Akin to a celestial being, who happened to be barefoot and clad in a crow scarf, Libby walked through the swarm of people frozen in place, their attention trained on her. “Pun-chi yoga is and isn’t what it sounds like.”
Oh, sweet Jesus!
“Raz, do you know what she’s talking about?” Briggs asked in a frantic hushed tone, his million-dollar smile faltering.
He shook his head. He didn’t answer. He wasn’t trying to be a dick, but he couldn’t speak. He could only concentrate on the mesmerizing woman gliding past hardened sports journalists.
“The pun part is short for punch,” Libby explained. “But the second syllable is spelled c-h-i. Chi.”
Chi.
She’d called him a chi thief or a chi scrambler. He honestly couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he’d screwed up her chi. But nothing appeared off-kilter with her now.
Libby raised her hands as if she were holding two invisible orbs. “Chi is our life force, the energy that flows through you and everything around you. Chi connects our minds and our bodies, and it’s where we start with Pun-chi yoga. Observe.” She pressed the sole of her foot into her upper thigh. “This is tree pose. You try it.”
Raz surveyed the group and could barely believe they were following along. Big guys teetering. Little guys wobbling. Men and women collectively working to stay upright.
“If you can’t get your foot up that high, you can do it like this,” Sebastian instructed as the lad pressed his foot to the side of his calf, doing a modified version of Libby’s stance.
“Rest your gaze on something in the distance. Doing this will help you maintain balance,” Libby instructed.
Raz stared ahead at the two forms directly in front of him.
Libby and Sebastian. And there it was—that lovely blue-violet tint to the light, and a stillness settled upon the group.
“Now, this is where we incorporate the punching part. We can do this one that’s called a…” Libby focused on Sebastian, and she started throwing hooks while balancing on one foot.
“Those punches are called hooks,” Sebastian supplied.
“Or some of these,” Libby continued, throwing some damn good jabs.
“Those are jabs,” his son answered correctly.
“And then we can mix it up.” She threw a jab, a cross, and a hook. “This is called—”
“Jab, cross, hook combo,” he answered, coming down the steps, unable to stop himself. Could it be something with the energy here? Whatever it was, it drew him to her.
She looked over her shoulder and winked at him. And blimey, she was radiant! The brightest star in the universe had nothing on Libby Lamb.
“Go ahead and stand tall on two feet with your chin up and shoulders back while I demonstrate an advanced element,” she instructed.
As if they were in a daze, the throng of media did as they were told, standing like soldiers eager to please their general.
“In Pun-chi yoga,” Libby continued, tucking the tails of her scarf into her T-shirt, “we build a stable foundation by grounding ourselves. Stability and ease of motion come through repetition. And then we practice something called non-attachment, where we learn to let go. Long story short, you have to be strong and centered before you can release what holds you back.” Libby hinged forward and drew her legs up into a handstand.
And he knew what was coming next.
Gracefully, like she wasn’t on uneven, rocky ground, she raised her hand and busted out the same move that shut him up in the police chief’s office. Her legs parted into a wide V, and she started punching with her free hand.
The press gave a collective gasp as every pair of eyes remained locked on the woman defying the laws of gravity.
“Uppercut, jab, jab, cross, jab, uppercut!” Sebastian exclaimed, labeling each punch as Libby threw punch after punch and barely wobbled in the process.
He stood beside Sebastian to get a better look, and his boy waved him down.
“See, Dad, it’s punchy yoga.”
“Yeah, I see,” he answered, catching Libby’s upside-down gaze.
“Is it okay if we get some tape of you demonstrating Pun-chi yoga, Miss Lamb?” a voice called, but Libby didn’t acknowledge the reporter. She kept her attention on him and Sebastian. With a sparkle in her eyes, she gave them an upside-down grin, then tossed him a wink—another bloody wink—before turning her head toward the woman asking the question. “Go ahead, you can film me and take as many photographs as you like,” she answered and began throwing punches again as Sebastian labeled each one.
He took several steps back to give them some space, and Briggs strolled up to his side with his million-dollar grin intact.
“She’s brilliant, champ,” he exclaimed in a hushed voice. “Who would have thought that a lunatic banging a gong and throwing sex toys at you could charm this hardened lot? Did you know she was this good?”
Raz shook his head, his gaze trained on the raven-haired lunatic. “No, I didn’t.”
“You’re one lucky bloke,” Briggs replied, relief coating the words. “At least for the moment, she’s PR gold, and you only have to stick with her until the fight. I already have the press release ready to go when you part ways.”
Raz’s posture stiffened. “Part ways?”
“You know, mutual respect, blah, blah, blah. Wish you well, blah, blah, blah.”
Raz parted his lips, but nothing came out. All he could do was ignore the tightness in his chest and let Briggs’s words sink in.
The man was right. Despite the pull between them to tear each other’s clothes off, she couldn’t be his. She’d made it clear that a relationship wasn’t in the cards for her. Their professional split should be a no-brainer, and yet his lips still tingled from her kiss.
“Miss Lamb,” a reporter called, pulling him from his thoughts. “Can you tell us any more about the Pun-chi yoga moves you’re using to train Erasmus Cress?”
“We’ll chat more later, mate,” Briggs whispered, pulling out his mobile. “I need to listen and make sure Libby doesn’t say anything bonkers.”
He nodded to his agent, hardly able to make heads or tails from his reaction to the thought of parting ways with Libby Lamb.
“As you observed,” Libby began, returning to a standing position, “Pun-chi yoga incorporates elements of boxing and yoga. The practice can be either smooth, where one flows from pose to pose, or punctuated, akin to quick bursts of movement,” Libby explained, glancing away. He caught the hint of a blush on the apples of her cheeks—the seductive blush that sent his blood supply south.
“Were the quick bursts of motion what we saw on the viral video?” a reporter called out, and thoughts of raging hard-ons vanished from his mind.
Bollocks! They’d never discussed how they would address the viral video topic with the media.
Libby glanced over her shoulder at him, then clasped her hands in front of her. “Yes, I think we can all agree that the Pun-chi session viewed by many in the viral video motivated Erasmus Cress to move very, very quickly.”
That was a brilliant answer.
Cheeky but accurate.
“How about you, Lion? What are your thoughts on Pun-chi yoga?” a short gentleman in the front asked.