Page 35 of The Knockout Rule

“You didn’t ask to paint the hotel wall.”

“You didn’t tell me I couldn’t.”

“Hurricane,” he mumbled, holding her close.

The elevator opened and they got off. She’d been tired earlier, drained from this afternoon’s session with Eric and lying to him about Preston, looking forward to sleep. Now she felt energized, might finally tackle the biggest thing she’d put off with her business: building a website. She opened her purse, searched for her keycard, which always seemed impossible to find.

A loud thump had her spinning around.

“Dad?” His shoulder was pinned to the wall, a dazed look on his face. She rushed over, gripped his arms. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He righted himself but swayed slightly and braced his hand on the wall. “Just tripped. No big deal.”

She scanned the floor. The only thing to trip over was his own feet. “Has your balance been off?” Balance was a Parkinson’s symptom. A scary one when motor skills were affected, shorter shuffling steps and freezing muscles making falls likely. She hadn’t noticed any of those changes.

“My balance is fine. Just a bit dizzy. Must have been the wine.” He stood taller, took three steps, paused, and swayed.

Her stomach lurched.

She moved to his side and looped her arm around his waist. Not an ideal support. If he fell, his bulk would drag her down for the tumble. She gripped him tighter, but he shrugged out of her hold.

“I’m fine, Isla. Like I said, it was the wine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He marched to his door, flattened his huge palm on the wall, pulled out his keycard, and swiped it without another word, shutting her out when his door clicked shut.

She stared at his closed door, her eyes stinging as helplessness and anger fought for dominance. She wanted to knock on his door, help him lie down, hum him a song while he fell asleep. He’d done the same for her growing up when she’d had a nightmare. But he’d closed his door in her face.

“broken hearts

are messy

splintered things

that break time

and again

but keep ticking”

Estle’s poem morphed in her mind, tangling with her ugly thoughts into a new meaning: to live and to love was to suffer.

She glanced down the hall toward her door. The excitement of working on her website drained out of her. The idea of being in there alone tightened her throat. There wasn’t even anyone to call. Heather was on a date. Isla’s other acquaintances weren’t the type she’d call on a whim, certainly not to discuss anything this personal.

The elevator opened, drawing her attention. Eric walked off with earbuds in his ears and Whit on a leash. She hadn’t seen him since she’d lied about liking Preston and he’d stalked out of the training gym earlier. He was the last person she wanted to see now.

When he noticed her, he jerked to a stop. “Isla.”

She tried to force a friendly smile. Her face felt too stiff to function, and those too-intense eyes of his roamed over her. She wasn’t sure how she looked, but he frowned. Apparently, she wasn’t hiding her stress well.

He didn’t move toward her. Whit did, though. He tugged on his leash and Eric let it drop. Whit trotted over and leaned his thick body into her shin. The pup made his usual snorty sounds. Ridiculous, ugly sounds. But that pressure, the solid heat of him grounding her…she almost released a sob. She squatted quickly, hid her face from Eric and pressed her hands into Whit’s wrinkly coat. Eyes closed, she exhaled. Whit pushed closer. She massaged the dog, tension easing with each press of her fingers.

“He’s a great therapy dog. Senses when people need some love.”

She didn’t open her eyes, but Eric’s deep voice was whisper-close, so near his warm breath kissed her hair. She chanced a glance at him. He was squatting, too, his knees almost touching hers. With his legs folded like that, his muscled thighs looked even bigger, his corded forearms balanced on them. His earbuds dangled around his neck.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

No. The answer was a big, neon no. But she wasn’t allowed to talk about her father’s illness and how she suddenly felt like she was drowning in all this silence. “Tough night,” she said.

He put his hand on Whit, too. His palm was massive, splayed right next to hers. The dog wheezed out a happy chuff. Eric spread his fingers wider, giving Whit an affectionate rub, his pinky finger grazing her hand. She froze at the contact, but he didn’t.