Love T.K.O.. Pamela Yaye

followed the other passengers to the upper deck. There they’d sipped wine, admired the collection of skyscrapers and vivid blue-green water and listened to the gentle lapping of the waves. After meeting the captain and his crew, they retired to the dining room and found a table near the piano. A short, stocky man had been playing since the ship had set sail, but now the raspy voice of Michael Bolton was purring from the overhead speakers.

      “I brought you another helping of ribs, sir.”

      “You must have read my mind!”

      The waiter replaced Rashawn’s empty plate and set down one heaping with ribs, chicken and potatoes. “Enjoy,” he said, before departing.

      Shaking her head in awe, she finished what was left of her cocktail. The heat from the fireplace wrapped itself around her, warming her body. “You eat a lot. I figured you’d have a very strict diet, being a boxer and all.”

      “My workouts run anywhere from four to six hours.” Rashawn picked up a slab of ribs and ripped the meat off the bones, leaving nothing behind. “I have to eat enough so I have the energy to train. I snack during the day and load up on carbohydrates and protein in the evening.” He devoured the plate of food in minutes and when the waiter returned told him it was the best meal he’d had all day.

      Yasmin watched Rashawn over the rim of her glass. His deep, masculine voice, his soft eyes and athletic physique made her mouth water, but he was more than just a handsome face. He was interesting, entertaining and just plain old funny.

      “I’m gonna have to skip my morning workout because there’s no way I can run five miles after eating three plates of ribs.”

      “Do you train every day?”

      “Yup, except for Christmas and Easter. My mom’ll kill me if I miss mass.” He rested back in his chair, watching her. “I’m having a good time.”

      “Me, too,” she confessed, surprised by her admission.

      “I’d like to see you again. If you’re free tomorrow night we could go bowling or shoot pool or something.”

      “I can’t, I’m going to a wine-tasting party.”

      “A wine-tasting party?” he repeated, clearly amused. “What’s that all about?”

      “Once a month, my friends and I get together and sample various wines. It’s really an excuse to gossip and get drunk, but we like to think it’s cultured and high-class.”

      Rashawn liked beer better than wine, but he would sip Merlot and discuss fashion trends if it meant spending more time with Yasmin. If he was going to pull this off, he’d have to educate himself on the different flavors, textures and aromas. He’d stay up all night if he had to. It was a small price to pay for having another date with this beautiful appealing woman. “Is this thing just for the ladies or can fellas come, too?”

      “It’s a good mix of singles and couples. Actually, my best friend is hosting tomorrow. She just moved into her new place so it’s more of a housewarming party.”

      “Mind if I tag along?”

      Yasmin didn’t know how she felt about Rashawn meeting her friends. Katherine could be a snob sometimes and her pretentious, upper-middle-class colleagues weren’t any better. But how could she tell Rashawn she didn’t want him to come because she was scared he wouldn’t fit in? Sure, he was well read, but what did he know about Wall Street, trust funds and vacationing in the south of France?

      Rashawn must have sensed her inner turmoil, because he said, “Two dates in one week is too much, huh? Getting sick of me already, Doc?”

      “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I want you to come, I just don’t think you’ll have a good time. We’re a pretty boring group and—”

      “Let me be the judge of that. Besides, it’s not about anyone else, it’s about being with you.” His eyes revealed nothing, but there was no mistaking the heat in his voice.

      Yasmin didn’t know what she was doing. Inviting Rashawn to the party was a bad idea. He was a twenty-seven-year-old boxer from the inner city. What would he talk about with a room full of executives, doctors and millionaires who lived in gated communities? But instead of dissuading him from coming, she heard herself say, “It starts at seven o’clock.”

      “Cool.” Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he pushed back his chair. “Do you want anything else?”

      Her stomach rebelled at the thought of more food. Yasmin stole a glance at the dessert table. Guests were sampling cakes, pies and other high-calorie treats. The strawberry shortcake looked tempting, but Yasmin wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she overindulged. The fund-raiser was weeks away and she had a designer gown to fit into. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough for one night.”

      “We should walk off some of this food.” Rashawn punctuated his sentence with a smile. He wanted to be alone with her. Her eyes sparkled under the soft lights and the more time they spent together, the more she impressed him. “How about we take a stroll around the deck?

      “But we haven’t discussed the charity fund-raiser yet.”

      “No, problem. We’ll talk outside.” Rashawn directed his eyes to the back of the room. “Let’s get out of here. Rhythmically challenged people are starting to dance.”

      Giggling, Yasmin allowed him to help her to her feet. Swayed by his smile, she took the hand he offered. It was a simple gesture, but one that made her feel warm and tingly inside. Eric thought hand-holding was juvenile. According to him, professional people didn’t act “common,” but being this close to Rashawn was as natural as breathing.

      Brushing past a burly man in a high cowboy hat, Yasmin cast a bemused glance at the couples “dancing” to Miami Sound Machine. “You sure you don’t want to stay? I’d love to see you out on the dance floor.”

      Rashawn grinned. “And I’d love to have you in my arms.”