Page 44 of The Knockout Rule

He clasped his hands on the table. “You really do look ravishing tonight. That color is stunning on you.”

Her face flushed, despite her misgivings. “You don’t look so bad yourself. But you’re always dressed this nice.”

He twisted his diamond-studded cufflink. “My closet at home is bigger than my kitchen.”

Definitely not a surprise. “At least you own who you are.”

The excess reminded Isla of her father’s extravagant spending in his heyday: another useless fancy car, gold necklaces and ruby-studded rings no one needed. It had irked her then, and Preston showing off his wealth kind of brought it all back. She understood the wanting of things. The excess was what confounded her, as though material goods defined who you were. She should have added no money talk to her list of conversation landmines.

The waiter arrived with their overpriced wine, uncorked it, and poured a measure into Preston’s glass. Preston sipped it and talked with the server about the age and finesse of the vintage. His knowledge was impressive. Maybe purchasing that bottle hadn’t been all posturing for her benefit. Maybe he was passionate about viticulture and thought he’d treat himself to something special.

She took a small sip—it was better than her twenty-dollar bottles, but not by much. She glanced around the dimly lit room, grasping at conversational straws. “So…” she said. Not her best opener. “How’d you find this place?”

Preston swirled the wine in his glass. “A friend suggested it.”

“Well, if the food is as lovely as the ambiance, you’ll have to thank your friend.”

He smiled tightly. “I will.”

Silence descended. Preston pulled out his phone, checked it, and put it on the table. Isla struggled not to comment. People who couldn’t put digital interactions on hold while socializing with real, live humans confounded her. She needed her phone with her as well, in case her father called. But the device was in her purse, not a blight on their pretty tablecloth.

She focused on the menu, decided on the frisée salad and steak frites. Feeling first-date awkward and conversationally inept, she reread the menu two more times.

Preston cleared his throat. “‘Dreams are water, vast and powerful. Clear enough to show you the way, strong enough to hold you down. She drowns me every night, yet I wake.’”

She looked up sharply. Another poem. This one startlingly personal. “Who wrote that?”

More like, who are you? One minute he was buying astronomically expensive wine and checking his phone, next he was spouting incredibly deep poetry. Those dormant butterflies flapped to life in her stomach.

“Ekram Rahal,” he said. “The date inspired me to do some reading.” He held out his hand on the table, an invitation for her to place her hand in his grasp. She hesitated, didn’t feel the pull of intimacy between them, despite his beautiful words. But she’d promised herself to give him a chance. She slipped her hand into his.

He ran his fingers over her knuckles. “Have you always loved poetry?”

“Have you?” Preston finding her weak spot was an odd coincidence. Maybe too odd. Most men in the sports world weren’t poetry buffs. Except Eric, who’d been a sneak and had read her dating profile. Which could mean… “Did Eric tell you I love poetry?”

Preston stared at their hands briefly. “Will you be mad if I say yes?”

She wasn’t mad, exactly. More like wary. And slightly annoyed. “So you guys have talked about me?”

“I just asked about you is all. You two spend a lot of time together, and I was curious. But poetry isn’t new to me. Working with Brick has opened my eyes to a lot of things.”

She didn’t doubt that. Eric was an intellectual. Being around him could easily inspire someone to read and learn more. Her discussions with him last night had certainly been engaging. The hug had been something else entirely. As were these dastardly feelings that kept creeping up. Which was why she was on this date, with a kind man who didn’t box for a living. A man who’d gone out of his way to plan a lovely night.

“I guess I can’t fault you for that. If my friend Heather knew a guy I wanted to date, I’d ask for intel.” Still, she pulled her hand from his, fiddled with the edge of the napkin on her lap. “Who’s your favorite poet?”

He sipped his drink, checked his phone again. “Can’t say anyone in particular. I just get lost on the internet sometimes, reading and thinking.”

She could relate. She often lost hours perusing passages, only to look up and realize she hadn’t eaten dinner. “Why did that poem make you think of me?”

It had been beautiful, but too intimate almost. Words she’d have expected from a lover consumed with their early days.

Instead of replying, he pulled his menu open and perused its contents.

She squinted at him. “Sorry, did you not hear my question?”

“Oh, no. I heard it. I just believe in leaving a little mystery.” He glanced up, winked at her. “It’s up to you to interpret the poem as you like.”

Okay. Sure. But the evasive reply was odd.