Jenna hadn’t been able to leverage any sympathy out of Tina. Her livelihood was built on first impressions, and no matter how touched she might or might not have been by Jenna’s heartfelt revelations about her dad’s criminal involvement, the bottom line stayed the same. It just doesn’t look good.
He came over and sat on the edge of the desk, circling his palm over her back. “You tried. And that’s all you could’ve done.”
She nodded, wishing she felt half as resigned about the situation as Mercer. Her mind raced with ridiculous schemes, to take this story to the news and exonerate her dad publicly... But that was nuts. It was too personal a story, too long buried, affecting too many people.
It was time to give up.
She needed to get her shit together, quit moping and do what was within her power—make her business successful for herself and Lindsey and her other future employees and their clients.
“I’ve got sessions till one,” Mercer said, standing and kissing her temple. “But if you can stand a late lunch, maybe I’ll
see you upstairs? One-fifteen?”
“Lindsey’s coming in at three to help me with some event-planning stuff, but sure. There’s still lasagna leftover.”
“Excellent.” He kissed her again, giving the back of her neck a gentle squeeze. “It’s a date.”
She watched him go, wishing she was half as strong. She hurt so much, she thought it must be ripping her in half, but it was Mercer whose hopes were officially dashed. How he could even stand to look at her, let alone kiss her...
There went one hell of a man.
* * *
MERCER GATHERED THE DISHES when they finished their lunch.
Delante had weaseled his way out of training that afternoon, busy helping his sister move into her new dorm and leaving Mercer at loose ends. He didn’t do well with loose ends, didn’t care for this dangling sensation. Normally he’d fill the void with admin chores, but it was hard to muster the energy for busywork with the gym’s demise so official.
He glanced at Jenna. Her blue eyes were aimed out the living room window, chin propped on her hand. Jesus, he’d miss her when he moved on. He’d miss her as badly as he missed her dad, which was insane, given he’d only known her, what? Three weeks? Crazy.
He could stay in Boston. Stay close and keep seeing her for as long as she was into him.
But how long would that last? He was a novelty—a sweaty, bruised novelty, appealing to the bad-idea center of her libido—and that appeal would fade sooner or later. She’d be spending the foreseeable future with successful, clean-cut men marching through her office door like a bachelor buffet. She’d eventually spot someone who was a better fit for her. A guy whose ambitions lined up with hers, whose interests matched, whose career didn’t make her wince and whom she didn’t feel indebted to out of guilt.
Or was he just making excuses, because this whole thing had him so terrified?
If she did break things off with him, it was a blow Mercer would see coming a mile off. It wouldn’t surprise him, wouldn’t knock him down. Might leave him reeling for a time, but he’d get over it. He’d get over her. Sure, the idea of another man kissing her made him want to burn the whole damn city down, but hey, what could you do?
But he was wasting the time they did have.
He loaded the dishwasher and dried his hands, then rounded the counter to stand beside her at the table.
“You okay?” he asked, rubbing a fingertip along the crease between her brows.
She smiled sadly. “Just feeling melancholy.”
“You have an appointment to get to downstairs?”
“Not until three.”
He wound a lock of her hair around his fingers then tucked it behind her ear. “You wanna have a coffee, maybe just sit on the couch and watch TV for a little while? I could stand to clear my head, if you can spare the time.” And he wasn’t exactly eager to go back to his gloomy subterranean office right away, not when finding a resale company for the gym’s equipment was first on his to-do list.
“That’d be nice. Can we watch a trashy talk show, and feel better about our own lives?”
He laughed. “Sure. If you let me get to first base during the ads.”
She bit back a smirk, filling Mercer’s chest with sweet relief.
“We’ll see.”
He made a quick trip to his room, then took the reins on coffee duty. He’d finally gotten the hang of her delicate-looking French press, and once the brew was steeping, he carried it and two mugs to the coffee table and plopped down beside her. Already his body was formulating ingenious ways to snap his brain out of its funk. And remind him that what he and Jenna had was great, even if it wouldn’t last. Simple. Instinctual. Jesus, she smelled good. What was that?
She took his hand in her free one, resting it on her thigh, and gazed at the flipping channels. He kept his eyes on the screen, registering how she felt, warm and close and now so familiar. Was she holding his hand for the friendly comfort of it? For security? Selfishly, he hoped not. He scooted closer, freeing his fingers and placing them squarely on her thigh, rubbing. Inching higher.
She turned to look at him, lips pursed. “First base, you said?”
“We can go to second, if you prefer.”
She laughed. Damn, what a noise. She waved the remote at the droning TV. “There’s no ads on right now.”
“We could get a head start.”
She smiled at him, eyes crinkling. “Okay, then.”
