Page 13 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
A searing truth cut through her frantic aura and flashed through her mind like a bolt of lightning.
If it weren’t for the beefcake, none of this would have happened.
He’d knocked her off her spiritual foundation. He’d mixed up her metaphysical mindset.
She wouldn’t have lost most of her teaching gigs and, in turn, the majority of her revenue if it weren’t for him. Had she not been running on spiritual empty, she would have directed her energy toward a legit means of funding her brothers’ education. With balanced energy and a clear mind, she would have seen through the Derricks’ post.
Twenty thousand in prize money and one hundred thousand invested into a start-up?
It was too good to be true.
She hit the first floor, tore through the lobby, then booked it to her Buick. She sat in the driver’s seat and banged her fists on the steering wheel. She’d thrown some majorly bad spiritual juju at that Derrick Dawson—and it was probably a waste. With her luck, the douchebag had lawyers for fighting bad energy, too. Now she had to prepare for the karma calamity heading her way. Whatever one puts out into this world, good, bad, or tremendously irresponsible, it will come back to them.
But she couldn’t ruminate on her divine destiny or when fate would send another one-two punch her way. She had to get home, make a new plan, then hightail it to teach at her last remaining yoga gig. She reached into her bag, found her keys, and thanked Buddha as the old Buick groaned to life. She merged into traffic, driving the familiar Denver roads, and willed herself to calm down.
Picture a time when you were truly happy. Hold the feeling inside your chest, close to your heart.
She exhaled a sigh of relief as an image of her friends fluttered in her mind, recalling how they would cruise around Denver in Penny’s old Jeep. Her shining stars in a sea of jacked-up chi. She imagined Penny’s blond hair framing her face, Charlotte’s rose aura emitting kindness, and Harper’s uniquely wry vibe making them howl with laughter.
She had to keep the good vibes.
Focus on what you can control.
Unfortunately, besides her besties, there didn’t seem to be a heck of a lot she could depend on.
“What will I say to Anders and Alec?” she whispered. “I could use a little help, universe,” she finished as she turned onto her street and noticed a truck parked in front of her apartment building.
And there were men.
And these men had her stuff in their hands.
Hitting the brakes, her car screeched and heaved. She cut the engine, grabbed her bag, then sprang from the Buick. “What are you doing with my stuff?” she shrieked, then gasped and snatched her sacred Buddha statue from one of the men.
“Talk to your landlord, lady. He says you have to move out. This stuff is going into a storage unit,” the mover finished, then handed her a card with an image of a storage locker emblazoned on the front. “The code to open the locker is on the back.”
“Wait here. This has to be a misunderstanding,” she stammered, then booked it up to her second-floor apartment.
She couldn’t fathom moving out. She loved her place. It was compact and had come partially furnished. She’d made it her own, decorating with plants and healing crystals. Facing east, she woke welcoming the sun each morning in her little slice of solitude. As much as she loved her brothers, living with two men, and her father when he decided to grace them with his presence wasn’t her idea of paradise. She’d been over the moon when the boys went off to college, and she found this unit.
And it had come at a steal.
Rent in Denver was sky-high, but this place fit easily into her tight budget. That might have something to do with her landlord. The guy went by Hash Pants, a moniker he’d told her he’d acquired for dabbling in the herbal arts. Thanks to partaking in loads of his product, he was as easygoing as one gets—until he decided to throw her out, that is.
She scanned the hallway and found her apartment door wide open. She sprinted inside, then came to a jarring halt before nearly stepping on a body.
“Why are you on the ground, Hash Pants?”
With his long hair flowing and the scent of bud reeking, the guy stretched across the hardwood floor, looking as peaceful as a long summer day.
Libby stood over the man. “What’s going on, Hash Pants? Why are there movers in my apartment?”
“Because that’s what movers do. They move things,” he murmured as he folded his hands on his belly.
This could not be happening. Her baked landlord could not be kicking her out.
Not today of all days!
She surveyed the space as the moving guys returned with a lava lamp and a wrought iron birdcage.
