Page 72 of The Knockout Rule

“Heather did a marathon worth of selfies, and we found fried bologna sandwiches at this diner place and laughed our faces off at drunk tourists.” She glanced over at him, licked her lips slowly, like she could still taste him. “It was a blast.”

Although she was talking about her afternoon with Heather, the last words came out husky. And fuck, he wanted her. More than a quick kiss in an elevator. He wanted to tease and touch Isla in private, where he could confess a fraction of what he loved about her: her spark of vitality when she talked poetry, the quirk of her lips when she gave Whit a loving pat, the way the curves of her body filled out that short dress, the soft flutter of her eyelashes and her delicate nose and her slightly crooked middle finger, because he was that far gone. He ached to push into her, feel her contract around him, pulling him deeper into her body. He also wanted to spend time with her family, learn everything possible about this singular woman. So he thought about boxing and changing the twins’ diapers and did his best to get his body under control.

When they spotted Graham and Heather in the lobby, she smiled at her favorite people. “Heather, this is—”

“The linguist you’ve been mooning over. Nice to finally meet the man who is not publicly dating his physiotherapist.”

He laughed at Heather, who fit Isla’s description to a tee: exuberant, confident, and blunt. “I’m lucky to be working with the best, and I’m thrilled to meet you.” He was also thrilled she’d called him a linguist, not a boxer. He was touched Isla had described him like that to her best friend. He slid his attention to his trainer. “Nice to see you socially, Graham.”

Graham grunted.

Isla punched her father in the arm. “Be nice or don’t come.”

“I was being nice.”

“It’s true,” Heather said as she took Graham’s arm. “When he’s not being nice, his lips shrivel more.”

They walked out of the hotel, joking and chatting, Graham less verbose, but not overtly challenging. Eric had to restrain himself from taking Isla’s hand.

The restaurant they walked to was lively without being garish, with a low ceiling and wood-panelled walls. “I have to pee,” Isla told Eric, as their waiter came to take their order. “Order me the ribeye.”

He liked ordering for her, as though they were on a proper date, even with Heather and Graham and their no-public-flirting rules. He did as she’d asked. Added, “Cooked well done,” then ordered himself the salmon.

When she returned to the table, she immediately said, “I forgot to tell you how I like my steak.”

He helped her with her chair. “I told the waiter well done. If I got it wrong, I’ll go grab him.” He was pretty sure he’d overheard her preference when he’d snooped on her date with Preston. A fact he could laugh about now.

She gave him that look again, the one that said: you’re fantastic. “You know how I like my steak.”

He leaned closer and whispered, “I know a lot about you, Isla Slade.”

There was nothing sensual about his words, but he hoped she read into his tone: I know how you taste. I can’t wait to get you alone.

The heat in her eyes replied in kind, making his stomach clench. Then he noticed Graham glaring at them. Eric tried not to laugh and gave Isla her space.

The rest of dinner was better than he could have expected, those nerves earlier tonight unnecessary. Conversation flowed easily. Heather was quick to put him at ease, even had Graham laughing at her antics.

Family was Eric’s cornerstone, the core group of people who knew and loved him as he was. Not because of his career or status. Being with Isla and Graham and Heather, he felt that inner circle growing. A new friend in Heather with her teasing quips, approval in Graham’s grudging acceptance—the protective father he didn’t have. So much affection from Isla: soft looks sliding his way, small touches of his thigh hidden under the table, leaning into him when Heather had her laughing so hard tears leaked from her eyes.

With them, he was once again Eric Kramarovsky, a quiet Jewish boy who’d rather study than brawl. It was a wonderful glimpse of normalcy, the true success he’d been missing in his life. It was also a reminder he needed to win his upcoming match. Play his Brick Smash role a little longer. Train harder than he ever had, with one end goal: victory. That big check in his bank, for himself and his family. And for Isla.

They all piled into the hotel, full of good food and entertaining conversation.

Heather pulled Eric’s head down and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I like you. Don’t get hurt in the ring.”

“Joe Bradley’s the only one who’ll get hurt.” It was a Brick Smash line but spoken lightly, not in a menacing growl. For these last weeks, Eric needed to embody a portion of his alter ego, but not all of him. If people had seen him out smiling at dinner tonight, he didn’t care. He’d be a brute for interviews and the media. With the people close to him, he was done acting like a fool.

But Isla glanced away from him, looking distant. He immediately regretted mentioning the upcoming match and the possibility of either fighter getting hurt. He’d have to be more mindful in the future.

Heather headed to the west elevator that led to her room. Eric stuffed his hands in his pockets as he trailed Isla and Graham to the east elevator. The ride up was quiet. Once on their floor, they reached Graham’s door first.

“Sleep well, Dad,” Isla said and kissed his cheek.

Graham nodded in reply.

Eric’s door was next, then Isla’s a few down. She stopped at Eric’s room, looked up at him with parted lips and red-apple cheeks, no longer feeling distant, all the restrained touches between them seeming to pour from her eyes.

A throat cleared.