Raz came to Libby’s side. Every cell in his body wanted to reach out and touch her. But why? Why was there this incessant need to claim her—to let the world see… See what? She wasn’t his. He cleared his throat and kept his features neutral. “I’m getting used to Pun-chi yoga.”
“Do you think it’s something you’ll keep in your training regimen after the big fight?”
After the fight?
His mind couldn’t go there. “We’re keeping our options open.”
That was a bloody lie.
The PR word salad he’d regurgitated wasn’t the answer he wanted to give.
But he couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth about what he wanted.
“Will you be throwing other objects at the Beast?” another reporter called, blessedly taking the focus off him.
Libby looked up and caught his eye. “Only if he makes me mad,” she answered, and the press loved it. Every damn person on the property chuckled at her response as they hammered away on their devices and scribbled into notebooks.
“Like I said, PR gold,” Briggs said under his breath as he came up alongside them. “We’re going to wrap it up, but I do have dates and pertinent information, so listen closely,” the man announced.
Raz and Libby gave the man some space and walked over to where Sebastian, Augie, and Luanne stood on the porch.
Raz leaned in toward Libby. “Did you make all that up on the fly?”
She looked up at him, eyes sparkling. “I expanded on a game Sebastian and I came up with. But yes, I BS’ed my way through the demonstration.”
“What made you do the crazy upside-down move, plum?”
She bit her bottom lip as pure mischief glinted in those gorgeous amber eyes. “It worked on you, didn’t it?”
Sweet blooming Christ, it had.
“Final announcements,” Briggs continued, then glanced up at the dark clouds rolling in. “I’ll be quick, so no one gets caught in the storm. You should have received an email with the schedule of events with Erasmus Cress and Libby Lamb that line up with the Ass-in-Nine Festival in a few weeks. We’re raising funds for the town of Rickety Rock and several of the charities housed in the mountain town. Please share with your readers and viewers that one lucky person who donates will get to jump into the ring with the champ for some good old-fashioned boxing fun. We’re calling it Spar with the Beast, and Erasmus Cress’s team, along with the town, would be most grateful.”
“Did you know about that?” Libby whispered.
“No, but I’ve missed a few emails. You don’t mind, do you? I can tell Briggs to call it off if you do.”
“No, don’t do that. It’s for charity, and I’m sure the organizations will appreciate it. And I’ll get to see you in action.”
And there it was—that Libby Lamb smile that could light up the night sky.
“And don’t forget about my birthday, posh bloke. It’s coming up, too. I’ll be seven years old, and my friends Phoebe and Oscar say that if I stay in Colorado, I’ll be in second grade with them,” Sebastian called out to the delight of the press.
Raz stared at his son. He’d never seen the boy so happy.
“After the Ass-in-Nine race and Sebastian’s seventh birthday,” Briggs continued with a nod to the boy. “The countdown begins for the fight of the century. I don’t need to remind you that this is the highest Pay-Per-View event ever recorded, and it’s just weeks away. This is truly a moment in heavyweight boxing. And with that, I think the weather will allow for one last question for the Lion and the Lamb.”
The Lion and the Lamb.
Just as the man finished talking, a muddy white truck pulling an equally muck-covered trailer gunned it up the drive, then hit the brakes. Pebbles skipped across the rocky land as a swirl of dust welcomed the visitor, and an older, portly gentleman in a cowboy hat with a bushy white beard emerged from the vehicle.
“Can we help you, sir? Do you have a question?” Briggs asked.
The man surveyed the media spectacle. “Oh, I have a question.”
“And what would that be?”
The newcomer removed his hat and stared directly at Libby.
“Do you know him, Raz?” Libby asked under her breath.
“I have no idea who he is.”
For an old-timer, the bloke looked bloody intimidating, like a hardened Colorado cowboy.
Just as he answered, the man took a few wobbly steps forward and pointed to them. “You two,” he called.
“Yes, sir?” Libby answered, coming to attention.
“I need some answers,” he barked.
“About what, sir?” she eked out.
The man’s bushy white beard twitched as he leaned against the dusty truck. “Which one of you is going to tell me what’s really going on with Beefcake and Plum?”
Raz’s jaw dropped as he caught Libby’s eye. Dumbstruck, she shook her head, looking as clueless as he felt.
Who was this old codger?
Fifteen
Libby
Beefcake and Plum?
Libby blinked as the dust settled, and she drank in the older gentleman. The crusty senior citizen, dressed in boots and head-to-toe denim, looked like he’d moseyed on out of a Wild West saloon.
Was she hallucinating? Was this discombobulated state the karmic response to creating an entirely new school of yoga on the fly? Had she tipped the cosmic scales and descended into a catatonic meditative state?
She wasn’t sure. All she could do was stare at the new arrival.
As if he were made of stone, the bearded man kept his gaze trained on them as the press remained silent. Good to know that even mouthy sports journalists found the guy formidable. Honestly, after the last ten days, she was lucky she could put a coherent thought together. And the events of the last hour hadn’t helped. It was as if her chi had gone from being mixed up, to leveling out, to getting thrust into a super-charged spin cycle, to now being scrutinized by a salty character in a Western flick.
The man cocked his head to the side, continuing his silent assessment as the reporters’ gazes bobbed back and forth between where she, Raz, and Sebastian stood and the gentleman with a cantankerous air. No, cantankerous wasn’t the correct description. The man’s energy wasn’t angry. He had more of a steady, no-nonsense vibe, and there was something strangely familiar about him.
Then again, who was she to interpret anyone’s vibe?
She was still flying high from the Pun-chi yoga demo. Yes, it had started as a bunch of make-believe yoga babble. Still, somewhere between leading the horde of reporters in a five-minute yoga class and busting out into the one-handed handstand to rock some punches, the overarching concept of Pun-chi yoga solidified in her mind. There appeared to be merit to marrying the vastly different concepts of yoga and boxing.
“We seem to have a local in our midst,” Briggs whispered as if the dude who rolled up was from another planet.
And maybe he was from another galaxy.
How in the world could some random person in Rickety Rock, Colorado, have known their nicknames? She’d called Raz a beefcake in the viral video, but this local didn’t look as if he spent his days glued to social media. Not only that—there was no way he could have known that Raz called her plum.