Meg Maguire - Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down - Making Him Sweat / Taking Him Down

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 training 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.