Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down. Meg Maguire

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      “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.”

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