They shifted to face each other and he took her jaw in his hands, kissing her lips. Felt way too easy. Way too perfect. In seconds flat they were making out, the act as exciting and new and fun as when Mercer had been a teenager. He released her face to slip his hand under her skirt and palm her bare thigh.
“That’s definitely second,” she murmured against his lips.
“I’ll steal third, if you let me.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would.” Still, she didn’t push his hand away or tell him to knock it off. God help them if afternoon trysts were suddenly on the table. Both businesses would fail within the week from sheer neglect.
He tugged at her thigh and she took the hint, straddling his lap. He pushed her skirt up her smooth legs, letting her take the lead on the kissing, since he was suddenly too distracted to drive. More suggestions from his bossy hands, and she was seated firmly against him. He pictured the underwear he’d watched her put on this morning—they’d woken in her bed—pale green with some lacy nonsense trimming them. He liked that lacy nonsense. He ran his hands up even higher, finding the material with his fingertips.
“I bet that coffee’s ready,” she teased.
“I bet you’re right.” He shifted his hips, letting her know that far more interesting things were also feeling ready. The movement earned him a little sigh, a curious adjustment of her legs. He stroked his palms over her butt beneath the hem of her panties, memorized her cool, smooth skin. She shifted suddenly, leaning over to yank the curtain across the window behind the couch.
“You just made the lowly office drones across the street very sad.”
“No free shows. Except for the two of us.”
“A worthy trade-off. Should I get a video camera? Is it going to be good?”
She whapped his arm.
Mercer grabbed her by the waist and turned her, laying her down along the couch. He felt fond flirtation darken to lust as he settled between her legs, her skirt pushed up to her hips. He reached between them to open the fly of his pants, shove his waistband down and take himself out.
She ran her nails over his scalp. “I think you’re forgetting something important.”
“No way. This was all totally premeditated.” He found the condom in his pocket, bracing himself above her on one arm as he ripped the plastic open with his teeth.
“Schemer,” she said, stroking his shoulder beneath his T-shirt.
“You ready?” he asked.
“I think so.”
He slid the latex down his erection then pushed the strip of her panties aside and ran his fingertips across her core. He found her wetness, slicking it over her lips and clit for a full minute, just to feel her writhe. When the stroking hands on his hips began to tug, he angled himself and pushed inside.
He moaned. They were way too good at this. And it was so much better than coffee.
“Good?”
“Yeah. Perfect.” She pushed his pants down a little, tugged the crotch of her panties further to the side. Perfect indeed—a hasty, perfect mess. “God, take this off,” she ordered, pulling at the hem of his shirt.
He paused only long enough to obey, liking this feeling, him more naked than her, her all dressed up... He was going to develop some weird hot-for-the-boss kink if this kept up. Her hands were all over him in that funny, greedy way she got, as if they were possessed by some secret version of Jenna, one with no shame when it came to enjoying a man’s body. And a secret part of Mercer liked that his body seemed to please her, especially when she’d been so skeptical of his chosen sport. Fighters,
one. Businessmen, zero.
He braced himself on one arm so he could rub her. It earned him a curse—a word he’d never heard her utter before. He laughed.
“You feel so...effing good,” she reiterated carefully.
“Don’t clean up your language on my account. I like driving you to cusswords.”
“We really can’t let this become a thing. Afternoon delight’s got to be bad for business.”
“And for the upholstery.”
She smacked his arm again, failing to bite back a smile. Holy shit, she looked perfect—this beautiful, fascinating woman, smiling beneath him, sharing this pleasure.
“But if it never happens again,” Mercer said through panting breaths, “we better make this one transgression count.”
She gripped his biceps. “I thought this was a quickie.”
“Well, we’ll make it count effort-wise, if not longevity.” He didn’t have much staying power in him. Not when she was smiling at him that way, hair mussed, face all flushed. “I kinda need my arms here,” he added pointedly.
She took over rubbing her clit, something Mercer had gotten pretty damn good at the past couple weeks. He leaned back, one hand holding her hip, the other the back of the couch.
“You look... Gah,” she finished, making a silly face. “You look ridiculous. Nobody should look this good.” She ran her free palm up and down his stomach.
“Glad this creaky old body’s doing me some good.”
“It’s doing very, very good.”
The conversation ended, moans and grunts and sighs—and the occasional swearword—taking its place. Mercer caught himself thinking too much about Jenna. Cheesy, romantic thoughts full of awe, thoughts he’d always figured were a myth Hollywood had invented to brainwash women. He tried to focus only on the physical pleasure, to make sure he was still capable of keeping sex simple. But the mechanics didn’t factor. She was woven into the act through and through, so much more than a warm female body that it scared him.