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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.
