Page 19 of The Knockout Rule

Except for her last line.

This new information had his mind spinning like when he studied languages, one question kicking into another. He wanted to ask if growing up with her father had been tough, if it had scarred her in some way. He was curious what poetry she loved and why a smart, beautiful woman needed a dating app. Maybe it was her hot-and-cold personality. Unless there had been a reason she’d been rude on the plane. Maybe she’d had a particularly bad day yesterday, something to do with how unsettled she’d been when practically hyperventilating against the door this morning.

One of his favorite Walt Whitman quotes urged people to be curious, not judgmental. But judgment often came easier than curiosity. Maybe Eric had judged Isla as quickly as she’d judged him.

She returned from putting her phone away and gestured to the treatment table. “Let’s get back to it, shall we?”

“Sii curioso, non critic,” he said, repeating the sentiment of Whitman’s quote in Italian. The romantic language was the first to come to mind. He liked how the sounds curled around his tongue, softened on the roof of his mouth, as though the harder consonants had been dipped in honey.

“What does that mean?” she asked, her lips slightly parted. Her dark eyes swept across his face.

“It means I’d like to offer a fresh start. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

She pressed her palm to her chest. “I’d really like that, Eric. I’ve been awful to you. It’s not who I am.”

He had no clue who she was.

Once he got back on the treatment table, she resumed her work, used the ultrasound on his ankle, her phone thankfully silent. Their conversation gradually resumed, light discussions about his diet and training and workout schedule.

“4,000 calories a day is insane.” She whistled while moving the ultrasound probe around his Achilles. “I’d have to be carted around in a wheelbarrow.”

“I’m a lot bigger than you.”

Her gaze moved up his body, lingering on his torso. “I assume forty to fifty percent is protein.”

His abs tightened under her steady perusal, like he was his sixteen-year-old self, flexing to show off, amazed a girl was even glancing at him. A ridiculous reaction. “I eat lots of salmon and chicken,” he said, forcing himself to relax.

Her focus darted to his ankle. “I hate salmon.”

“What did salmon ever do to you?”

“It makes my teeth feel weird.” She rolled her tongue over her teeth, grimacing, like she could feel the offensive texture.

There she went again, being cute. “Maybe your teeth are the problem.”

“Or I need to eat it more. I used to hate olives, then I forced myself to eat them every chance I got. Now I love them. Just the green ones, though. And they’re better with the pits in them. Firmer texture.”

He relaxed further as she worked, no longer flexing like an idiot, but he wanted to keep her talking. Something about the change in her voice was soothing. Like he could hear the smile in her tone. “You’re a picky eater.”

“I prefer the term particular.” She gave him a saucy look. “My toast has to be super burnt because butter tastes better on it that way. Marshmallows too—charred to a crisp. And if you put a raw onion anywhere near me, I’ll melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.”

She did a funny little shiver. Theatrical and silly. Amusing as hell. “I’ll make a mental note not to eat raw onions before coming here.”

“My sensitive sense of smell would be in your debt. What about you?” She slid him a sidelong glance. “Fussy or experimental?”

“I’ll pretty much eat anything.”

“Have you had live larvae?”

He curled his lip. “Why would anyone eat live larvae?”

“Oh, so you’re a picky eater, too.” She winked at him.

He laughed, surprising himself. He hadn’t expected to like talking with Isla this much, but he was grinning outright, enjoying her company, when he’d spent most of the flight irritated with her.

She put the ultrasound machine away and wiped his ankle, then started doing some deep tissue work on his calf. She worked him patiently and thoroughly, as good as Gilpin, if not better, but when her fingers smoothed over his skin, the friction sent tingles up his thighs. When the tingling traveled to his groin, he clenched his stomach.

Eric’s wellness team at home always had their hands on him: massage therapist, physiotherapist, acupuncturist, chiropractor. It wasn’t like he hadn’t worked with women before. After reading Isla’s dating profile—words can build worlds—and chatting easily with her, her attention suddenly felt…different.