Page 43 of The Knockout Rule

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Isla hunched over the bathroom sink, swiping on the last of her mascara as the name Brick Kramarov came from her TV. Like some pathetically trained Pavlovian dog, she hurried into her room and perched on the edge of her bed.

A bizarre image filled the screen: Eric chopping wood, with a feral look in his stormy eyes. The segment showed him hauling stone slabs, his biceps and forearms bulging with exertion. He flipped a tire, attacked a speedball so viciously she had no clue how it didn’t burst. The screen switched to a still image afterward—Eric holding that baby in the restaurant, gently and carefully, as the telecaster questioned if the boxer had what it took to clinch the title.

Next they had him baring his teeth at the camera. “Joe Bradley’s gonna learn how it feels to be hit by a Brick.”

Isla frowned at the screen. She’d seen several of his interviews this week. Not by accident. Prior to the hug-athon and her vow to quit thinking about Eric, she’d looked them up, fascinated by his performances as Brick. In the clips she’d seen, he’d been intense and intimidating, loud and boastful, but he’d never looked this furious.

The act was likely a way to restore his Neanderthal image after those baby shots. Still, she worried how far Preston was pushing him. If a man that big and strong snapped, the fallout wouldn’t be pretty. But it wasn’t her business.

A knock sounded from her door, a reminder of why she was wearing her favorite teal dress, low cut enough to make her minimal cleavage appear larger. She’d pulled out all the stops tonight—smoky eyeshadow, eucalyptus cream on her skin, her hair styled in loose waves—trying to look her best. She was committed to this date, kind of desperate to focus on someone who didn’t get punched in the head for a living.

She answered her door, and said, “Please don’t talk about boxing tonight.”

Best to get them off on the right foot.

“Hello to you, too.” Preston took her in from head to toe. “You look breathtaking.”

He looked handsome, too, wearing a button-down in shades of thinly-striped purple. He ducked his head slightly and held out a small bouquet of blue flowers. The arrangement was beautiful. Not big and bright and ostentatious as she’d have expected from Preston. These flowers were feminine and understated, and any reservations about this date fled.

She stuck her nose in the bouquet and inhaled. “Thank you. They’re gorgeous.”

“Not as gorgeous as you. And agreed on the boxing. Tonight is about us, not about business.”

More at ease and excited for their date, she grabbed her purse and joined him in the hallway. He stayed close as they walked toward the elevator and for the ride down. When they exited, he pressed his hand to her lower back, a move she generally loved—the simple confidence of it, a man knowing what he wanted and taking charge, without doing so aggressively. Her body didn’t get warm and tingly. No fluttering butterflies birthed, but his proximity was nice.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they skirted tourists in the busy lobby.

“It’s a surprise.”

She smiled at him, touched he’d put the time into planning something special. He even had a private limo waiting to whisk them to their surprise location. When the limo pulled up to a quiet French restaurant off the strip, she couldn’t hide her impressed, “Wow.”

The driver opened Preston’s door, but Preston waved him off and turned to help her from the car. “Wow, as in you approve?”

She took in the understated vine-covered exterior, the soft lights and green awning beckoning patrons inside. “I definitely approve.”

Inside, the distressed brick and concrete walls gave the space an intimate cavern vibe, the white tablecloths and antique chairs adding elegance. Between Preston’s private jet and slick wardrobe, it was clear Preston liked the fancier things in life. She’d have expected him to take her to one of Vegas’s fancy hot spots, something loud and garish and exactly what she disliked. But no one here was dressed to excess, hoping to be seen. First the flowers, now this charming restaurant. Preston was proving more appealing by the minute.

Once they got settled at their table, he perused the wine list. “Is red okay with you?”

“Red is lovely.” Most other tables were filled with couples. Some talked while bent close, holding hands. The din of tinkling cutlery and light laughter rose around them. She felt a rush of pleasure at being out on a romantic date with a handsome man. It really had been too long.

The waiter brought them water and told them the specials.

Preston angled the wine menu toward her and pointed at a bottle in the red column. “We’ll have the 2005 Basco Simone.” His finger followed the description, stopping at the astronomical price.

Her jaw dropped.

The second the waiter floated away, likely high on his night’s impending tip, she said, “That bottle of wine was 445 dollars.”

“I told you when we met on the plane, if you went out with me, I’d show you my version of a good time.”

Exactly why the restaurant choice had surprised her. “Honestly, I won’t be able to taste the difference between a sip of that and a sip of a twenty-dollar bottle from the corner store. I’m sure it’s good, but no wine tastes 445 dollars good.”

“It was the best on the list, and you deserve the best. Is there any harm in spoiling my date?”

Technically, there wasn’t. But the move made her uncomfortable. Like there was more pressure on this evening.