Page 33 of The Knockout Rule

One hint she still thought he was stupid and he was back on the defensive. His PR team had really done a number on him.

She pressed the flat of her hand against his calf. The muscle was bunched. “Not at all. Estle just isn’t as popular as Poe or Angelou or Whit...” She stared at his back, her mouth dropping open slightly. “Your dog—you named him for Walt Whitman, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Still no cat named Smart, though.”

“Wow, I am such an asshole.” His dog’s name hadn’t been misspelled as Whit, short for witty, as she’d first assumed. He’d named his pup after a famous poet. She couldn’t have misjudged a person more harshly if she’d tried.

“Assholes don’t love Ramona Estle,” he said, his lips curving up slightly.

She released his calf, still horrified with herself. She tried to focus on the probe in her hand, applying his therapy. “Not an asshole then. But I’m an awful, judgmental woman.”

“Why Ramona Estle?” he asked, not disagreeing with her self-assessment.

She shook her head, tried to quit mentally flogging herself long enough to form a reply. She’d never forget the first Estle passage she’d read, the one that had struck an immediate chord:

“the longer

i stayed

the uglier

i became

leaving wasn’t a choice

it was for you”

That poem had sucked the breath from Isla’s lungs. She’d thought of her mother instantly, wondering if there’d been more to her abandonment than her husband’s boxing, her resentfulness toward her daughter. Maybe she’d been depressed or simply hadn’t been capable of love. After reading that passage, Isla had felt the first stirrings of forgiveness in her adult life.

“Something about her words speaks to me,” she told Eric. “Like everything I read feels relevant.”

He folded his hands under his head, looking deep in thought. A night-and-day contrast to his scowl when playing his role of Brick Kramarov. “Poetry is magic like that. Like your profile said, words can build worlds, and we’re the architect of those worlds. We read and interpret writing to suit our needs in that moment. We let those poems build us up or tear us down. We have the power in the end, not the author.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice turning breathy. “Exactly.”

Eric shifted on the table, his hips moving slightly. The move shouldn’t have been erotic. Lying that long on your stomach was uncomfortable. But a yearning took root—the urge to spread her palm along his upper back, trail it up and drag her nails across his scalp, trace the shell of his ear. Lie on top of his back and mold herself to him, soft breasts to hard muscle, her pelvis rounded over his ass.

“I’m surprised you’re single,” he said.

The compliment sent a rush of heat up her neck. “I’m busy, and it hasn’t been a priority.”

He didn’t reply right away, but she sensed his mind spinning. Was he thinking about her? Considering asking her out? She trembled at the possibility. Trembling that should not happen. I hate boxing. The last line in her profile was there for a reason.

“What about that dating site?” he asked. “Have any of the guys interested you?”

More men had been matches. A couple had been cute and not overtly weird. Something had still held her back. “I think I’m a bit nervous about meeting a stranger. I know it can be fine, not all guys are catfishing or trying to take advantage. It’s still daunting, or I’m just…” Spending too much time with a man more interesting than the profiles she’d read.

She remembered the soft-spiky feel of Eric’s buzzed hair when putting on his incognito hat, the warmth that had zapped up her arm.

She glanced down sharply.

“Isla?”

Her face felt flushed, her body alive. She should never have allowed them to get this personal. If this were her own practice, she’d ditch Eric as a client. Move on and not let whatever this was develop further. This wasn’t her practice, though. She was here for her father, not herself. Her father who’d been blatantly avoiding her and keeping her at a distance. He was being his usual stoic, stubborn self. But there were five more weeks of training ahead, tiring days, and she wouldn’t risk leaving him alone.

“I heard it’s supposed to rain tomorrow,” she said. A pathetic attempt to change topics.

“Or you’re just what?” Eric pushed.