LITMIR.BIZ

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him. There was no way he was taking a chance, only to wake up heartbroken or ditched, maybe miles away from a kid or two once the divorce dust settled. And if Mercer ever met such a woman, he’d know. Until then, no sense trying to make do with anything less.

      Jenna rolled her eyes and speared a pea pod on her fork.

      “What? I would be a great husband. Fix your car, rub your feet. Beat people up for you.”

      She laughed, shaking her head.

      “Grill a mean steak, rewire your toaster. Great kisser.”

      “All men think they’re great kissers. Just like you all think you’re the only decent driver on the road.”

      “Maybe, but I am. Amazing kisser. Dangerously amazing. Your panties would, like, disintegrate, I’m such an awesome kisser.”

      “Uh-huh.” Jenna seemed to bite back a smile.

      “Don’t act like that’s not important. Like you’ve never been on a date and thought the guy was pretty okay until he went in for the good-night kiss and it was all…” He made a grossed-out face.

      “It’s important, but it’s not everything.”

      “People should make out, like, ten minutes into a first date, and make sure that chemistry’s there. If it’s not, why waste the money on dinner?”

      “Some people won’t feel that with a person they don’t know yet. Most women, I suspect, at the risk of sounding sexist.”

      “Well, that’s what I’d tell my clients to do.”

      “You’d make a terrible matchmaker. And an even worse first date.”

      “Just leading with my strengths. I’d kiss you so good, you wouldn’t even notice what a cheap restaurant I took you to.”

      She laughed again.

      Mercer was happy to let the topic linger, enjoying flirting more than was advisable. But to his disappointment, Jenna changed the subject.

      “Where’d you get your name from? I’ve never met a Mercer before.”

      “It was my great-uncle’s name. He was a prizefighter in Baltimore, actually, back in the fifties. ‘No-Mercy’ Mercer McGill, he was called.”

      “Wow, now there’s a name.”

      “Tell me about it. Lucky bastard.”

      “Do you have a fight nickname?”

      “Nah. I was never a headliner. Decent record, though, brief as my semipro career was. Five and two, three knockouts. Don’t think my odds were ever much to write home about.”

      Jenna went noticeably still, not speaking for a protracted moment. “There was probably tons of that going on. Gambling.”

      “Sure. Goes hand in hand with the sport, for better or worse.”

      “My dad must have been good at it…guessing outcomes.”

      There was bitterness in her voice, impossible to miss. Mercer felt it, too, her condemnation of her dad—hell, his dad, for all intents and purposes—putting him on the defensive. Nearly everybody believed Monty had been involved all those years ago, though Mercer refused to think him capable of it. Not the man who’d personally drawn him away from what would’ve surely been a similarly ugly path.

      “Actually, your dad never gambled.”

      She met his eyes. “No? Why not? Was it forbidden if you’re involved with one of the competitors?”

      “Like that stops anybody. But no, he just wasn’t interested in that side of it. He thought it bred corruption and match-fixing.”

      “Huh.” Her perplexed expression told him she’d been fed a much different story.

      “Okay, actually, that was a lie,” Mercer said. “Your dad did gamble on fights. Once on me, to win.”

      She relaxed, clearly vindicated.

      “I won that match, think I got paid about five hundred dollars. Then your dad takes me aside in the locker room and tells me, ‘Son, you just made yourself three grand. I’m sending you to Brazil.’ He handed me this wad of cash and I was like, excuse me?”

      “That’s how he paid to send you abroad?”

      Mercer nodded. “Didn’t even know he’d been planning anything like that. Same with Rich. Made us both earn our way. Guess that’s how he thought of it. Only two bets I ever heard of him placing.”

      Jenna seemed to mull all of this over as they ate, a crease of confusion pinched between her brows. Goddamned cute.

      When they were done, Mercer took their bowls to the sink. “That was the best meal I’ve had in ages. Thanks.”

      “You’re welcome. Nice to have the time and space to cook again.”

      He watched her out of the corner of his eye, her gaze moving restlessly around the apartment. Eventually she asked, “Do we have cable?”

      “Yeah. Go nuts.”

      “Are you sticking around here for the night?”

      “I was going to. Rich is overseeing the evening session. Is that a problem?”

      She smiled tightly. “No, no. It’s just that on Wednesdays I usually watch this show. It’s really stupid, so I don’t need to subject you to it.”

      “What?”

      “This dumb dating show.”

      “What do you care what I think about your crappy taste in TV?”

      “Fine. Just tell me if it’s too loud or anything.”

      Mercer put the dishes in the sink to soak while Jenna got settled on the couch, messing with the remotes. He grabbed his notes and laptop and took a seat on the far cushion.

      It felt funny—funny in a nice way—sharing a sofa with a woman. He hadn’t had a date in a few months, thanks to Delante’s increasingly high-maintenance training regimen. Felt good, sensing the soft presence of a female body. And not just any female body. The mystery girl he’d been curious about for years, who’d grown into quite a knockout, albeit a buttoned-up one.

      The show started then promptly went to commercials. Jenna rose to get herself a fresh tumbler of wine. Mercer raised an eyebrow as she sat back down, legs folded under her swishy skirt, throw pillow hugged to her middle.

      “What?”

      “Nothing. Keep drinking and I’ll trick you into thinking I’m charming.”

      She laughed, a tiny little huff through her nose. Pretty nose. Pretty mouth, blue eyes squinty when she smiled. He eyed the smooth, pale skin of her neck and the very tops of her breasts, wondering what it might taste like, and how soft it would feel against his lips, under his fight-roughened palms and fingertips.

      She caught him staring. “Yes?”

      “Just looking at you. Wondering how you dodged all your dad’s homely genes.”

      “Was that a compliment?”

      “Might pass for one if you finish that glass.”

      She shook her head, smiling.

      “Polish off the bottle and maybe I’ll pass for Brad Pitt.”

      A snort.

      “You—”

      She shushed him. “My stupid show’s back on. Quit flirting with me.”

      Mercer waited for perhaps half a minute before he leaned across the center cushion to whisper loudly, “I was not flirting with you.”

      She sipped her wine, attention glued to the screen. “I

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