Page 10 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“How did you decide to team up?” she continued, throwing a glance at the Derrick on the right, who still had his eyes glued to his cell.
No matter.
The center and left Derricks were talking, and the more information she had, the better she could tailor her pitch.
“We were in the same frat,” the Derrick on the left answered.
“And we’ve got killer trust funds, so we can do whatever the hell we want,” the Derrick in the center crooned with an egotistical smirk.
The grating irritation in her chest intensified. Her beefcake had flashed a similar expression. Libby peered at the gong mallet, then pasted a grin to her face.
Reframe this situation and breathe. And under no circumstance can you lose your ever-lovin’ mind.
These guys might be a little rough around the edges, but she’d taught yoga to three-year-olds in a toddler move and groove class. Nothing could be more challenging than that, right?
“Any particular reason you chose to invest in fitness?” she probed, taking another peek at the gong, then mentally chided herself.
No crazy gong antics.
“Can you stop talking and take off your sweater thing?” the Derrick in the center called, then held up his phone.
Was he recording her?
She glanced at her sparkly gold sports bra peeking out from beneath the ruby-red fabric and suddenly wished she’d come clad in snow pants and a woolly winter coat. “My wrap?” she echoed.
“We need to confirm that you’ve got the physique we’re looking for,” the center Derrick continued.
“Physique?” she squeaked.
“And turn around, and do one of those dog poses for us, and try not to burst out into tears like the last chick,” the Derrick on the left directed.
That poor girl! And crap, they were back to the bending over business.
“You want me to take off my wrap and demonstrate the downward-facing dog position?”
The two Derricks shared a smarmy exchange before the center Derrick raked his gaze over her body. “Yeah, that’s exactly what we want you to do. We’re asking every applicant to demonstrate this…position.”
Heat crackled and popped in her chest, raw and unyielding. She leaned—but did not bend over—and plucked a folded sheet of paper from her bag. “Before I demonstrate the pose you requested, I’d like to share my strategic business plan.”
The Derrick on the far right, who hadn’t made a peep, looked up from his phone and wagged his finger. “Hold on, baby.”
“Baby?” she snapped.
Oh no.
The irritation in her chest hissed and snarled, but this Derrick didn’t respond. He hadn’t even registered that she’d spoken.
He rolled his chair toward the Derrick in the center. “Dudes, they announced it. The London Lion is fighting the Snake on Pay-Per-View in sixty days. This is huge—the boxing event for the ages. I’m putting my money on the Snake. He holds the heavyweight title, and the guy bobs and weaves like a viper.”
The Derrick in the center swiped his phone from the table, sending a few sheets of paper floating to the ground. “I got an email notification, too!” he exclaimed, gawking at his cell. “I didn’t think the Lion had it in him. Sure, the dude is a powerhouse, but he’s lost his swagger. He didn’t even show up to his last fight. The British Beast bombed hard. To be fair, the Snake may be the current champ, but he’ll need to beat the Lion if he wants street cred.”
“Whatever the outcome, they’ll make a shit ton of money fighting on Pay-Per-View. I’d love a cut of that,” the Derrick on the left squealed—actually squealed. “And rumor has it that the Lion is training in Denver.”
“No way,” the center Derrick shot back.
“Yeah, I googled it. Somebody posted that his old trainer is here,” the Derrick on the right answered.
The Derrick on the left twirled in the chair. “If he is here, he must be keeping a low profile.”
