Page 37 of The Knockout Rule

She knelt by his books, checked out the other spines. “You spoke Japanese on the plane, didn’t you?”

He thought back to their first unpleasant meeting, coming up blank. “Not that I remember.”

“After I thoughtlessly insulted your intelligence because I’m a judgmental asshole.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “I left you the forms to fill out and you said something under your breath as I was leaving.”

“Right, yeah.” He chuckled as it came back to him—his utter irritation, her quick escape to the front of the plane. “I said: Hana yori dango.”

“What does that mean?”

No way was he going there. “I’d rather not say.”

She looked pointedly at Whit. “Your dad’s being rude again.”

He laughed harder, tried to think of a way around the truth. He settled on a direct translation. “It’s a proverb of sorts. Means dumplings over flowers.”

She scrunched up her face, completely adorable. “I don’t get it.”

“Look it up.”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“Why are you being so pushy? A guy shouldn’t have to explain his insult. I said it in Japanese for a reason.”

“Fine. I get it.” She closed his book and glanced around, her mood dimming again. “Where’s your ice?”

Her walls were coming back up and he paused. A moment ago she’d been open and curious, talking with ease, but telling her the truth was tricky. He was bound to offend her.

When she looked ready to stand up, he sighed. “Dumplings over flowers, from what I gather, means to prefer something real and useful over empty outward beauty.”

She shifted to sitting and scratched her nose. “What does that have to do with me being rude?”

“You’re beautiful, Isla.” As stunning as a rare flower. “But your inside was ugly that day. The opposite of that saying, and I didn’t like you much.”

“Wow.” She focused on the floor, swallowed a couple of times.

Had he gone too far? Or did she sense the dual meaning behind those words: you were ugly that day, but I can’t look at your beauty now, inside and out, without wanting more. “You asked for honesty,” he said.

She rubbed her hands down her jeans and glanced at him shyly. “And now? Do you still feel the same?”

“Shiranu ga hotoke,” he said. No hesitation.

She nibbled her lip again. “What does that mean?”

Not knowing is Buddha. Another form of ignorance is bliss.

He wished he were ignorant to Isla’s true nature. That he wasn’t impressed with her physiotherapy work, fascinated by her love of poetry, intrigued by the sadness she’d been fighting. He wished he didn’t want to drop to his knees, crawl over to her until she was flat on her back, her legs hooked around his waist as he settled his weight on her. God, the things he’d do to her.

Ignorance could be bliss. And he was no longer ignorant of Isla.

“It’s your turn,” he said, done torturing himself. That was one explanation she wouldn’t get. She wanted Preston, not him. “Give me another Ramona Estle poem.”

She looked about to argue, but she lay on her back, attention on the embossed ceiling tiles. He glanced at Whit, who usually took advantage of people lying on their backs—a direct invitation for a face licking. Whit didn’t disappoint. He was up and slobbering all over her before she could protest.

Isla cackled, grinning and pushing at his big head. “That is so gross.”

Maybe. But Eric’s chest warmed at the sight. “Poem,” he said roughly and whistled for Whit to return to his bed.

When Isla’s laughter ebbed, she said, “‘Turn the last page. Keep reading. Keep turning. It never ended.’”