Page 151 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
She surveyed the large crowd gathered around the ring. Many held up phones, filming and taking pictures.
She had to get used to the fact that any moment could go viral.
Raz slid on his pair of gloves, then set his sights on Derrick Dawson. “You donated twenty thousand dollars to the donkey rescue, mate. Is that right?” he asked, circling the man like a shark.
“Twenty grand is nothing for me,” Derrick crooned in reply.
Libby listened to the banter, hanging on to every word. It was a good idea to move up close to the ring. This way, if it went sideways, at least she’d know thirty seconds before the rest of the world did.
She set her sights on Derrick Dawson. The bro ran his glove-covered hand through his expensive haircut and sported a self-satisfied grin, blissfully unaware that there was a good chance he’d leave the ring with a limp. He glanced at his friends, then paraded around like a guy who’d never set foot inside a boxing ring.
“So, you’re a philanthropist?” Raz asked, baiting the man.
Derrick’s swagger lost a little steam. “It wasn’t exactly my money. My dad’s company donated in my name. You know how it goes. He wants the best for me.”
“I do know how it will go. I know exactly how it’ll go,” Raz replied like the Cheshire cat, luring Derrick in. “Are you ready to get your money’s worth and spar with the British beast?”
“I was hoping that for donating twenty large, you’d let me land a shot or two,” Derrick said, hamming it up for his friends by bobbing around like an over-caffeinated buffoon.
“Those your mates?” Raz asked, eyeing the Derricks.
“Yeah.”
“How are you boys doing?” he asked, then scanned the crowd and found her. He grinned that slightly insane smile and tossed her a wink.
She tried to read him but couldn’t.
Was that asee-I’m-playing-nicewink,or was it ajust-wait-and-see-what’s-going-to-happenwink?
She was about to find out.
The two Derricks tittered and whooped, jostling between pointing their phones at Raz and then at themselves. In the space of ten seconds, they had to have taken three hundred selfies.
“How about this,Derrick,” Raz announced as the crowd grew still, hanging on the boxer’s every word. “I won’t move my feet, and you can have two free swings at me. But in return, I get one shot at you.”
“Are you guys getting this?” Derrick called, vibrating like an electrified toddler.
“Focus, Derrick. Take the punch,” Raz chided, planting himself in front of the man.
Wild-eyed, Derrick Dawson pounded his gloves together, reared back, then let loose.
And what did he hit?
Nothing but thin mountain air.
With the grace of a Prima ballerina, her giant, muscled beefcake angled his shoulders and deftly dodged the first punch.
“Come on, spaghetti arms. You’ve got to have more than that,” Raz goaded.
Derrick Dawson’s features hardened. He shot a glance at his friends, then raised his gloves. Back to bobbing like a buffoon, the guy threw not one, not two, but three rapid-fire punches.
Swish, swish, swish.
Derrick missed again, and again, and again.
Libby watched with bated breath as a lightness took over, and a tantalizing tingle popped and fizzed in her chest.
Maybe she was a boxing fan.
