Page 32 of The Knockout Rule

She did want to fool around with a guy. Feel desirable and let loose. She also wanted to date with an eye on the future and didn’t like the idea of Eric thinking she was careless with her body. They should switch topics, talk about why he’d named his dog Whit or discuss the rain expected tomorrow. “It’s not for a hookup,” she said.

He stared at her, rolled his tongue over his teeth. “Do none of them like poetry?” he asked, then winced. “Sorry, forget I asked that.”

Well, now, that was impossible. Prodding about poetry hadn’t been a random question, and they hadn’t discussed books or reading or anything of the sort the past week. Delving into Eric’s intellect would have only exacerbated her attraction to him.

That left one explanation. “Did you read my dating profile?”

He shrugged weakly. “It was right there that day.”

“Yeah, Snoop Dog, it was. That didn’t mean you had to creep my profile.”

“You hate boxing.”

She kept working the ultrasound probe, quiet, hoping he’d drop the subject.

He laid back down, his head twisted to the side, his gaze on the gym equipment at their left. “If you hate boxing, why are you here?”

She wasn’t sure which topic was more difficult, his sudden intimate knowledge of her likes and dislikes, or the real reason why she’d taken this job. “My father and I haven’t spent much time together lately.” The truth. “When he mentioned this last-minute fight, I asked if I could come.” Not the truth. She didn’t have any other choice.

“But you hate boxing,” he said again.

“Huh.” She glanced around, wide-eyed. “Is there an echo in the room?”

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that filled the room. “Who’s your favorite poet?”

She should never have let him silence that app. “Aren’t we due for another stupid joke?”

“I’ll only give you a stupid joke if you answer my question afterward.”

“Holy demanding Batman.”

“My jokes aren’t free.”

“You’re right. I pay for them in my embarrassment for you.” But talking poetry shouldn’t be a big deal. She’d occasionally tried to convince Heather to read passages, so they could share their thoughts. Heather would get distracted by a random food craving for pickled beets or prosciutto or fiddleheads, and they’d end up on a food mission. Heather was a food stylist who spent her days making dishes look mouthwatering for photographs and commercials, a job that bled into her daily life. Poetry was a hard sell.

Talking poetry with Eric would be a treat. It was also safer than talking about her dislike of boxing. “Fine. Joke first, then I’ll divulge my poetry secrets.”

He smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “How do you catch a squirrel?”

“By baiting it with a crappy joke teller?”

“You climb a tree and act like a nut.”

Oh, man. Those really were too lame. And cute. She tried to muffle her snort, but it snuck out. “You continue to amaze, Kramarovsky.”

“Favorite poet,” was all he said.

“Ramona Estle,” she finally admitted. “When I stumbled on her, I felt like I discovered gold.”

“She writes Instagram poetry, doesn’t she?”

Isla stilled. “You know Ramona Estle?”

“Not intimately, but her work’s really accessible. Not as hard to untangle as some poets. Everything she writes feels tangible.”

Eric was still focused on the gym equipment, but she felt exposed. Seen. “That’s exactly it. But I’m honestly shocked. I’ve never met anyone who knows her.”

“Shocked because I’m Brick Smash?” Accusation crept into his tone.