Page 46 of The Knockout Rule

Preston pushed off the wall and walked backward toward the elevators, doing some kind of old-timey two-step as he went. “Drinks work for me, Miss Isla Slade. But it’ll be my treat. I’ll come with new poems, and I won’t bring my phone or talk about boxing.”

She laughed at his goofy retreat, charmed by him despite the lack of chemistry on her end. Then her eyes snagged on Eric’s closed door. Immediately her mind filled with images of him kissing her goodnight, his massive bulk pressing her against the wall, his hands sliding down her ribs, over her hips, his lips on her neck…

Abort. Desist. Someone save me from myself.

She rushed into her room and slammed the door, breathing too damn hard.

God, it wasn’t fair. The old Isla Slade would never in a million years fall for a boxer. She wouldn’t tempt the anxiety and heartache of that connection.

She wouldn’t melt at the mere thought of a heavyweight contender.

Agreeing to another date with Preston was smart, even if their chemistry remained dormant. The distraction had worked relatively well tonight, and they’d have fun regardless of the outcome. Tomorrow she could focus on the playful arguments she and Preston would have, while she worked one-on-one with the Baby Whisperer. She’d keep her desires in check and any fantasies on lockdown. She totally had this.

13

Isla didn’t have this. Not one bit. She’d been working on Eric for forty minutes, and she’d barely looked him in the eye. Aside from asking if an exercise hurt or telling him to adjust positions, she hadn’t engaged him in any conversation. This had been the plan. She was in protection mode, doing her best to keep a blockade between him and her heart, but with every passing minute, her discomfort grew. “Give me six more reps and slow the movement down.”

Eric was working his last set of reverse flies, pushing his range of motion with lighter weights. Instead of acknowledging her instruction or slowing down, he cranked his arms faster and blew past the number he was supposed to do.

“Eric.”

He stopped suddenly, his expression severe. “Yeah?”

“We’re done. Those were the last reps.”

He frowned and dropped the weights.

She barely refrained from giving herself a slap.

As a physiotherapist, client rapport was paramount. Relaxed clients focused better, engaged their muscles more effectively. Tension radiated from Eric so thickly his therapy was suffering. She may be in self-protection mode, but she wasn’t doing her job effectively. It wasn’t fair to Eric, who had no clue why she was freezing him out. He wasn’t the one interested in someone off limits. He wasn’t interested in her at all. She’d have to be a grown up about her feelings. Engage Eric for his sake. Ignore the rapid beating of her heart when he was near.

Whit dozed on the floor. Eric moved wordlessly to the treatment table and lay on his back.

Rolling out her shoulders, Isla grabbed some coconut oil and started performing soft tissue release on his calf and Achilles. When his body began to relax, she said, “How long have you been a lumberjack?”

His eyes cut to her. “A what?”

“I saw your televised training.”

“Right. That.” He turned his attention away, back to tensing.

This massive man’s sensitivity never ceased to surprise her. He didn’t bother hiding his emotions, and she couldn’t pretend she didn’t care. Couldn’t look at the sad set of his mouth and not offer comfort. “The people who know you know it’s all a show.”

His calf muscle bunched under her touch. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re upset, so I’d say it matters.”

“What matters is winning this match.” His jaw knotted. “If I need to act like a high-school dropout who can’t form a proper sentence to get in my opponent’s head and fill seats, then so be it. It’s not a lie.”

“Which part isn’t a lie?” As far as she could tell, Eric was nothing like his Brick alter ego.

“The high-school dropout part,” he said.

Eric was smart and studious. More dedicated to learning than most college graduates she knew. Unable to compute his comment, she put his leg down and got more coconut oil. She started working on his vastus medialis and his rectus femoris. The anatomy words describing his quad muscles were probably rooted in Latin. If she asked him, he’d know the specifics. This supposed high-school dropout would give her a lesson on linguistics. “How does a high-school dropout end up studying dead languages?”

She shifted his leg as she worked on his other quad muscles. Eric grunted and hissed through his teeth. They didn’t normally work these larger muscles, but he’d been favoring his left leg, his balance wavering when doing his single-leg weighted heel raises. She was about to ask him to shift to the side of the table, so she could stretch his hip flexor off the side of the bed.

He placed his hand on hers. “Please focus on the Achilles and calf.”