Page 17 of The Knockout Rule

He didn’t smile obligingly. Just gave another grunt.

Wonderful. Another misstep with her client.

She’d left her purse on the rolling table by the door. Flustered, she hurried toward it, feeling Eric’s judgmental gaze on her back. One look at her phone confirmed her suspicions.

The goddamn dating app.

Ignoring the man’s profile, she swiped the screen, trying to silence the app’s notifications.

“Is our physical therapy session disrupting your personal time?”

She froze at Eric’s curt tone. Fiddling with her phone was so not cool. Her clients deserved her undivided attention. Because she was a professional.

She used to be, at least.

Messing with her phone was about as unprofessional as a school teacher sipping from a flask. She debated muting her volume for the morning, but if her dad needed her, she wouldn’t hear his call. She’d have to leave it until later, hope no other men reached out. Annoyed with herself for setting up the app right before her session, she shoved her phone into her purse.

6

Eric watched Isla as she made her way back to him. Her cheeks and neck were flushed. Not so different than when he’d found her flat against the door, her hand pressed to her stomach, freaking out over something. This flush looked more embarrassed.

“I don’t like interruptions,” he said. He didn’t. It was unprofessional and rude, and cell phones were the worst culprits.

She put her hands on his ankle, cheeks still rosy, and resumed her prodding. “Agreed. It won’t happen again.”

He grunted. A sound he’d been making too often around her. She was stronger than she looked, her thumbs rubbing at his ankle joints with precision. She was also beautiful. Preston had been right about that. She inherited her father’s dark eyes and wide mouth. Definitely not his busted-up nose. She had a softness to her face, rounded cheeks and a natural elegance you’d see in actresses of the forties and fifties. The rest of her was strong, yet feminine, lean muscles emphasized in a pink tank top and yoga pants. The birthmark on her long neck was sexy as hell. Yeah, he found her attractive, on the outside. Yesterday, with her snarky sarcasm, nothing about her had been appealing.

“I’m going to do some active release on your calf,” she said.

He relaxed into the table’s leather surface as her hands went to work, closed his eyes, using the quiet time the way he would if Gilpin were working on him. He visualized a boxing ring, punching patterns. The footwork he’d been practicing. He pictured himself standing over Joe Bradley, his opponent on the mat and—

Her phone chimed again.

Isla’s hands stilled. Just a moment, then she continued putting pressure on his calf while flexing his foot. He kept his eyes closed, but her tension was palpable. His concentration was toast. Working one-on-one with a therapist was personal. Moods transferred easily through touch. Hers read agitated. His mood probably read annoyed. He tried to relax, ignore her intensity and her phone’s intrusion. It chimed again. Whit barked.

“Do you need to get that?” His eyes were open now, narrowed at Isla’s still-red cheeks.

Her jaw twitched. “No.”

“Then turn off your phone.”

“I need my phone on.”

“Then why aren’t you answering it?” If this was how she worked, he’d have to tell Preston he was out. He needed a capable physiotherapist. Not a person who couldn’t put her life on hold for sixty minutes.

“It’s not…” She looked up at the ceiling and mouthed something he couldn’t hear. “That notification isn’t why I have my phone on.”

It chimed again. She cursed.

He pushed up onto his elbows, ready to get off the table and end this useless session. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“What?” She sounded panicked.

He swung his legs around and stood. “Everything about this is a bad idea: you stepping in out of the blue, my routine changing, your distraction.”

Whit came to his side, probably sensing his irritation. Eric moved to leave, but Isla touched his arm. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.”

He should go. Take Whit on a walk and get some air. Nothing about working with Isla was good for this fight. Instead he faced her. “I need a serious physiotherapist.”