Buch lesen: «Making Him Sweat»
Look what people are saying about this talented new author’s first Blaze® book, Caught on Camera!
“I literally could not stop reading this book.
I ignored my children as they pleaded with me to
serve them food and beverages. I ignored my weenie
dog who was whining to go outside
to do her business. I refused to do the laundry,
pay the bills, or answer the phone.
I inhaled this book from cover to cover.”
—Penelope’s Romance Reviews
“4½ stars. [A] spectacular Blaze debut.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Ms Maguire can sure write a kick-ass love scene.”
—Cheeky Reads
“I loved this story and instantly fell in love
with both characters.”
—Night Owl Reviews
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Wilinski’s Fight Academy, Boston’s shadiest boxing and mixed martial arts gym!
Don’t know much about mixed martial arts? If not, join the club! Jenna, this story’s heroine, doesn’t even know what MMA stands for until she shows up to claim the property she’s inherited from her late, estranged father.
And since you’re holding a Mills & Boon® Blaze® book in your hands, I can only assume you also share Jenna’s love of all things romantic. Making Him Sweat is the first in a series of stories set in the unlikely cross-section where Jenna’s fledgling matchmaking business collides with the realm of her downstairs neighbors—a gritty basement full of battered boxers. It’s all about opposites attracting, and Jenna just might meet her own match in the disreputable gym’s general manager, Mercer. His love of fighting is as foreign to Jenna as her romantic idealism is to him, which made throwing these two into the ring together all the more fun!
I hope you enjoy it! And if you finish this story wanting more, keep an eye out for the next book in the series, when hot-blooded Rich goes head-to-head with Jenna’s pretty new assistant.
Happy reading!
Meg Maguire
About the Author
Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIRE worked as a record-store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an over-enthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes…and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not trapped in her own head, she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond.
Making Him
Sweat
Meg Maguire
MILLS & BOON
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For Amy, Ruthie and Serena,
with crazy gratitude for your time and input.
You gals rock my socks. Continually.
Also with thanks to the staff of the Wai Kru
mixed martial arts gym in Allston, Massachusetts—
especially Michael, for letting me loiter and ogle, and
pester him with endless questions about the business
of building great fighters.
And of course, thank you to my editor, Brenda,
for liking this premise enough to contract the series,
and for beating my first draft into submission.
I won’t let you down, coach.
1
JENNA’S HEELS CLICKED against the asphalt as she crossed the street. Though they’d proven adorable enough to earn compliments from three different strangers on the ten-minute walk, she’d have to rethink this shoe choice in the future. Boston was made for flats, with its warped old brick sidewalks. Made for flats and for doctors who specialized in ankle injuries.
She survived a final block to reach her destination, a building she’d seen only in photos until this moment. Five stories, a former hosiery factory long since divided and repurposed. She paused to picture a new sign above the entryway, but a river of speed-walkers engulfed her, their brusqueness making it known that 9:00 a.m. downtown was not the time and place for daydreaming.
Leaving the August sunshine behind, she stepped into a cool, wide front corridor, with a worn but handsome hardwood floor and brick walls. She smiled, clutching her purse with cautious hope. With a bit of polishing and some nice light fixtures and greenery, this place could be very stylish indeed.
To her right stood a display case of boxing equipment, its glass overdue for some Windex. Gloves and shorts, headgear, mouth guards, supplement bottles—the accessories of her inheritance, surreal as that felt. She eagerly erased the image on her mental sketchpad and filled in the blanks, adding a couch and a couple of easy chairs, a shiny coffee table covered in magazines. Hopeful, excited people chatting as they waited. Waited for Jenna to make their romantic dreams come true.
In a few months’ time, this would be the home of the Boston branch of Spark, New England’s fastest growing matchmaking company—and Jenna its newest franchise owner. Spark was very old-school, unlike the online services, and that suited Jenna just fine. The web was great for impulsive commitments—such as shoes you’d never tried on—but one’s love life was not a thing to march into blind. Finding Mr. or Miss Right could be mystifying, and as a future matchmaker she was excited to help shine some light through the fog.
