Page 47 of The Knockout Rule

“Is this hurting?”

“Not in the way you mean.” He glanced down at his waist. No, not at his waist. Below his waist. Oh my God.

The slight bulge was unmistakable, and her whole body flushed hot. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think…or mean to—”

“Isla?”

Mortified, she slowly met his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I’m in this state most of the time around you. I know you’re not interested, and I’m pretty good at ignoring how I feel, but if your hand goes any higher, I’m going to embarrass myself worse than I already have.”

I know you’re not interested.

Ignore how I feel.

Those were not the vibes he’d given off when telling her they were just friends. There’d been no emotional reaction from him the day after the Hug. She should pretend he didn’t say what he’d just said. But he’d said it, and her stupid hurricane nature couldn’t ignore it. “You told me to go out with Preston.”

He licked his lips, watching her. “Yeah, I did.”

Her hand was still on his quad, his on top of hers. Neither of them moved, but his male firmness under her touch had her practically panting. He was a mountain of muscle covered in smooth skin. He had cut cheekbones. A strong nose. Shoulders so thick and wide she itched to run her hands over them. She moved her thumb a smidge, enthralled, curious to see if she affected him as much as he suggested. He hissed another breath, and the bulge in his shorts twitched. His hand pressed harder on hers.

“So,” she said carefully, “when you say you’re good at ignoring your feelings, what exactly does that mean?”

He worked his jaw, staring at her, unblinking. “It means I’m very interested in you, Isla.”

Butterflies. Lots of them. And a horrifying amount of sweat gathered under her T-shirt. “But you told me to go out with Preston,” she repeated.

“Because you told me you liked Preston.”

“Because it’s a hell of a lot easier to like Preston.” Not Eric. A boxer. A man who could end up sick like her father. God, why is it so hot in here?

“Easier,” Eric murmured. His wide chest expanded as his gray gaze roamed her face. “And how do you feel about me?”

What didn’t she feel? They had fun together. His mind interested and challenged her. He’d offered her comfort on a night when she’d been spiraling, no hesitation on his end, ignoring his supposed one-sided feelings, all to make sure she was okay. Eric was sensitive and smart and strong and cared deeply for his family. He was a dumpling and a flower, and a boxer, and she was insanely attracted him.

An Estle poem bloomed in her mind, one that spoke of the intensity of wanting. Desires impossible to control:

“petals spread

at the sight of you

desperate

for your attention”

Feeling that poem in every goose bump descending her neck, she said, “You scare the shit out of me.”

He held her hand in place as his Adam’s apple dragged down his throat. His nostrils flared, then he released her hand and lay back down, clasping his fingers casually over his stomach. “When I was seventeen, my mother lost her job and I had to make a choice about finishing high school or taking boxing more seriously to help support the family. I chose boxing.”

Isla blinked, unsure how they’d gone from confessing their feelings to Eric’s early boxing days. Then she remembered her question: How does a high-school dropout end up studying dead languages? She wasn’t sure if this was a tactic. If he’d sensed her urge to flee and hide from her admission. She wasn’t sure of much, except that Eric had her captivated.

She resumed working on his Achilles and calf, not his upper leg. “Did you finish your diploma later?”

“Night school when I was twenty-two.”

Whit snorted in his sleep. Isla laughed at the sound, then glanced at Eric, who smiled back at her. Dimples. Quiet affection. The fluttering in her stomach erupted into a tempest.

“And language?” she asked, keeping the conversation neutral. “What sparked that interest?” She still couldn’t believe she’d admitted a fraction of her complicated feelings for him, but his blunt I’m very interested in you had usurped her sense.