Page 17 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Bam, bam, bam, bam.
The pop of his gloves hitting the bag matched the click of the cameras.
You know what they want. Be the bloody champion.
He had to maintain the persona of the Lion, the cocky British beast who paraded around the ring like he owned it. He had to become the arrogant, dominating force that hit hard, moved fast, and radiated alpha energy. It wasn’t that difficult when he was the center of a media storm. He could play the part. He knew how to please—knew how to allow them to live vicariously through him.
Men wanted to be him, and women wanted to do him.
He could pick up a woman and screw her brains out in a sweaty bout of meaningless sex any night of the week and twice on Fridays. He didn’t remember their names, and their faces had become an inconsequential blur. Sex served as a release. A hollow act. A vehicle to let off a little steam.
Was he proud of that?
Honestly, he didn’t give it much thought.
He chanced another glance at the corner’s lone stool. He wasn’t in the market to fill a second one. At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself until seventy-five days ago when a pair of amber-colored eyes nearly brought him to his knees.
He thought he knew what it was to live with the hole in his heart—a hole that had left him a gutted and unsteady sod these last three years. He’d donned a conceited mask to hide the pain, and for the most part, it worked. It dulled the ache. It concealed the hurt.
Then she opened the door and peered inside the gym.
Who obliterated his defenses with one look?
The raven-haired, ruby-lipped Libby Lamb.
That was her name.
Of course, he’d recognized her when she’d popped in to ask him to keep it down, but he sure as hell didn’t let her know. He’d been a right prick when she appeared out of nowhere, standing in the doorway, barefoot and wearing a tiny sports bra that showcased her breasts and toned abdomen and a pair of yoga pants that accentuated her curves.
Jesus, that woman had an arse that wouldn’t quit. Like a perfect plum, it was ripe, round, and begging to be bitten. But it wasn’t her delectable petite build and shiny, jet-black hair that had thrown him for a loop. It was her eyes—those amber eyes. With one glance, she saw everything. He’d had no time to put up his defenses, and for a split second, she’d peered into his very soul.
Once upon a time, another woman had done that to him. And he thought he’d found the one, his match, his perfect equal.
But the universe had other plans.
Bloody universe.
Like him, the universe had proven time and time again that it could be a colossal prick.
Libby Lamb had entered his orbit not long after he’d arrived in Denver, a little over four months ago. An acquaintance of sorts, he knew her through his nanny match men’s group.
Nanny Match Men’s Group.
Stupid name. They should come up with something better.
And why was he in something as ridiculous sounding as a men’s nanny match group?
Finola Arcadia Cress.
Age: eighty.
Occupation: Colossal ball-breaker and the maker of the best biscuits in the UK.
Otherwise known as Granny Fin.
After he’d won his first heavyweight title and became a bona fide multi-millionaire, he’d moved his granny and sisters into a posh flat in London’s Chelsea neighborhood—a posh flat that happened to be near the nanny matchmaker extraordinaire, Madelyn Malone’s place in London.
Madelyn Malone specialized in connecting prominent single men of wealth and status with high-end nanny services. But that wasn’t everything she seemed to do. He’d decided Madelyn was part witch, part bitch, and a hell of a lot of mystery. Not many people intimidated him. But this senior citizen with her tumbling dark hair highlighted with a lone silver streak, rich vibrato voice, and thick Eastern European accent had a headmistress vibe that prompted him to watch his language and dust off his manners. The woman had a way about her, and he could see how his granny Fin and the nanny matchmaker formed a friendship. A pair of no-nonsense women, neither took any shit—especially not from him.
