“Class, this is an example of rage yoga,” Libby continued, her voice rising a tenuous octave.
Rage yoga? Was that even a thing?
He studied her closely and noticed a white substance caked on her shoulder.
What the hell was that?
Bird shit?
Was she mad at a bird? Did she contract a bird virus that caused her brain to malfunction?
But before another thought could cross his mind, Libby raised her arms as if she were challenging the moon to a brawl, then let loose with a scream that would have put a horror movie howler to shame. Primal and undeniably visceral, the screech of a sound blanketed the area. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his granny Fin heard her from across the pond.
“I am reclaiming my chi! I desperately need to revive my O!” she shouted, then dropped to her knees dramatically as another bloodcurdling shriek cut through the air.
This tiny thing had quite a set of lungs.
He didn’t know what the bloody hell this chi and O business was, but before he could stop himself, he sprinted to her, gripped her arms, then lifted her to her feet. Wild-eyed, she stared up at him. Those amber eyes burned with such fury, if he slapped a pair of boxing gloves on her, then tossed her in the ring, he’d bet everything he had that her opponent would be out for the count before the bell rang.
Unfortunately, he seemed to be the opponent she’d set her sights on.
He couldn’t look away.
He couldn’t move an inch.
Despite the very real possibility that this woman was on the verge of knocking his lights out, he tightened his hold. He’d never touched her before. He’d only seen her a handful of times, but he hadn’t expected the pulse of energy to pass between them like two live wires popping and hissing as they went head-to-head.
The need to gather her into his arms and press his lips to hers tore through him. Her breasts heaved as she inhaled shallow gulps of air as if she couldn’t quite put together how she’d gotten here. He stroked her arm with the pad of his thumb as they froze, gazes locked, neither seeming to want to sever this strange, almost cosmic connection.
He wasn’t a fan of spiritual mumbo jumbo. But in that moment, where time stood still, she felt it, too. He could see it written on her face as it rendered her mute. He drank in the comfort of her nearness as the rise and fall of her chest slowed. Their breaths mingled in the space between them, and they found a rhythm, a synchronicity. It was as if they’d left their bodies and were fused together in some alternate reality. The storm in her eyes calmed, and just like that, she peered into his soul. He felt her presence with every fiber of his being. A man could disappear into the pools of heavenly amber and lose himself in the depths of this woman’s bewitching glow and her healing light.
Could Libby be his light?
He blinked as the myriad of flashes illuminated her face in pops of light, breaking the spell.
Bloody hell. They had a shit ton of journalists watching from a few paces away, gobbling up this moment.
He caught his breath and regained a fraction of stability. “What’s this wham, bam, thank you, Libby Lamb business? Libby, have you fallen completely off your rocker, babe?”
Babe?
He’d only called Meredith by that name. But he didn’t have a second to work out the slip. The fury in Libby’s eyes returned as she wriggled free of his hold and took a step back.
She feigned surprise. “You do know who I am, you O-stealing, chi-rattling, muscle-flexing beefcake!”
What was her deal with chi and the letter O? Had she entered some yoga state of complete insanity?
Best to play it cool.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I know who you are.”
He hoped that declaration would take some of the crazy out of her sails.
It didn’t.
She stared up at the moon. “Seventy-five days ago, this beefcake chose to bang and clang and roar like a beast while I tried to teach a yoga class next door.”
She’d stirred up a well of emotions within him. The pull had almost been too much to resist.
But he couldn’t bloody say that.
He glanced over his shoulder at the press and the disturbed yoga patrons, then lowered his voice. “Babe, who are you talking to?”
Blooming idiot! There he was with the babe again.
She banged her gong. “I’m communing with the universe.”
She’d be communing with a padded cell if he couldn’t calm her down.
He took in the scene.
Cameras flashing and tape rolling, the sports media was lapping up this catastrophe while some of the yoga crew held out their phones, documenting the melee.
She poked him with the mallet. “And don’t you dare call me babe, baby, or babykins.”
“Babykins? What the bloody hell is that?” he shot back.
Confusion marred her features. “I don’t know. But I ban you from calling me those names. And sugar plum. It’s off the list, too,” she added with a huff.
The list?
On second thought, maybe a padded cell was exactly what Libby Lamb needed.
“I can’t call you sugar plum either?” he pressed. “Isn’t that a fairy? Yeah, there’s a sugar plum fairy. It’s from the Nutcracker. Do you have a thing against fairies, or are you just nuts? You’re dressed like you fancy Christmas, though. You’d have to take away the bird shit on your shoulder, of course, unless getting crapped on by birds is something you’re into.”
She gasped. “I have nothing against fairies, nuts, or Christmas. Nor do I have any weird bird fetishes. I chose this outfit strategically to harness the spiritual power of color, and nuts are an excellent source of fiber, fat, and protein. And everyone loves fairies. It’s a given fact.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he said under his breath, hardly able to believe they’d shifted the conversation to winter holiday nut fairies covered in bird shit. Still, it was better than having her bang that gong and scream at the moon.
She shook her head as if she were trying to rid her brain of the crazy her mouth was spewing. “Forget the fairy nuts. You don’t get to call me anything.”
He reared back. “Fairy nuts?” Now there was something nobody wanted to picture in their heads.
“You know what I mean,” she hissed.
He crossed his arms. “That’s not exactly fair, though, is it?”
“What do you mean?” she barked, not backing down.
“You’re telling me I can’t give you a pet name while you’ve called me beefcake more than a few times?”
Beefcake.
It was a ludicrous word, a slight for sure, but something was amusing about her lobbing the two syllables at him. Something that got his heart pumping and his cock…
Dammit! Did it turn him on?
She lifted her chin. “You deserve to be called a beefcake after what you took from me.”
He threw up his hands, frustration mixing with the completely inappropriate arousal coursing through his body. “I barely know you, Libby. What could I take from you?”
“My O,” she seethed.
They were back to the alphabet. “You’ve got to stop acting mental, plum,” he replied, trying to think of anything that would calm her down.
“You think this is mental?” she threw back, giving him a grin that rivaled the criminally insane.