Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down. Meg MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.
the bathroom before retiring to their rooms for the night.
Mercer didn’t think he’d gotten that worked up since tenth grade, and he entertained some rather unprofessional fantasies about his new roommate-slash-boss-slash-landlady before going to sleep. Still, that was safer than actually implementing any of his dick’s many inspired ideas about what to do with the woman.
He woke up confused about the exchange, but resolved to let it go. He’d never wasted much time over-thinking a sexual encounter before, and this was the last situation that needed overthinking. She was too many things to him, without also adding “crush” to the list.
He had plenty to worry about already, Delante first and foremost. He’d come under Mercer’s tutelage the way Mercer had come under Monty’s—grudgingly, shoved by a desperate mom at the end of her rope. That had been enough to get Mercer invested in the kid, but it took no time to realize Delante was special. A natural talent who thrived like a dying plant suddenly watered. Add the fact that the kid had a highly marketable projects-to-greatness urban underdog appeal, and Mercer knew he had something major on his hands.
If he could just keep Delante’s head as focused as his punches, the guy could be signing a pro contract before the crowd had even filed out of the arena following next month’s tournament. It was good for Delante, no doubt. Great for the gym, too—a boost right when they needed one most. Nothing fostered new memberships like launching a big name, and the boxers who’d come out of the gym in the eighties were ancient history. MMA was the future. Rich was rising in the ranks, too, a respected semipro with a lot of managers’ eyes on him, but Delante was almost a decade younger, ripe for a long, enviable career.
They met early, and Mercer worked him into the ground, running and dodging commuters up and down the endless Porter Square Station stairs, until a T security guy told them to knock it off. They jogged the four miles through Cambridge and Boston back to Chinatown, greeted by an irksome sight when they finally reached the gym.
“Cool down and hit the showers,” Mercer said, knowing he had to end Delante’s torture earlier than he’d planned. Delante hauled his tired ass inside the building and Mercer stared up at the big plastic banner hung over the entryway, almost completely obscuring the gym’s sign.
Future home of Spark: Boston! it proclaimed in a bold, modern font. Your local branch of the Northeast’s most respected dating service for busy professionals. Your perfect match is just a heartbeat away! Below were web and email addresses.
Mercer read it three times, frown growing deeper with each pass. The businesses were cohabitating, sure. But it wrenched his guts, because the facts were plain. He had a single season to turn the gym around—the blink of an eye—and if the neighborhood knew the details, they’d no doubt be rooting for him to fail. For all he knew, Jenna was rooting for the same, all the better for her new venture’s image. All the better that she get busy hiding the gym’s very existence.
How easily Mercer had let himself forget what side she stood on the second they’d been tangled on the couch.
He jogged up the steps and into the foyer. The office was lit but locked, and he could see Jenna’s half-finished lunch on the desk. He ran up to the apartment, but she wasn’t there, either. Must have gone out on an errand.
He headed back to the gym, ditching his shoes and thinking he’d better find somebody down there to spar and work off some of his angst. Angst that felt distinctly like misplaced lust. Felt like way too many things. Feelings. Blergh.
And feelings promptly punched him in the face as he near-literally ran into Jenna heading up the steps.
“Hey,” she said, her smile polite but nervous. Nervous because of the sign or because of them getting to second base on the couch, Mercer couldn’t pinpoint.
“I was just looking for you,” she said.
“I was just looking for you.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “We gotta talk about that sign.”
“I know. I’m sorry—that’s why I was trying to find you. The franchise people came to take a tour of the space. I didn’t know they’d put that up so soon. Or, you know…quite so prominently. I didn’t see it until after the men with the ladder had gone.”
Mercer sighed, irritation lifting a little. One less emotion. Good. But there were still plenty underneath, all charged with that physical tension from the night before. Except down here…
Down here, Mercer could keep his priorities straight.
“That sign’s going to cause a stir with the guys. I haven’t told anybody the deal yet. But we’ve been needing new equipment for years, and suddenly there’s the money to open an entirely new franchise? You’re not going to make any friends that way.”
She crossed her arms, and God help him, that defiant little gesture had his anger morphing to lust in a heartbeat.
“I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to run a business.”
“Two businesses.”
She was kind or smart enough not to add, For now. “I haven’t forgotten that.”
He glanced at her feet. “Take your shoes off. These mats have enough holes in them already.”
She yanked off her heels. “I know it looks bad. That’s why I apologized. But this place is your territory. Spark is mine.”
“I can’t have a bunch of keyed-up fighters questioning the future of this place so soon.” It hurt too much to even know the score himself. “Not with an important tournament coming up.”
“I get it, and I’m sorry. Like I said, I didn’t ask them to put the sign where they did. Maybe we could find a ladder and move it up, so it doesn’t look so…”
“Condemning?”
“Yeah.” She sighed, sounding exhausted. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Yeah, we will. What’s up with you, anyway? You look beat.”
Another loaded breath. “It’s fine. It was just stressful, showing the managers around, not knowing what they’d make of the place. It was approved last month on paper, but who knows what improvements the franchise overseer will demand to get it up to Spark standards. Or how much it’ll cost. But they said they like the neighborhood—I hadn’t been sure they would.”
“And the neighbors?” he asked, jerking his head to mean the gym.
She smiled, a tight, apologetic gesture. “I won’t pretend they were giddy about it.”
“No, I’m sure they weren’t.” Suddenly exhausted himself, Mercer cast his gaze around, searching for a change of topic. A distraction from both the conflict and the attraction that had him so screwed up in the head.
“There’s something I was meaning to show you, next time you were down here.”
“Oh?”
He led her to the back wall. It was plastered with old boxing posters. Photos of the greats, newspaper and magazine stories about local fighters hung behind Lucite. He tapped an item in the middle and she came close to peer at it. It was a yellowed article from her hometown paper, with a picture of Jenna at age twelve or so, in a bathing cap and suit, holding up a medal for her team’s showing in a county swim meet. He watched her face, her blue eyes widening only to then narrow, lips pursed in a tight line.
“He put that right up there, with all the stories about his favorite fighters,” Mercer offered.
“Yeah. That’s sweet.” She was forcing a pleasant response, but Mercer couldn’t even guess what emotion she was aiming for.
He pressed on anyway, compelled as always to defend her dad. “He was really proud of you. Never shut up about you.”
“Great. Thanks for showing