At the end of the foyer was a wide stairway leading down to what a banner on the wall proclaimed Wilinski’s Fight Academy—the less savory half of Jenna’s real estate inheritance. At the sight, she dropped back to earth from the clouds. The front doors opened behind her, and she tensed as a stocky man toting a gym bag brushed past and disappeared down the far steps. The misgivings she’d been flirting with for the past couple months flared, setting her body buzzing.
To her left was an office fronted with tall windows, welcoming if not private. Beyond the glass a man sat at a desk, typing on a laptop. If this was who she thought it was, he’d be expecting her. But not the news she had to share.
She took a final, calming breath and approached the open door, studying her adversary before announcing her arrival.
The man looked about thirty, with short brown hair. His thick arms and the formidable build beneath his T-shirt told her he was no stranger to the gym’s recreational punishment. His physique made her heart race. In another context it would’ve been a guilty, pleasurable excitement, but this thumping at her pulse points was pure nerves. A strong, capable body might be an asset for a lover—if you were into that kind of thing, which Jenna most certainly was not—but intimidating from an opponent. And this man was likely to prove himself the latter, once she spelled matters out for him.
She straightened the sweep of her bangs, the hem of her skirt, the set of her shoulders. Abandoning her silly, daydreaming self at the threshold, she knocked on the doorframe.
The man looked up and she saw him scan her in a breath before rising. He had a stern, pensive expression, but she thought she caught a widening of his eyes.
“Jenna?”
She stepped inside. “Yes. Are you Mercer Rowley?”
“I am. Nice to finally meet you.” He came around the desk to shake her hand in his rasped one, the gesture gruff and un-giving, just as she’d expected. No doubt his personality would prove identical.
Still, he was younger than she’d imagined. She’d assumed her father would have left some late middle-aged casualty of the sport at the helm, someone like himself. Well, someone like the character Jenna’s mother and the internet had painted for her in broad, unflattering strokes.
Mercer wheeled an ancient office chair from the corner for Jenna, and took a seat on the edge of the desk. He studied her as she got settled.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Wow. Jenna Wilinski. You’ve got your dad’s eyes.” He said it slowly, a softness overtaking his voice and face. His gaze moved all over her body. Not ogling, but assessing.
Two could play that game.
Her brain clicked into pro-mode, making an inventory the way the matchmaking seminar she’d completed the previous month had taught her to.
Mercer had a boxer’s nose if she’d ever seen one, broken who-knew-how-many times, and homely ears to match. One scarred eyebrow not as tidily angled as the other. Fearless. Deep, steady breaths—calm under pressure. Perhaps a comforting presence for an anxious woman, or a foil to a chaotic one. He’d chosen a competitive, physical vocation, appealing to a passionate, ambitious type, should he somehow end up in Jenna’s singles database. Though as a selling point, “local color” probably should not equal black-and-blue.
“So,” she said. “My father left you in charge.”
Mercer nodded. “I’ve been training here since I was fifteen, under your dad. Then I started working with the younger guys about three years ago, and managing some aspects of the business. Your dad was grooming me for it the last year or so. Since his final hospitalization.”
Her stomach soured at the realization this stranger had known her father infinitely better than she had. That they’d shared a sport, a working-class accent, some brutal male appetite. That he’d known her father was dying, when she hadn’t been informed he’d had so much as a cold. The man from a handful of old photos, holding her as a baby, carrying her on his massive shoulders when she was a tiny kid. The man from old news headlines, convicted of drug-running and money laundering fifteen years earlier, out of this very building. The sentence had been overturned during an appeal, due to insufficient evidence, but as far as nearly everyone was concerned, Monty Wilinski had been guilty.
“Well, welcome to your inheritance,” Mercer said. “Do you have any interest in fighting? In overseeing the gym, I mean.”
“No, none at all.”
His smile was mild, but warm. She suspected he could have been quite good-looking, if he’d chosen vanity over violence. Striking was how she’d package him to a potential date. A dangerous, inadvisable breed of sexy, the kind that didn’t let a woman ever truly relax. His unwavering gaze made her feel all squirmy and…naked. She clutched her purse strap to still her hands.
