Making Him Sweat. Meg Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