Page 36 of The Knockout Rule

He lifted his pinky and placed it over her thumb. “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

Cry. She needed to cry. Another thing she couldn’t do in public, certainly not in front of Eric. And facing him like this, their bodies crouched and heads bent close, a slew of other unclear feelings crested over her.

She yanked her hand back and stood, turned to head to her room, but the prospect of closing the door, being in there with nothing but her thoughts…she just couldn’t.

“I have to ice my shoulder,” Eric said from behind her. “Any chance you mind helping? Wrapping it up is tough one-handed.”

She swiveled back and narrowed her eyes. He was either a mind reader and was taking pity, or he actually needed help. She’d worked his shoulder. Had seen firsthand how it could flare up. He probably could use her help, but being in Eric’s room alone with him might make those unsettled feelings flare brighter.

Still, she said, “Sure. Let’s get you iced.”

* * *

Eric opened the door to his room, doing his best not to crowd Isla or ask again if she was okay. She wasn’t. That much was clear. She hadn’t been as distressed as their first physio day, but there was no missing the glassiness in her brown eyes.

He unhooked Whit’s leash, dropped it on the coffee table, and scanned his suite. The door to his adjoining room was open. His bed was neatly made, thanks to housekeeping, but textbooks were on his sofa, a number strewn on the floor. The hotel staff had strict orders not to touch his books. If he’d known he was having company, he wouldn’t have left such a mess.

Whit flopped on his dog bed, tongue flapping as he breathed heavily. Eric started gathering books.

Isla lifted one from the floor. “You know Latin?”

“I’m far from fluent.” He struggled with it most days, hadn’t had the time or mental energy to focus lately.

She flipped through the textbook, stopping periodically to scan a page. “But…why Latin? It’s not exactly something that comes in handy when on the road.”

He piled his books on the floor and sat on the couch, unsure how much to say. After this afternoon’s gut punch when Isla had admitted her feelings for Preston, he’d decided to keep things strictly friendly with her. Talking poetry together had enflamed his interest. He’d ached to take her out, get to know her better, kiss her until neither of them could recite their names, let alone a verse from Ramona Estle. He’d thought he’d sensed her interest, too. A two-sided connection he wouldn’t have ignored.

Then she’d said she liked Preston.

It was fine. More than fine. Dating was a distraction, and his focus hadn’t been optimal. Thinking about Preston’s parents today—the envy of that normal life, wondering how it would feel to love someone freely, work a normal nine-to-five, study and use his brains, not his fists—all of it had been infecting him. The tease of things he couldn’t have.

Now Isla was in his room, wearing dark jeans and a shimmery yellow top, like she’d been on a date. That possibility was enough to cool his desire for her, but she was asking him about Latin, as though it was nothing. She wouldn’t understand that he’d never dated anyone who’d cared for his studies. The women in his life had teased him with a sharp edge: A guy with your face doesn’t need to speak one language, let alone two. Most people thought his studies were a joke. Even Preston and Eric’s family called his coursework a “silly hobby.”

Not Isla, who was flipping pages, seemingly fascinated.

She glanced up. “Seriously, I have to know. Why Latin?”

He picked at his cracked cuticles, a bead of excitement rolling under his skin. The chance to talk about this part of his life with someone who cared was too enticing. “Latin is part of everything. Hardly anyone speaks it anymore, but it’s not dead. It’s the language of law and government and theology. Subpoena, habeas corpus, pro bono, non sequitur—those are Latin terms we still use. Beyond that, so many words are rooted in the language. It helps develop and train the mind. Gives us a foundation to learn the other romance languages. Learning it is a gift.” He blew out a rough breath and hedged a glance at Isla.

She stared at him, blinking. “You’re a surprising man, Eric Kramarovsky.”

“Surprising good?”

Her teeth grazed her bottom lip, sinking down, then slipping off. “Depends, can you tell stupid jokes in Latin?”

“Not even close.”

“Then I’m undecided.”

His hotel suite—covered by Preston with cash Eric would have to reimburse after the fight—was massive compared to his small room at home. It wasn’t a lavish penthouse, but it was stylish with its old-money vibe, ornate curtains, framed Renaissance art. The most beautiful thing in the space was the woman eyeing him curiously.

“Which is your favorite language?” she asked.

Her question was eager, as though she hadn’t been on the verge of tears in the hall. He’d thought asking her to ice his shoulder would be the thing to calm her. Rote activity was a great distraction. She hadn’t brought up the subject since coming in, and he didn’t bother. Whatever was relaxing her, he liked being part of the reason. “Japanese, for sure.”

“It must be crazy hard.”

“It takes discipline, not so different than boxing. But Japanese kanji is more like a puzzle. It’s a language written in pictures, with culture and history infused into the symbols, but there are no familiar references for English speakers to draw from. The challenge is exciting.”