“Yeah, your dad didn’t expect you’d be interested,” Mercer said. “Though it was nice of you to come all the way to Boston and see what you’ve signed up for. I’m happy to keep running the place. It shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”
Perhaps not, but this man might…. She decided to tear off the bandage, no point dancing around the issue. “It was a stipulation of my father’s will that I keep the gym open.”
He nodded.
“But only through December thirty-first.” Her body went strange and cool and calm as the words rushed out.
Mercer’s lips parted but he didn’t speak for several seconds. “Okay. Right…so. And then what happens? You’re not thinking of closing it, are you?”
“I don’t know.” She hated how hard and stuffy she sounded, but this was her first act as a businesswoman and a boss, and she was determined to prove herself an assertive one. Or fake it. “It’s quite likely that I might.”
Mercer sat up straight, brows drawn into a tight line. “Why would you do that?”
“It hasn’t turned a profit in eighteen months.”
He slumped. “Well, no. But we’re not hemorrhaging money, either. It’s just been a rough patch, with your dad being sick, and the economy… It’ll bounce back. Keep it open and you won’t have to think twice about it, aside from getting deposits in your account back in California or signing the random piece of paper—”
“I’ve moved to Boston, actually. As of this morning.”
He blinked, hazel eyes going glassy as he processed the news. “What do you think you’ll do if you shut us down? Sell the property? The market’s not great—”
“I’m not selling it. If I do decide to close the gym, I’ll probably rent the basement to an outside business.” She indicated the office they were in. “I’m going to use this floor for a company I plan to open.”
“You’re going to close an established business to gamble on a new one?”
Jenna steeled herself, an invisible bell clanging to announce the official start of their bout. Her blood warmed and fizzed with adrenaline. Let the debate begin.
“It’s not a matter of choosing one business over another. But I’ve sunk all my savings into a franchise I’m investing in, and I’m not bankrupting myself to keep the gym on life support. The basement rental could bring in close to ten grand a month. Can the gym do that?”
His face fell. “It’s never made that much.”
She’d seen the past decade’s bank statements—she knew it didn’t. Even in good years, the profit it turned was a modest one. The gym was only still in business because her father had owned the space outright, and because he’d loved the place too much to put it out of its misery, even after the scandal had gutted its membership and scared away all its former sponsors. Without doubt, he’d loved it more than his family. Jenna and her mom could have used that money in the early days, back when they’d essentially been homeless, moving every six months, crashing with one set of relatives after another.
“Unless something seriously changes, the gym’s a charity I can’t afford to support.”
“It’s your inheritance.”
“The property’s my inheritance. My dad’s will made that clear, and I’m happy to conform to his instructions and keep it open until the New Year. It’s the least I can do, considering he left me a nice little slice of Downtown Crossing.”
Mercer’s eyes narrowed, wrecking his poker face. A humorless smirk quirked his lips. “Unless you want to load this building onto a truck and move it a block north, you’re in Chinatown.”
Fine, it wasn’t Summer Street, but it had a downtown zip code, and was rent-free. Jenna didn’t stand a chance of topping this windfall ever again in her life, short of winning the lottery.
Two men in sweat-streaked shirts sauntered past the office windows, glancing in and making Jenna feel distinctly as though she’d been locked in one of those submersible shark-observation cages.
“You can’t close this place.” If Mercer was panicking, he hid it well. Jenna’s own heart was thumping hard. She dreaded confrontation, but Mercer looked like six feet of unflappable muscle wrapped in a white T-shirt. Why did that make her feel so damn edgy?
“It was your dad’s whole life, this gym.”
Yes, indeed it was. “As much as this place might mean to you, it’s my choice. And I haven’t made my decision yet. I’m not allowed to until the end of the year, and you’re welcome to try to change my mind,” she added as a consolation. Jenna thought that time would be far better spent looking for greener pastures. “But this place has been in the red the past year and a half. And it’s got enough savings to stagger on for another, what? Maybe two years, at this rate, before that account’s bled dry?”
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.
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