Page 52 of The Knockout Rule

He mirrored her statue pose. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Her eyes darted from him to the floor, back to him, then to something on the opposite wall.

He swallowed a frustrated sigh. So this was their new normal, reverting to awkward acquaintances who could barely look at each other. All the while, the only thought rushing through his knotted mind was: Isla is my match.

He’d felt this morning’s kiss down to his soul. Consuming lust that went beyond physical attraction. In the weeks Eric had worked with Isla, he’d learned she reached to touch her hair when she was nervous and twitched her nose before she laughed or lied. He’d catalogued every fun food chat they’d had: she hated salmon and raw onion, loved green olives and the taste of burned toast, as long as it was dripping with butter. He knew she was a woman who enjoyed understated elegance, not the flash and money of Vegas. Delicate blue flowers. A charming French bistro. Poems that spoke to her depth. He knew exactly how he’d sweep Isla Slade off her feet, and how fucking sweet she tasted.

He’d also seen her panic attack, had felt gutted and helpless watching her, and he’d been the cause. There was no fixing their discord. The last thing he’d want was to be the source of anxiety in her life. His only option was to keep his distance, curb his emotions around her. Put her first and forget his needs.

When she finally walked toward him, he matched her stride to the elevator. “How are you feeling?”

She lifted her hand toward her hair—her nervous tic—then dropped her arm to her side. “Better, thanks.”

“Glad you spent time with your dad.”

“Yeah.” She nodded stiffly. “It was nice. Sorry he missed your training.”

“I’m just happy you had someone with you.” Frustrated as hell that someone wasn’t him, but he’d have to get used to that notion.

They waited at the elevator. Neither of them spoke. When the door opened, they moved at the same time and their sides brushed. Isla practically jumped out of her skin and stepped back. He stepped back too. Then they stepped forward at the same time, brushed again, the tiny contact like that one lick of Isla’s strawberry ice cream, making him want to moan and go back for more. A stupid brush of their arms and he was on fire for her.

Frustrated, he took a bigger step forward and turned once inside. She followed, her face looking flushed. He tried not to glance at her lush lips. Tried not to remember the swipe of her tongue this morning, the feel of her fingers digging into his back. Tried and failed. His cock thickened, the thin fabric of his workout shorts doing him no favors. He clasped his hands over his crotch. He felt Isla’s attention on him, but the second he glanced over, her focus was cemented to her feet.

The elevator stopped a few floors down. A family entered, filling the space between them. It felt like a football stadium worth of people could fit in that widening gulf.

Walking through the casino wasn’t much better.

“It’s always busy in here,” Isla said.

Eric replied with a brilliant, “Yeah. Hot out today. Maybe people like the AC.”

“Probably.”

That level of awkward pretty much described the first half of their physio session. Eye contact was minimal. Conversation revolved around Isla giving him brief instructions and Eric asking the odd question but mainly grunting in acknowledgment, embodying his Neanderthal persona.

Partway through, they switched to resisted scapular slides, using lightly weighted cables and a triceps rope to increase his range of motion. Eric sat a distance from the cables, concentrated on his arms as he held the rope at chin level, slowly raised his arms above his head, then lowered them back down.

“Don’t let the resistance pull your arms forward at the top,” Isla told him. “Keep your hands in line with your ears.”

He repeated the movement, noting her suggestions, sweat gathering along his neck. “Like this?”

“Exactly. Take it slow.”

She crouched next to him, the closest they’d been all session, and his stomach swooped. Fucking swooped, like he was a love-struck teen. The sensation divided his focus, part of it staying on the rope in his hands, a fraction diverting to her proximity, another locked on his reacting body. She shifted positions slightly, seemed to hesitate, then she placed her hand on his back.

Forget divided. All his attention zeroed in on that one spot. Isla. Hand. Hot. So much heat concentrating where she touched. He leaned back a bit, couldn’t control his body’s urge to ask for more. More contact, more Isla.

Her fingers spread wider. “Don’t overarch your back,” she said, her voice lower, breathy. “Sit straighter.”

He paused with the triceps rope at his chin, fixed his posture and turned his head, bringing them almost nose to nose. “Like this?”

Her gaze dropped to his lips. His thighs flexed.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Like that.”

The moment lingered, sexual tension vibrating between them so thoroughly he was surprised the walls didn’t shake. And he was pissed. Angry at their circumstances. Upset for Isla and all she’d dealt with in her life. Mad that the easy friendship they’d developed had devolved in a matter of hours to broken sentences and awkward glances. None of it was okay.

Determined to salvage something from this mess, he worked through his next rep with slow precision, keeping his back straighter, his arms at the correct angle. At the end of the rep, he said, “What do you call spending the afternoon with a cranky rabbit?”