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.
Despite being slightly afraid of the matchmaker, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t need some help in the nanny department. In two days, Granny Fin and his six-year-old son Sebastian would leave the buzz and grind of London and arrive in the Mile-High City.
Granny Fin had insisted on coming to the states to be with him after Sebastian finished school. But with an arthritic hip that had slowed her down in the past few months, she couldn’t keep up with the energetic Sebastian anymore. His younger sisters, Calliope and Callista, had helped out as much as possible, but the twins were twenty-one now and had headed to South Korea to teach English abroad. He was bloody proud of them, but it had put him in the precarious position of needing assistance. And that’s why Madelyn was in his life. Someone needed to be tasked with caring for Sebastian.
Sebastian.
Regret panged in his chest when he pictured the boy, because, when it came to his son, one thing was undeniably true.
The kid deserved a better dad.
Sure, he could send the lad to the best schools and buy him the latest electronics and toys any kid could want. Thanks to his boxing windfalls and past lucrative endorsements, he was worth over five hundred million dollars. He hadn’t known wealth growing up in Granny Fin’s place, tightly packed into one of East London’s terraced houses that lined the winding road like books on a shelf. But it didn’t matter how much money he had. It didn’t give him the ability to connect with his boy. Emotional stuff was never his strong suit. No, that gift belonged to—
Shut it down. Don’t go there.
Not today.
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he zeroed in on the ruby-red bag and knocked out another series of punches, then caught a glimpse of his longtime cornerman and trainer, Augie Bimston, leaning against the wall.
With a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, the old man crossed his arms, resting them on his protruding belly as the old codger’s scowl deepened. Augie’s bald head glinted under the light as he sauntered over from the other side of the gym where he’d been rolling his eyes at the media hubbub. But that was just a front. For his curmudgeonly ways, the man had welcomed him into the old East London boxing gym when he was nothing but a mouthy fourteen-year-old in need of an arse-kicking. The man was like a father to him. And he recognized the look on his trainer’s face.
Augie entered the ring, playing the part of the watchful coach, then stopped a foot or so away from him, positioning his body so the bag would hide him from the photographers and cameramen. He removed the toothpick from his mouth and slipped it into his breast pocket. “For the bloody life of me, Erasmus, I still cannot believe you agreed to this. And tighten up, boyo. You’re wobblier than a thirteen-year-old who snuck his first pint.”
Boyo.
That word was Aug’s tell. The sign that the wry quarter-Welsh part of his trainer had broken through and wasn’t bloody amused with the British Beast’s performance.
Narrowing his gaze, Raz gave a slight nod, acknowledging the man’s cheeky comment. Blowing out a hard breath, he executed four powerful jabs as camera flashes erupted into bursts of light.
Good old Aug—crusty as ever, the man never let money or fame change him.
Well, maybe it had a bit.
Augie was why he’d come to Denver to train—which was no small thing. The last place he pictured the bloke was here, running a fancy boxing gym in Denver. It was a far cry from the dank boxing spot he’d owned back in East London. But life had moved on, and Augie with it.
Here’s the thing.
He’d lost touch with most everyone in his life, Augie included.
No, saying he’d lost touch with the man wasn’t exactly what happened.
During the three years he’d spent wallowing in regret, shirking his responsibilities as a father, and screwing anything with a nice arse and a pulse, he’d stopped taking the man’s calls. Despite everything he’d owed his trainer, he’d shut Aug out with the rest of the world.
Yeah, he’d been a real knob, a true prick.
But when he finally picked up the phone to ask Aug to train him again, he couldn’t believe where life had taken the man.
During those three years where his life had come to a grinding halt, Augie, who he thought would remain a lifelong bachelor, had fallen in love with a woman he’d met online—a geologist named Luanne. The old man had picked up, left his gym in the UK, and moved to the states. He’d opened this place shortly after he arrived. It was a very un-Augie-like thing to do. The man clearly had a secret side and had disproved the old dog, new trick saying.
Which begged him to ask the question.
Could he do a one-eighty with his life like Aug had? Was happiness even possible for him?
Could lightning strike twice?
An unsettling shiver ran down his spine.
That was his answer.
His path was set in stone.
Fight. Win. Repeat.
Love wasn’t part of the equation.
He glanced at his trainer, knowing the cameras were following his every move. He couldn’t show it, but he asked himself the same question Aug had posed—a question he’d asked himself every day since he’d arrived in Denver.
What the bloody hell was he doing?
Actually, he knew the answer. It wasn’t rocket science to decipher.
He was here because of his ego. If he wasn’t a winner, then what the bloody hell was he? Only a winner was worthy of her—the woman he’d loved and lost.
But he wasn’t performing like a champion.
Thanks to the cards that life had dealt him, Augie was right. He was a wobbly git who could barely tell up from down and left from right. Like a ship adrift, he’d lost his moorings. Unsteady and unstable, his true north was nowhere to be found.
Six months ago, he’d been back in England in his second Chelsea flat—his bachelor pad. But that night, he didn’t have a carnal itch to scratch. Fighting another bout of insomnia, he’d made the mistake of scrolling through social media. To his agent’s disappointment, he didn’t do much online. His private life was private, and he wasn’t one of those idiots who posted every time they took a shite. But that night, he’d seen a post—no, not just a post, a challenge.