Page 11 of The Knockout Rule

So much for temper control.

Embarrassed by her outburst, she shuffled past him, moving toward the back of the plane.

Preston’s low chuckle followed her. “You’re right, Graham. She’s feisty. I like her.”

Her steps faltered, aggravation burning a path up her chest. Honestly, what had her father been thinking, playing matchmaker with a guy like Preston? Had he never noticed her dating history? Although it had been a while, she’d only ever dated men with intellectual leanings. The bearded sort with crinkly eyes and deep thoughts. Nothing about Preston was her type.

Freshly irked, she pushed into the plane’s back section and stopped short.

Instead of groups of seats, large white couches filled both sides, with a giant man sitting on the sectional at the right. Brick’s massive shoulders were hunched slightly as he frowned at his phone, his muscled forearms planted on his knees. He was wearing earbuds and hadn’t noticed her, but the dog at his feet watched her, a symphony of snorts and grunts coming from the bulldog’s drooly mouth.

“Stupid technology,” Brick mumbled, his frown sinking deeper.

The guy seemed inept with his phone, which wasn’t a surprise. He probably had an IT underling on payroll to do his computer/phone work when at home, another servant to tie his shoes, one to blow his nose and fan his face.

He also had a trainer who ignored his own health to cater to this hulking man’s needs.

Her thin hold on her emotions threatened to snap.

His dog pushed to its stubby legs and waddled over to Isla, slobbery face turned up to investigate. She petted his thick head. With the snorty noises and horrific underbite, this pet wouldn’t win any doggy pageants.

“His name’s Whit.”

Brick’s voice was rough and low, and Isla released a startled laugh. For a boxer who didn’t seem to have much wit in interviews, it wasn’t surprising he’d buy it in the form of a snorty pet. Even funnier was the dog’s name tag, which read Whit. He hadn’t even spelled the name correctly.

“Do you have a cat called Smart?” she asked, then winced at her blunt sarcasm, unsure when she’d become this girl. Judgmental. Rude. Unacceptably unprofessional. She was just so on edge, worried about her father, annoyed with him for playing matchmaker.

She met Brick’s eyes, which were coolly assessing.

The intensity of his gray eyes had been impossible to miss in TV interviews, bold and magnetic against his fair complexion. Up close, under his scrutiny, she felt skewered in place.

The guy didn’t even blink. “No cat named Smart. Just Whit here.”

“Well, he’s…cute.” He was the furthest thing from cute, and her tone still held an edge. She was clearly in no shape to be meeting a new client. Not today, with her frazzled state. And why was Brick’s stare so intense? Couldn’t he look somewhere else?

Those stormy eyes narrowed, assessing her, then he clicked his tongue. Whit returned to his master. “My name’s—”

“Brick. Yeah, I know,” she said quickly, feeling nervous and uncomfortable. “That Brick Smash tagline is quite something.”

He fisted his phone and crossed his arms. “Like that line, do you?”

“It’s very Neanderthal.” As were the size of his biceps. Grotesquely masculine. The sight of his perfectly sculpted body made her already primed anger flare. Why a man worked to be in such good shape, only to invite trauma was beyond her. “I’m sure the name strikes fear in your opponents.”

She meant to say that lightly, with a smile. Instead it had come out harsh, no smile to be found. She really was being bitchy, judging his intelligence before having a real conversation with the guy. She hated feeling off-kilter, but everything was bubbling under her skin, including her father’s demand to not talk about his illness. And being around a boxer again was making her slightly queasy.

Taking a breath, she tried to find her Zen. “I’m Isla, your physiotherapist for the next six weeks. I’m also Graham Slade’s daughter, which I’m sure you know.”

Brick’s unrelenting stare had her feeling like a rookie physiotherapist, shaky and out of her depth. Mentally shirking her discomfort, she sat next to him and gathered papers from her satchel. “I have forms for you to fill out, basics to help me assess what treatments you need, how to help your body perform optimally during training. If you need help filling anything out, just holler.”

“Because I’m an idiot who can’t do it on my own?”

She froze, attention glued to the papers in her hands. There had been no joking in his tone. He’d sounded downright angry. Which she kind of deserved.

She looked up slowly. “Sorry if I came across as judgmental. It’s been a challenging day.” Week. Month. Life. “Just offering you help if you need it.”

Brick raised his phone, his expression bland. “I’ve got this for when I have trouble spelling my name, so I’m good.”

Definitely angry, and remorse hardened her stomach. It would take more than an apology to overturn her nasty first impression, and today wasn’t the day to dig deep. She was too annoyed with…everything. She wanted to be at home, working on her business. She needed to find the inner strength to help her father deal with his health issues. And here she was, with an oversized brute, who reminded her too much of how strong and healthy her father had been, before boxing had beaten him down.