LITMIR.BIZ

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poker, too.

      “That’s too strong a word,” she said with a shrug. “Just weird.”

      “What’s your mom like?”

      “What did my dad tell you she was like?” Jenna countered.

      “He never said much, really. Which just meant he wasn’t crazy about her, but was too nice to say so. Talked way more about you.”

      “Yeah. I’m sure he had plenty to say, considering he hadn’t seen me since I was four and we moved away. Since we talked maybe twice on the phone, the whole rest of my childhood.” Awkward calls, both on her birthday if she remembered correctly. False and overly cheerful, like chatting with a mall Santa.

      “Well, he was really proud of you, anyhow.”

      Jenna sighed quietly, deciding now was the perfect time to open the wine she’d bought. She held it up to show Mercer. “Would you like a glass?”

      He shook his head. “I don’t drink much when I’m training.”

      “Not good for keeping in peak condition?”

      Mercer reached over the counter to pull out a drawer and hand her a corkscrew, giving Jenna quite a nice view of his flexing arm.

      “I actually meant I don’t drink when I’m training other guys, getting one of the kids in shape for a match. I try to set a good example.”

      She filled a tumbler, mentally adding stemware to her growing shopping list. A definite must, should she find the time to finagle a date of her own, off the clock. She shot Mercer a smirk. “And you think teaching your trainees how to beat people senseless is a good example?”

      He returned her smile, the gesture making him truly, properly handsome for a moment. She caught herself fixating on the contours of his chest and shoulders beneath his T-shirt, those deadly—literally deadly—arms braced on the counter.

      “It’s strange to look at you,” Jenna said, corking the bottle, “knowing my dad had a part in raising you.”

      “Do you have a stepfather?”

      “Yeah. My mom remarried when I was ten. That’s probably a big part of why I never got in touch with my father. My stepdad’s a great guy. I mean, he’s my dad.”

      He’d changed their lives, nearly overnight. Her mom had been a wreck up until then, depressed and desperate and always struggling with multiple jobs, overwhelmed by the stress of being a single mother. Then her stepdad had shown up, and everything transformed. Her mother had blossomed with a good man’s affection and support, and for the first time in her life, Jenna had understood how essential it was to feel secure. Like you weren’t alone. And it went far beyond some old damsel-in-distress refrain—her stepdad had transformed, too. He’d told them so a thousand times. He’d offered them stability—financially and in so many other ways, but he’d benefited just as much. You’re the family I didn’t even know I deserved, he’d said one Thanksgiving. It was as if all their jagged edges had fit together like joints, the whole so much stronger than its pieces.

      From then on, 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

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