Page 3 of The Knockout Rule

Isla had read the note twice. Egyptian hieroglyphs were easier to decipher than Heather’s handwriting, but the huge swell of Isla’s heart had turned her eyes watery. Heather hadn’t known Isla’s mother had left the month prior, gallivanting off with some man, freed by Isla’s college start and unable to handle her husband’s boxing lifestyle. She hadn’t known Isla had practically been sleepwalking through her days since then, struggling to make friends at school. Only that morning Isla had been sad and hiccupy, feeling out of depth in the bustling campus teeming with laughing students, all strolling in groups, instant bonds forged at drunken frat parties and whip-smart debates.

One scrawled letter later, she had a friend.

Present-day Heather pressed a shot glass into her cleavage and handed the other glass to Isla, a mischievous smile in place. “Boob shots for my Bean and Babes graduate.”

When you find your people, hold them close. And do boob shots.

“If that’s Goldschläger,” Isla said, “I’ll spit it up on you.”

“Of course it’s not Goldschläger.”

Shots filled, Isla leaned forward, laughing as she suctioned her lips around the glass in Heather’s cleavage. She slung it back. Of course it was Goldschläger. Grimacing, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “They could use that to disinfect sewage tanks.”

“Such a baby.”

“Says the woman who cries bloody murder at the sight of a teeny, tiny spider.”

“Arachnophobia is a real thing.”

“So is Goldschläger-phobia.”

Heather laughed and did her shot, blonde hair flying with dramatic flair. She smacked her lips and took in the almost-finished office. “Can’t believe you actually did this.”

Isla couldn’t believe it either. Setting her own hours had been a lure—the freedom to come and go without answering to anyone but her neurotic, workaholic self. But the true draw had been her client control. She’d also be the one paying bills and balancing accounts, or not paying bills if clients dwindled. Cue nervous butterflies. Advertising and promotion wouldn’t happen on their own. But one pro outweighed all the cons you could toss at her face: at Phoenix Physiotherapy, not one boxer would walk through her door.

The front door opened, a gust of wind blowing in with Isla’s towering father.

Amendment: no boxers except her father would walk through her door.

Swinging Graham Slade kissed his daughter’s cheek and tipped his head to Heather. “Been a while. How goes the food styling world?”

“Unlike Isla, I don’t get to put my hands on handsome men all day, but I get by.”

He nodded. “Probably safer for everyone.”

“I’m offended, Mr. Slade.”

“No, you’re not.” His tone was playful, but his scarred and battered face was as intense as ever.

To anyone else, that hard look would send their pulse rocketing, but to Isla—and Heather, thanks to the endless hours they’d spent together—Graham Slade’s face was just his face. His I’ll-beat-you-into-a-pulp expression was the same as his tickle-his-daughter expression and his celebrate-a-boxing-victory expression. Swinging Slade’s hard features, with his slight sneer and broken-too-many-times nose, was a comfort.

“You have a minute to talk?” he asked Isla.

“You’ll have to ask Heather, since she just dropped by.”

He looked at Heather but didn’t speak.

Heather blew him a kiss. “Your broody looks don’t scare me. Lucky for you, my work here is done and I have a craving for those deep-fried pickles at the Pink Hen.” She returned the flask to her purse but left the shot glasses on Isla’s counter. “You’ll need these on opening day, and for when you sign up for the Blossom dating app.”

Her dad scowled. “Internet dating is dangerous.”

Possibly, but more to the point, it was impractical. Dating would require extra hours to be added to Isla’s days. “Ignore Heather. She knows not of what she speaks.”

Heather scoffed. “Untrue. I’m proactive. This isn’t Jumanji. Men won’t pop out of those books you read.”

“Stop mothering me.”

“I love you, too,” Heather said sweetly. With a wave of her fingers, she was gone.