Page 39 of The Knockout Rule

“Maybe I’m the one needing comfort. I think you’re a flower and a dumpling, the best attributes of both, and I want to apologize for saying otherwise.”

“Fine,” she said slowly, going along with his pretense. “If it’ll make you feel better.” But she stood stiffly, her eyes wide and wary.

Sensing what she needed, he did the hard work for her, reached out and folded her in his arms. She stayed rigid, her hands barely touching his sides. Her heart pounded hard against his chest.

“‘Let it go, let it fly. Set it free before you forget how.’” He whispered the Ramona Estle quote, tucking her closer.

Finally relaxing, her hands slid around him, her fingers pressing into the muscles of his back. He tightened his hold on her, breathed in her soft smells of perfume and eucalyptus, holding her steady and strong. He would be the ground beneath her feet if that was what she needed. Her strength on a tough night. He would be her friend.

She shuddered and burrowed deeper, pressed the side of her face to his chest and nestled against him. The feel of her like this, tucked into him, was a tonic and a dangerous drug. She felt too right and too perfect, this woman who wasn’t his. Still, he rubbed her back, used his other hand to cup her head. Her heat seeped into him, hot prickles spreading across his skin. When his fingers tangled in her hair, she released a sob, and his ribs tightened.

Whatever was going on with her, he’d bet she’d been dealing with it on her own, not leaning on anyone. Being the brave, stubborn woman she was, not unlike her father: Strong-minded Isla Slade. He kissed the top of her head, put as much warmth into the hug as possible. Her heat seeped deeper into him, gave him a sense of peace so intense he felt like crying, too.

Her support. Her friend. If he couldn’t have more, he’d take this.

11

Isla sat in the hotel’s sports-themed diner, laptop open, her attention beyond frazzled. Between the crying kid beside her, the multiple TVs playing, and the low hum of fifties tunes in the background, the place was far from quiet, but she normally excelled at tuning out white noise.

Today proved challenging.

She should be working on her accounting course or putting her website together, but her father’s texts this morning had been abrupt and dismissive. His usual I feel fine, quit worrying had made her feel anything but fine. She was tempted to use the emergency keycard he’d given her, go check on him and be sure, but he’d be livid, and she didn’t want to add to his stress. So she was researching Parkinson’s symptoms for the millionth time, trying to predict his next episode. It was either that or relive last night’s hug-athon with the hottest man she’d ever known.

“This seat taken?” Preston was dressed for a board meeting, as usual. Slick from his gelled hair down to his shiny shoes. The opposite of her yoga pants and worn Ghostbusters T-shirt.

“It’s all yours,” she said as she closed her laptop, hiding her searches. Nothing to see here. No father pretending he’s not sick so he can stay on the payroll.

She plastered on a smile and waited for Preston to get settled. She hadn’t seen him for a few days. Hopefully he’d given up pursuing her.

He sat and motioned for their server. With his coffee ordered, he settled his elbows on the table. “Did you miss me?”

So much for him giving up. “Were you gone?”

“Of course you missed me. I flew to Florida for a few days, damage control with another client.” He smoldered at her. “The view wasn’t as nice.”

The baby beside them tested his vocal chords. Isla winced and leaned closer to Preston. “Why do you keep flirting with me?”

“Because I like you and want to take you out.” He tapped his fingers on the table, lips quirked up. “You, Miss Isla Slade, haven’t given me enough of a shot. One date’s all I want. If you’re still not interested, I won’t pester you. We’ll be friends, nothing more.”

Just friends. The same label Eric had offered her last night. The only problem was she wanted to add with benefits to Eric’s label.

Their hug had set off something primal in her. Afterward, back in her bed, an ache had throbbed through her so intensely she couldn’t sleep. She’d wanted more of his arms, his body, his physical strength. She’d even debated knocking on his door in the middle of the night to seduce him. Her rationale: her feelings were lust and nothing more. Professionally, he wasn’t a long-term client and no one had to know they’d fooled around. Personally, she hadn’t had any new panic attacks. She could have sex with a boxer and emerge unscathed. Especially if there was no actual dating or emotional attachment when he hit the ring.

That idiocy had lasted all of one minute before she’d remembered how much she’d loved talking poetry with him, listening to him discuss why he loved Latin.

There was no point lying to herself. The worst thing of things had happened. Her developing feelings for Eric had crossed that scary line, beyond lust into I Really Like This Guy territory—just down the block from I’m Totally Screwed, around the corner from My Life Sucks.

Their waitress came with Preston’s coffee and Isla’s poached eggs on avocado toast. Preston got busy with something on his phone. Isla ate her food and glanced occasionally at the TV closest to her, her heart knocking anxiously at her ribcage. Race cars zipped around a track. That baby was back to crying. A pair of boxing gloves hung on the far wall, among a slew of other sports memorabilia. She knew those gloves. Her dad had signed them after his awful Hector Narvarez fight, sold them for cash when things had gotten tight.

She put down her cutlery and pushed her plate away.

Preston placed his phone on the table and waved at someone over Isla’s shoulder. She turned, only to spot the last person she wanted to see.

Eric stood in all his six-foot-magnificent glory, wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt that didn’t leave much to the imagination. The man was an action figure come to life, every muscle on his body defined, his bone structure devastatingly handsome.

Eric looked at her and Preston, then at his feet, then at the exit, like he didn’t want to come over. She didn’t want him any closer either. Not with last night fresh in her mind.

Preston hollered, “Brick! Get over here.”