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traditional, then?”

      “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” She offered a mysterious little grin and turned back to the stove. It was a curious sensation, knowing he was standing there, just on the other side of the counter. That life, that weird set of experiences and skills. And holy hell, that body. Jenna usually caught herself falling for tall, slender men. Mercer was tall enough, but slender…no. Not burly, either, but…cut. Yes, that was the adjective. If he ever wound up in her Boston bachelor database, she’d be stuck with the inadequate drop-down menu designation of athletic to qualify that build. And if Mercer was athletic, then Bill Gates was well-off.

      “So, you won’t be competing in that tournament next month?” she asked over her shoulder.

      “Nah. I’m strictly there as Delante’s corner. Gonna run that kid into the ground for the next six weeks.” He grinned as though he relished such a chance. “Keep him too busy and too exhausted to worry about girls or any of the other nonsense waiting for him back in his neighborhood.”

      “He’s like your project.”

      “I guess. But I don’t do it for me. I didn’t lose a year’s sleep and nag myself hoarse to keep him from quitting high school because it was fun.”

      “Why, then?”

      “You just see something in a guy. You can tell when a kid’s got it, like this energy. He stands out. And you want to make him see it, too.”

      “And what did my dad see in you?”

      Mercer laughed. “Hell, I dunno. I was never going to go pro, not big-time, and I’m sure he knew it. I think he just let me believe maybe I could, so I’d have something worth working toward, give me some direction. I guess he just liked me.”

      “What were you like, before boxing?”

      “Pretty rotten apple. Or on my way there. My mom figured if her stupid-ass son was so hell-bent on getting himself in fights, maybe he could make something of it.”

      “Guess she was right.”

      He nodded. “Moms usually are. It’s a tough age, fourteen, fifteen. You think you’re a man, even though you’re so incredibly not. If you don’t know what you’re good at by then, your identity starts latching on to whatever you’re bad at. Whatever’s got people paying attention to you. That’s my theory, anyhow.”

      “I think there’s some wisdom in that.”

      They fell silent, and Jenna felt that pleasant wave of nerves again. It would probably only last as long as her wine buzz, but she had a crush on Mercer. The feeling wouldn’t be there when she woke, and their acquaintanceship was already complicated. They shared three key things—an apartment, a business and her dad—and tenuously so. They couldn’t possibly add a romantic entanglement to that list and not expect it to implode. Still, why did Mercer’s personality have to wind up being as appealing as his body?

      “So, you don’t really date, then,” she heard herself asking as she turned down the burner under the veggies.

      “Why, you need recruits for your harem?”

      “It’s called a client database. Are you just a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy, then? Three rounds and tap out?”

      He laughed. “For a girl who won’t kiss and tell, you’re awful nosy about other people’s love lives.”

      She blushed. “Just the wine talking.”

      “Well, I don’t really do serious relationships. Between my mom and your dad, I got a pretty thorough education in how much pain love can saddle you with, if you get it wrong. And most folks I know seem to get it wrong.”

      “That’s why they need me,” she said brightly. “To steer them in the right direction.”

      “No offense, but taking dating guidance from a single woman sounds like being taught to bird-watch from a blind guy.”

      Jenna gaped, playing up her offense. She grabbed a wet sponge and whipped it at him.

      Laughing, Mercer batted it away. “Or hiring a homeless guy as your Realtor.”

      Scanning for a weapon, she reeled out the sink sprayer and gave it a quick, solid squeeze. Mercer studied the damp patch spreading down the front of his T-shirt, still chuckling. He looked up. “If you weren’t a girl, my boss and my landlady, you’d be so dead right now.”

      The faintest smell of burning rice drew her attention, which was just as well—she was enjoying herself far too much.

      “Get us some bowls, Mr. Rowley. It’s time to eat.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE WINE WAS TEMPTING.

      Mercer stole a glance at Jenna across the kitchen. Also tempting. Also the worst idea in the history of the world, given the balancing act the next few months were going to demand. Plus she was into commitment and compatibility. Mercer wasn’t a womanizer by any means, but he’d definitely spent more time in his cumulative flings than in a real relationship. He and Jenna played in very different leagues when it came to dating—hell, different sports—and matching the pair of them could only end in unintentional fouls and injuries.

      Still, he could flirt. Nothing wrong with that. Might lighten the mood, break the ice, melt some of the tension that had marred their initial introduction…and turn the heat up under that other tension they had going on, which was far more fun.

      “So,” he said as they sat down at the table. “If I signed up with your little dating service, what type of woman would you match me with?”

      “A fairly desperate one, I imagine,” she teased.

      “So I’m your type, then?”

      She shot him a playful, killing look, probably wishing the sprayer were still within her reach. “Yes, very funny. But you told me yourself, you’re not interested in a relationship. I’m not going to waste my time trying to find love for men who’re only up for a random roll in the hay.”

      “I never said that’s what I’m about. Not exactly.”

      “Anyway, you’d have to go through an exhaustive interview before I could figure out who you’d hit it off with. I barely know anything about you.”

      He took the first bite of his dinner, finally understanding why it might be worth going to all the trouble Jenna had. Beat the hell out of takeout. “This is delicious.”

      “Thank you.”

      “But go on. Ask me one of your dating-thing questions. Interview me.”

      She looked to the ceiling, dredging up a mental questionnaire. How on earth was this Monty’s daughter? She’d been putting on a semiconvincing tough-cookie act with him when it came to the business stuff, but beneath that thin shell she was a softie through and through. Mercer watched her shiny brown hair as it swung about her shoulders, wondering how it would feel wound around his fingers.

      “Okay,” she said. “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

      He frowned, genuinely surprised to realize he hadn’t the faintest clue. “Um, in a perfect world?”

      “Sure.”

      “In a perfect world I’d still be here, running this place. But it’d be way different. All those things you snooped through and more.”

      “And…?”

      “What else is there?”

      Her fork clattered against her bowl and she gave him a supremely annoyed look. “You didn’t even mention a wife or kids or any kind of personal life.” She shook her head and resumed eating. “No way you’re getting anywhere near my clientele.”

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