Page 16 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Crows were thought to have psychic abilities and were gifted creatures that some believed could see the past, the present, and the future. From the time she was a little girl, thanks to her jet-black hair, she’d always identified with the bird.
“It must be a sign. Soon, this rage will disappear, and I’ll regain my chi and soar,” she whispered. But as the words left her lips, the crow squawked loudly and swooped through the air. She turned away as the bird buzzed by her, the tip of its wing stroking her cheek, then gasped as something hit her shoulder. She looked down to find a patch of milky white bird crap dripping down her sleeve.
There’s some karma.
Fuming, Libby got into the Buick, slammed the door, and started her up.
Karma was a real bitch, and thanks to a certain beefcake, she’d suffered its epic wrath.
She let out a high-pitched cry of frustration. Raw and animalistic, the sound vibrated through her as an idea took hold—well, more of a call to action. She had one opportunity left to restore her balance and purge herself of the rage she’d carried these last seventy-five days. It was a desperate move—a spiritually risky alternative. She’d only read about the practice, but after what she’d endured, she was out of options.
Libby Lamb was a desperate woman. Her karma was in the crapper, and she had nothing left to lose.
Revenge was a dish best served cold, or in her case, after a sixty-minute rejuvenating yoga flow.
Tonight, she was leading a yoga class in the studio where it started—where the beefcake in the boxing gym next door had clanged and roared, disturbing her class and wrecking her chi.
All she’d done was slip out of class to ask the man to keep it down.
He could have nodded or acted like a human being and apologized.
But he didn’t.
He donned a cocky smirk and had looked right through her.
Like she was nothing.
Like she was less than nothing.
His stupid beefcake vibe rippled through her and had ignited a psychic firestorm.
He’d be there tonight, roaring away, making a raucous.
She could feel it in her bones.
It was time to turn the spiritual tables.
“It’s beefcake or bust,” she growled, then hit the gas.
Three
Erasmus
“Lion,Erasmus, look this way! Let’s get a picture of the British Beast growling. Show us the face you’re going to make when you go toe to toe with Silas Scott, the Irish Snake,” called one of the journalists in the room, jockeying for the best shot among the photographers and cameramen.
The Lion, Erasmus “Raz” Cress, former four-time Boxing Heavyweight Champion of the World, also nicknamed the British Beast, thanks to his ripped physique and six-foot-five frame, bounced from foot to foot in front of a ruby-red punching bag hanging from the gym’s ceiling inside a boxing ring. The PR people had set up lights that cast him in a social-media-ready glow.
In nothing but ruby red boxing trunks, gloves, and shoes, the stage was set.
Every muscle was on display—every move calculated. This was it. In sixty days, he’d either reclaim the title of heavyweight champion or prove the naysayers right. At thirty-two years old, after disappearing from the boxing scene for the last three years, this would either be his comeback or the final nail in the coffin of his spectacular downfall. He turned toward a bevy of cameramen and flashed a cocksure grin. “I growl when I want to growl,” he snarled in his grittiest East London accent, and the press ate it up.
“Follow the rules, please. No calling out. Give the Beast space to move,” Briggs Keaton, his posh sports agent and business manager, instructed in an accent, mimicking the Queen’s English. Raz glanced at the little man clad in a three-piece suit, salivating over the coverage with dollar signs in his eyes as he stood near the media brood sent to cover the impromptu exhibition.
Win or lose, this well-dressed bloke would make a fortune. He could be a right prat, but he wasn’t a bad guy. He’d flown in from London to wrangle the press. Then again, money could do that. Thanks to Pay-Per-View and the bloodlust of millions across the globe, this match-up would bring in hundreds of millions, if not billions, in revenue. Raz nodded to his agent, and the guy gifted him with a syrupy smile.
Wanker.
Erasmus Cress had been a professional athlete long enough to know the difference between who was there for the flash and the cash and who’d be there, win or lose, after the last punch had been thrown. A knot twisted in his gut, but he couldn’t reveal a sliver of trepidation or an ounce of apprehension. This would be his first fight with one less person cheering him on—the compassionate woman who had meant everything to him. He looked over his shoulder at the corner of the boxing ring where one stool sat and recalled the time when there had been two. He gritted his teeth and exploded into a series of swift, clean jabs.
