by Meg Maguire
“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 train
ing 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.