Page 27 of The Knockout Rule

“When’s the last time you had ice cream?”

He had to think about that, and the fact that he had to think about that was sad. He missed ice cream and Kit Kat bars and eating Doritos. Junk food. Unhealthy food. Fun food. “I had a bite of ice cream cake at the twins’ last birthday party. Seven months ago.”

Her mouth dropped open. “One bite…seven months ago. As in one, tiny forkful?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s so sad I might cry.” Abruptly, she hopped up and held out her palm toward him. “You can have a lick, though. Right?”

Jesus. Was she trying to murder him? Penis. Lick. Thigh grabs.

He cleared his throat. Her outstretched hand was meant to help him stand up. Unnecessary and impractical. With his bulk, if he tugged on her, she’d topple onto his lap. Not an unpleasant option, but…yeah. Preston. She hates boxers. He fitted his palm against hers, tensed his legs and stood, towering over her. He didn’t let go right away. She didn’t move either and he could feel her pulse point, the fast jump at her wrist. Her chest seemed to swell faster, too. Her eyes were hidden by her sunglasses, but her nostrils flared slightly as her fingertips dragged over the heel of his hand.

There went his body again, tensing at the simple contact.

Then she jerked her arm back, smoothed her hair behind her ears, clearly not as affected by the touch as him. “Let the ice cream mission commence. You get one lick, and I get the rest. Which is a pretty fair deal, I think.”

One lick didn’t sound like enough, but he followed her.

* * *

Isla had no clue how she’d wound up walking through an outdoor mall with the heavyweight contender beside her. Spending social time with Eric wasn’t a brilliant idea. Laughing with him didn’t fit into her keep-their-relationship-professional plan. But fifteen minutes ago, she’d been sitting on that fountain ledge, surrounded by people and music and happiness, and she’d been on the verge of tears. Alone. She’d felt incredibly alone, unable to check on her stubborn-ass father or talk to anyone about his illness. Now she was smiling.

A man in a neon yellow tank top blocked their path, beaming up at Eric. “You’re Brick Smash.”

The creases around Eric’s mouth flattened. “Yeah.”

“Dude. This is so cool. Can I get a video?” He nudged his buddy to take his phone and maneuvered next to Eric, pretending to punch him in the face. “Do that Brick Smash line.”

Eric scowled, but he obliged. The dude looked like he won the lottery.

A second later the fans were gone, high-fiving each other, and Eric’s shoulders were hiked toward his ears. Isla’s stomach dipped in the opposite direction. She didn’t like seeing the frown lines by his mouth, especially after he’d lifted her mood with his silly jokes.

Instead of heading for the ice cream shop, she grabbed his hand and bee-lined toward a store on their left. She didn’t think about how tiny her hand felt in his, or how much she liked the roughness of his callouses scraping against her skin, or how the heat between their palms tingled up her arm. She definitely didn’t think about how good it had felt to have his arm around her back on that fountain ledge.

Once they made it across the promenade without getting body-checked, she dropped his feels-way-too-amazing-in-mine hand and gestured to the shop. “We’ve arrived.”

Eric glanced at the hat store’s display. “They don’t sell ice cream here.”

“Excellent deduction, Sherlock. But they do sell disguises, and you’re in need of one.”

His blond eyebrows quirked up. “You think you can hide me in plain sight?”

There was nothing subtle about this mountain of a man, but she was on a mission. “Do you trust me?”

His eyes did that thing where they focused on her so intensely the throngs of people and noises disappeared. There was nothing but her and Eric and the loud beat of her heart. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I trust you.”

Okay, then.

Feeling a tremendous need to keep busy, she marched into the store with Eric on her heels. A few shoppers were inside. She skirted a man with a tattooed head and grabbed an old-fashioned flat cap from the shelf. Eric sidled up next to her, looking uncomfortable, his huge body liable to knock over one of the displays.

She pushed up onto her tiptoes, tried to get the plaid hat on his head, but he was too damn big. “Mind helping me out here?”

His cheek twitched. “Help you make me look like an idiot? I’d rather not.”

“What happened to you trusting me?”

“That was before you picked a hipster hat that belongs on a bearded guy who wears suspenders and bowties.”