Page 234 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“Gentlemen,” the announcer boomed, inviting the men to the center of the stage.
Nose to nose, the boxers stared each other down. This is the part where he’d usually go full-on beefcake. With adrenaline pumping, he’d slap a twisted smirk to his lips. He’d taunt his opponent, letting loose with the trash talk and playing the part of the beefcake. Instead, he closed his eyes.
Picture a time when you were truly happy. Hold the feeling inside your chest, close to your heart.
A lightness expanded inside him as his chi evened out. Like a key unlocking a door, his chakras came into alignment. With a cosmic click, a wave of images and warmth washed over him. He saw Mere’s face on their wedding day. He could feel the tears on his cheeks when he held his son for the first time. And then he was in Denver, standing on the sidewalk the night Rowen had dragged him and the other guys to help move Penny’s things into his place. That’s where he’d first seen the raven-haired Libby Lamb. The memory lingered as the sound of the ocean and the gentle lullaby of Moloka’i came back to him. Pure joy radiated through his body, recalling the feeling of holding Libby in his arms.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
He could hear her as if she were whispering in his ear.
“It’ll be a pleasure beating you, Lion, or do you go by Donkey now?” Silas hissed.
Raz opened his eyes. He softened his gaze and read the Snake’s aura. He could see it plain as day—gray and black with a little puce mixed in. He grimaced. “Mate, your spiritual vibe is a cosmic dumpster bin. Blimey, you should get yourself some crystals to clear that psychic blockage.”
Panic flashed in Silas’s eyes. The nervous fighter turned to the cameras, his shoulders slumping a fraction, but Raz saw it. He’d rattled the Snake.
“Erasmus Cress literally trained to fight me by doing yoga and running around the hills with donkeys. What do you have to say about that, donkey lover?” Silas quipped like an angry old man yelling at kids to keep it down.
Unbothered, Raz nodded. “The donkey knows, Silas.”
Wobbly Bob might be banging his granny—and he was absolutelynotokay with that—but he had to hand it to the guy. The man knew what he was talking about.
The donkey knows.
He got it. He finally got it.
The donkey knows what matters.
Confusion marred Silas’s expression. “What does the donkey know? I’m trying to make fun of you, mate!”
“I know, but you gave me quite a compliment,” he answered. He took in the sprawling event center complex, the flags, the media circus, and the gleaming ring, then took a few steps away from Silas, removing his hoodie. He inhaled a deep breath and busted out a handstand.
“What the hell are you doing?” the Snake bit out.
He was doing what he had to do.
He lifted one hand and balanced on the other like Libby had done in the police chief’s office to shut him the hell up.
In that slip of time, with every muscle engaged, he understood where he’d veered off the path.
He’d hidden behind his guilt.
He’d wallowed in the pain.
He’d distanced himself from his son—the closest, most tangible link to Meredith.
That selfish shell of a man ready to win at any cost wasn’t the man Mere loved. It wasn’t the man he was meant to be, and thanks to Libby’s slightly psychotic intervention, she’d banged her gong, threw vibrators, and gave him the spiritual wake-up call he so desperately needed. Her wham, bam, Libby Lamb love had brought him back from the brink, had transformed his relationship with his son, and now gave him a new lease on life.
Like a ballerina on steroids, he pressed his outstretched hand onto the stage, gracefully lowered his legs, and stood. He put on his hoodie, then pressed his hands into a prayer position and bowed. “Namaste, Silas Scott,” he said like a blooming Zen master. He crossed the stage and descended the stairs, heading for his friends and family, determination coursing through his veins.
“Where the hell are you going?” Silas screamed like a sullen teenager. “Are you coming back? Will you be here for the fight?”
He shrugged, striding away, a man on a mission.
None of the event staff seemed to know what to do. Cameramen scattered, breaking away from the pack to follow him off the stage. He ignored the gaggle of men and women lugging recording equipment and went to his trainer. “I know what it means to win, Aug.” He surveyed the group, then glanced past the lights where a pair of doors opened into a lobby. “I need everyone to come with me,” he said, listening as Silas threw a temper tantrum. He exited the arena, shaking his head. Silas Scott was worse than Calliope and Callista fighting over a…a Landon Paige T-shirt. Wait, how had he not remembered that?
Landon’s bloody handsome face printed on a T-shirt!
