“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.
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.