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Our conversation gravitates away from family, settling on sports. I give Portia hell for being a Newport Titans fan while she laughs at me for rooting for Gatz in tonight’s boxing match.

“All betting markets have Iverson winning at two to one!”

“So he’s the underdog,” I say. “Stranger things have happened, dolcezza.”

“Gatz isnotwinning.”

“And if he does? What do I get if he wins?” I quiz, waggling my eyebrows.

“You… you want to make a bet?”

“Damn right I do. I could get something out of this. What do I get if Gatz wins?”

She smirks at me from across the table, her dark eyes glittering. “Fine. A kiss.”

“What kind of kiss?”

“On the cheek?—”

“Nope,” I interrupt sharply like this is a real business negotiation. “I deserve more than a peck on the cheek. You’re going to have to do better than that,dolcezza.”

“On the lips. Two seconds. That’s all.”

I laugh at how defiant she is crossing her arms on the table. “Alright, two seconds is long enough for me to change your mind and get more.”

“You think you’re so suave, don’t you?”

“It’s worked already, hasn’t it?”

She can only look away amused and flustered rather than answer. The rest of dinner carries out in flirtatious fashion. Only scraps of steak remain on our plates as we drain our wine glasses and then indulge in some dessert.

We head out to Newport Square Garden already in a playful mood. Portia buries her face in my shirt and rues how she’s supposed to conduct an interview with heavyweight champion Quinard Iverson.

I laugh, stroking her hair, holding her close. “You don’t have to do the interview,dolcezza. Others from the station will be there. Let Strong do it. Isn’t that who you said wanted to do it?”

“But… but this is an opportunity,” she says, peering up at me. “I’d like the experience. I’ve never done sports reporting before.”

I’m less than pleased, though I realize it’s what I told her when inviting her.

We arrive at Newport Square Garden to clicks of dozens of cameras and fanfare from the audience gathered outside the stadium. Security rushes us inside. I keep Portia pinned to my side, my arm possessively slung over her hip. Several times she tries to extricate herself as if worried about what others will think.

One of the event coordinators approaches as soon as we’re through the entrance. He’s a middle-aged man with a headpiece and a severe overbite.

“Mr. Calderone, will you be escorting Ms. James to her interview with heavyweight champ Quinard Iverson? He would love to meet you.”

We’re taken down corridor after corridor until we’re being ushered into what looks like a dressing room. Portia is mic’d up and preened while I stand back with the rest of security to watch. She casts me a nervous smile that I return with an encouraging nod of my head.

Quinard Iverson walks into the room like he’s a beast among men. The boxing champ stands at well over six feet, nothing but oiled up muscle in his shiny gold trunks.

Instinctual possessiveness emerges inside me. I rear slightly closer as Iverson stalks into the room and Portia smiles in a warm hello.

“I’m here with heavyweight champ Quinard Iverson minutes before his big match against contender Stephen Gatz,” Portia says into the camera. She points her microphone toward Iverson. “Quinard, some say you’re one of the best to ever do it. You’ve held onto your title for eighteen months straight. Anything you’d like to say to the fans out there?”

His massive hand swallows hers up as he reaches for the mic. “Just that I’m about to knock the fuck outta Gatz so get ready.”

Portia laughs lightly. “Gatz is an impressive fighter in his own right, but betting markets have you winning at two to one.”

“Should be zero,” he interjects in his heavy baritone. He grips the microphone, his huge hand still covering hers. “How about you, cutie? What’s the odds of me and you?”