Raz shook his head as more dots appeared, and another text from Rowen flashed on the screen.
Bloody Nerd Prick Rowen Gale: Sorry, Raz. Penny tells me I can’t do that—the hacking part. But we can help you out with the kid camp information.
How did that man survive before he had Penny?
Bloody Music Prick Landon Paige: If we had her name, we could see if she’s in one of my fan clubs. There are over 3.4 million Landon Paige fans worldwide. Just saying…
Bloody Nerd Prick Rowen Gale: Sorry, Landon, Penny again says there will be no hacking into fan clubs. She also says you only have 3.2 million followers.
Bloody Music Prick Landon Paige: I lost followers?!?!
Bloody Chef Prick Mitch Elliott: I’m in the middle of a damned dinner rush, and you guys are texting me about hacking and fan clubs?
Bloody Chef Prick Mitch Elliott: Raz, want me to have a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches sent over to the gym for you and Augie?
Raz emitted a low growl. These bloody American knobs.
Erasmus Cress: It’s a cheese toastie, you culinary wanker.
Bloody Chef Prick Mitch Elliott: My sandwich. My name. What’s the nanny situation?
In any other world, would Erasmus Cress be chatting it up on his mobile like a preteen with a nerd, a chef, and a heartthrob?
No.
Did he like these blokes?
No.
All right, maybe he liked them a bit. There’s something to be said about seeing the change in the men who’d been matched. Did it warrant an Augie-sized eye roll? Yeah, but he understood it—and understood he couldn’t have it. He checked on Aug. The press was still laughing at something the codger had said.
He stared at the screen. He wasn’t about to tell them he was nearly coming out of his skin with anticipation.
Erasmus Cress: No word yet on the nanny.
Dots instantly appeared.
Bloody Chef Prick Mitch Elliott: Be prepared, man. Madelyn sent me on a wild goose chase to find Charlotte, but looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing. She’s made me a better man. You never know—your match could be the match that changes everything.
It was nearly impossible to tell that, a few months ago, Mitch was one of the angriest, hotheaded chaps he’d ever met.
Erasmus Cress: Giving up cooking to write commercials for dating apps, are you, Chef? It must be all that cheese you use on your cheese toasties going to your head.
He’d played it off, but emotion clogged his throat. This nanny would be a nanny. Nothing more and nothing less. There was too much at stake. If he didn’t want to be written off as a loser in the annals of boxing history, he had to regain his focus and find the equilibrium he’d lost. He started to type, telling the men there would be no falling for the help when Aug called to him from across the room.
“Raz, want to stop gawking at titties on your bloody mobile?” Augie gave him a look that said, get your arse in gear, lad. We’re working.
“We have a few minutes left before we need the Lion to get back to his training,” Briggs announced when a reporter raised his hand.
“What about a few questions for the British Beast?” the man called.
This was part of the game. They billed this as a spur-of-the-moment photo-op only event, but just like concert-goers understood that the artist would reemerge for an encore, the sports press knew the star athlete would take a few questions at the end.
Raz pocketed his phone, then sauntered over, playing the part of the aloof champion. “Yeah, I’ll bite.”
“You’re training here with Augie. Do you plan on staying in Denver?” a man called.
Raz cleared his throat. “Not sure. I’m playing it by ear.”
“There are reports you’ve visited a few private elementary schools in the area. Is your son coming to live with you?” a man with slicked-back hair tossed out.
The muscles in Raz’s neck tightened.
Bloody press.
“Let’s stay on topic. We’re here because of the epic matchup between the Lion and the Snake. Stick to the fight, chaps,” Briggs chided, but Raz had a different approach.
“My son is none of your bloody business, you nosy twat,” he growled, pinning the weasel of a reporter with his gaze.
“What about your wife? This will be your first fight since she died, right? That is, unless you skip out on this one like you did the last one. Any comment on that, Lion?” the absolute sod of a human being continued. He had to be from one of the UK tabloids that lived to tell half-truths and rip people’s lives apart for sport.
“Oh, I have something to say about that, you greasy-haired sod,” he roared, his blood running hot.
“Erasmus,” Augie cautioned under his breath, but Raz couldn’t let the sleazeball off so easily.
He took a hulking step forward, towering over the reporter when a rhythmic ringing cut through the tension in the room.
“What is that?” a voice mused.
“A pair of symbols?” another threw out.
A cameraman addressed the group. “No, it’s some fit chick with a gong.”
Raz’s jaw dropped as his heart swelled in his chest. “Bloody hell, it’s her,” he murmured, disbelief coating the words.
Four
Erasmus
Libby Lamb, what in the bloody hell are you up to?
Raz shifted his focus from the wanker reporter to the woman with jet-black hair. But his fascination with her quickly turned to concern.
She taught at the yoga studio next door, that much he knew. And she did ring that blasted thing. That’s how he’d know when she was there. The sound would ripple through the wall. It drove him mad. Instantly, he’d be off his game—well, more off than usual. Sloppy and distracted, the thought of those amber eyes searching his soul was enough to send him reeling.
Barefoot, she stood on the sidewalk outside the boxing gym, clanging away with a large tote slumped over next to her on the pavement. In the glow of the outdoor lighting, he caught the shimmer of a gold sports bra peeking through a red, draped top and white leggings with her jet-black hair piled on top of her head. Raven tendrils danced across the apples of her cheeks as she massacred that bloody instrument.
“Is that lady okay?” a photographer asked, snapping a shot.
“Somebody should call the police. She must have escaped from a psychiatric facility,” came another musing.
Raz shook his head, agitation prickling through his veins. “Hell’s bloody bells,” he mumbled, weaving his large frame through the sea of journalists, cameramen, and photographers. He had to send her on her way. She didn’t need the media capturing this yoga tantrum on film.
He opened the door, prepared to tell her to take her crazy elsewhere, when she stopped banging the gong and pointed the mallet at him.
What did she want—a gong duel? Mallets at sunrise?
In the hazy halo of light, her amber eyes flashed penetrating rage. He could feel the intensity coming off her in angry waves.
“Don’t say a word. Not a word, beefcake. I need to demonstrate a technique to my class, and you are the inspiration,” she bit out.
Beefcake?
That’s what she called him when she’d popped in, and he’d given her the cold shoulder.
He scanned the posh yoga studio and found a group of men and women holding yoga mats with their heads cocked to the side, looking as confused as he was.