Look what people are saying about this talented new author’s first Blaze® book, Caught on Camera!

“I literally could not stop reading this book.

I ignored my children as they pleaded with me to

serve them food and beverages. I ignored my weenie

dog who was whining to go outside

to do her business. I refused to do the laundry,

pay the bills, or answer the phone.

I inhaled this book from cover to cover.”

—Penelope’s Romance Reviews

“4½ stars. [A] spectacular Blaze debut.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Ms Maguire can sure write a kick-ass love scene.”

—Cheeky Reads

“I loved this story and instantly fell in love

with both characters.”

—Night Owl Reviews

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Wilinski’s Fight Academy, Boston’s shadiest boxing and mixed martial arts gym!

Don’t know much about mixed martial arts? If not, join the club! Jenna, this story’s heroine, doesn’t even know what MMA stands for until she shows up to claim the property she’s inherited from her late, estranged father.

And since you’re holding a Mills & Boon® Blaze® book in your hands, I can only assume you also share Jenna’s love of all things romantic. Making Him Sweat is the first in a series of stories set in the unlikely cross-section where Jenna’s fledgling matchmaking business collides with the realm of her downstairs neighbors—a gritty basement full of battered boxers. It’s all about opposites attracting, and Jenna just might meet her own match in the disreputable gym’s general manager, Mercer. His love of fighting is as foreign to Jenna as her romantic idealism is to him, which made throwing these two into the ring together all the more fun!

I hope you enjoy it! And if you finish this story wanting more, keep an eye out for the next book in the series, when hot-blooded Rich goes head-to-head with Jenna’s pretty new assistant.

Happy reading!

Meg Maguire

About the Author

Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIRE worked as a record-store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an over-enthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes…and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not trapped in her own head, she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond.

Making Him
Sweat
Meg Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

1

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 sketchpad 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 un-giving, 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.

2

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 blood-lusting 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.”

3

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 trainermode 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.

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