Page 23 of The Knockout Rule

She bit her cheek and shut the hell up. Her father would lose his mind if he’d overheard that harsh remark. It teetered too close to his illness. Not close enough for Preston to guess why she was steadying her breaths and calming her urge to keep arguing. But still.

Jason, thankfully, delivered their drinks and the nuts, but the spice-laden aroma had lost its appeal. She focused on her drink. Preston snacked readily, sipping his martini as the negative energy between them lingered.

“I’m not a boxer,” he said finally.

He sure had the tenacity of one. “Because you don’t want to damage your pretty face?”

He swiveled toward her, dimple flashing. “So you think I’m pretty?”

She laughed. “You know you’re pretty.”

“Go out with me, Isla.”

“We’re out right now.”

He picked up his phone, scrolled through it for a second, then placed it down. “We are, but it’s not the same. I promise we’ll have fun.”

Dating Preston wasn’t the same as dating a boxer. His brain cells wouldn’t be rearranged, while blood-hungry fans cheered or booed. Still, he was entrenched in that world, would always talk about Eric and his other clients and engage in heated discussion on the topic. She also couldn’t imagine him lounging around on a Sunday, a book in his hand as they traded thoughts on their readings.

Tired of turning him down, she stayed quiet.

Preston ran his finger over the base of his martini glass, eyes downcast. “‘I know the shape of your hands,’” he said, still not looking at her. “‘I want to know the shape of your heart. How it beats that intoxicating tune, both sad and beautiful.’”

She stared at him as his words sunk in. No, not words. A poem, the meaning implying he was looking deeper, wanting to see more in her than she’d shared. A few charred butterflies rebirthed, ash falling from their fluttering wings. “Who wrote that?”

His cheeks looked pinkish in the low light. Like he was embarrassed or shy. Two descriptions that didn’t fit with the Preston she’d met. “No one famous. Eric…”

“Eric wrote that?” Forget a few butterflies. This was a swarm.

“Brick? No, not Eric Eric. His name’s Eric Enyert. Some random guy.” He dipped his head slightly, as though nervous. “I read it online and thought of you.”

She wasn’t sure why he wasn’t meeting her eyes. Up until now, his confidence had been an entity of its own. Maybe, under his cocky exterior, Preston was a sensitive guy who liked to read poetry and imagined himself a romantic. “What stood out about that piece in particular?”

He glanced at his phone again. Was he waiting for a call?

He swallowed and faced her. “You’re a complex woman who keeps a lot of herself hidden. I’d like to get to know you, understand what makes you tick.” A gleam returned to his eyes. “And you’re beautiful. I’d be lucky to look at you from across a table all night.”

Cocky Preston was back, and she felt off balance.

She’d misjudged Eric horribly before they’d met. Could be she’d done the same with Preston, everything with her father throwing her judgment askew. She certainly wouldn’t have expected Preston to recite poetry in an effort to win her over. Saying yes to one date wouldn’t be the worst thing. One night to see if they actually had anything in common, as long as she set a ground rule. “If we—”

“Sorry, hold that thought.” He grabbed his phone again and pulled up the sports highlights. “There’s an interview on—Brick on ESPN. I need to make sure they didn’t mess up the editing.”

She fought a laugh. She was about to agree to a date, with one rule: they wouldn’t discuss boxing. Here he was, interrupting her to watch his star athlete shit-talk his opponent.

Note to self: trust your instincts.

She gathered her purse to leave, but Eric’s huge frame filled Preston’s phone, and curiosity had her pausing. Eric had been focused and thoughtful in their sessions, fun to talk to, his face pensive more often than not. Brick Kramarov was a scowling monster.

She inched closer to Preston, fascinated.

The camera panned back slightly, revealing the interviewer. The woman was pretty, with long dark hair and bright red lips. She looked up at Eric’s towering figure, microphone in hand. “How are you feeling about next month’s fight, Brick?”

He grunted. “Joe Bradley’s toast and he don’t even know it. Gonna cream that guy.”

“This fight’s been a late addition for you, but Joe’s been training for months. Are you doing anything different to prepare?”

“Prepare?” He sneered at the camera. “I was born ready. Gonna knock that amateur out.”