Page 56 of The Knockout Rule

“I am.” Preston answered that time. He steered the conversation, asking Isla about her last couple of days, being his usual charming self. She smiled while she talked, happy with another man.

Eric’s lip curled, his hands fisting of their own accord.

A waitress came by to take their drink order while Eric tried to relax. Preston ordered a Manhattan, asking for a top-shelf bourbon to be used. Isla ordered a strawberry daiquiri.

When the waitress left, Preston said, “You like to eat shoe leather and drink girly drinks.”

Isla raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by girly drink?”

“Fruity. All sugar. The type of drink that comes with an umbrella. It was an unexpected choice.”

Eric winced at the jab.

Isla relaxed into her seat. “Funny, I did expect you to ask for a fancy bourbon. I assume you’re compensating for something.” Her gaze drifted downward, toward Preston’s lap.

Eric chuckled.

“No compensation here,” Preston said, more amused than defensive. “And you don’t have to make excuses to check me out.”

“I wasn’t checking you out. I was judging if a glass of ice water on your groin would stop you from mansplaining what type of drink I should order.”

Preston laughed, clearly not offended by Isla’s quick wit. “If I just rolled over and agreed with you all night, you’d miss our fun banter.”

Isla cocked her head and studied him. “You know, I probably would.”

She no longer seemed nervous. The two of them shared another few jokes, at ease and having fun with each other, and Eric’s gut hollowed. Maybe Preston was the man for her in the end, not Eric, everything having happened for a reason. Maybe this was all for the best. Either way, she clearly didn’t need Eric’s help any longer. Their drinks were served. They both made cracks about their choices again.

Eric should shut this circus down, go for a walk. Or a run. Or bang his head against the wall for an hour. But Preston didn’t cut the connection, and for some unfathomable reason Eric couldn’t tear himself away from the screen.

* * *

Isla’s laughter died down as Preston sipped his Manhattan. Tonight may have begun awkwardly again, but their easy jokes had resumed. Teasing each other was fun. Still, the chemistry she’d hoped to kindle remained absent. Her mind kept drifting to Eric, wondering what he was doing, if he was studying or reading or scratching Whit’s wrinkly neck.

She wondered what it would be like to sit across from him now, except in that fantasy they’d be beside each other, not across, her hand on his thick thigh, his fingers in her hair as they talked and flirted and pretended they were the only people in the room. If she were a normal girl who could handle a normal date with Eric, that was exactly where she’d prefer to be.

She swallowed a sigh. If she had the same intense attraction to Preston, everything would be easier. But she didn’t. The more they joked, the more he felt like the sibling she never had.

“I want more poetry,” she said. Not because she wanted to up their flirting. As much as she’d hoped this date would spark their romantic flames, that ship had sailed for her. She was too stuck on Eric for any man to interest her. But talking poetry was fun, and she was curious what he’d come up with.

They were sitting on low-slung couches, smooth velvet and comfy cushions. Everything about this lounge was elegant, including the impeccably dressed man across from her. Preston leaned back and rested his ankle on his knee, going for cool, when he was clearly delaying for time. She sipped her girly cocktail, pleased he was on the defensive.

Then he said, “Love is sunshine and rain, flowers and decay. It’s happiness and pain, but it’s worth every struggle.”

She didn’t know that quote, but it hit her in her heart. It was another reminder of Eric, who had the potential to be all those things wrapped in a muscled, handsome package. A man who kissed like sin and was permanently stuck on her mind.

She shoved her straw around her cocktail as she replayed her panic attack. Her dad’s call. How closely linked Eric was to that world. “The prose is idealized and impractical,” she told Preston.

He paused, scratched his neck. “True love is worth suffering some pain.”

“It’s false utopia. In the real world love is dangerous. It makes people do irrational things.”

More neck scratching. Did the guy have some kind of funky rash?

“Love is hard,” he said, “but anything hard is worthwhile. You don’t strike me as the type to like things easy.”

She didn’t. At college Heather had refused to join any clubs, saying she hated wasting her time on lame things. Aka: she hated not being the best at a new task. After Isla’s tough first year, she’d eventually branched out and joined rock climbing and calligraphy clubs. Activities that were hard and challenged her. She hadn’t stuck with either hobby, but pushing herself to learn and test her boundaries had given her a punch of pride. Opening her new business was terrifying on many levels, but that fear and the challenge had also been a draw.

Love was a wild card, though. It left you open and vulnerable. She’d had enough open and vulnerable to last a lifetime.