Raz picked up the mic. “Good evening, everyone, I’m Erasmus Cress. I’d like to thank my sports agency and Maud and Bob Askew for putting the Spar with the Beast charity event together. It’s been a pleasure spending time in Rickety Rock. The donkey rescue is a worthwhile organization, and I am thrilled to help support it.”
Libby’s hammering heartbeat slowed a fraction.
So far, so good.
Raz was in his element. This is what he did. He was a professional athlete. He knew how to walk the walk. He could play the game.
Raz retrieved two pairs of boxing gloves from Maud then helped Derrick put his on.
“I figured Raz would jump in the ring and punch the guy’s lights out,” Char whispered.
Libby nodded. “Me too.”
She surveyed the large crowd gathered around the ring. Many held up phones, filming and taking pictures.
She had to get used to the fact that any moment could go viral.
Raz slid on his pair of gloves, then set his sights on Derrick Dawson. “You donated twenty thousand dollars to the donkey rescue, mate. Is that right?” he asked, circling the man like a shark.
“Twenty grand is nothing for me,” Derrick crooned in reply.
Libby listened to the banter, hanging on to every word. It was a good idea to move up close to the ring. This way, if it went sideways, at least she’d know thirty seconds before the rest of the world did.
She set her sights on Derrick Dawson. The bro ran his glove-covered hand through his expensive haircut and sported a self-satisfied grin, blissfully unaware that there was a good chance he’d leave the ring with a limp. He glanced at his friends, then paraded around like a guy who’d never set foot inside a boxing ring.
“So, you’re a philanthropist?” Raz asked, baiting the man.
Derrick’s swagger lost a little steam. “It wasn’t exactly my money. My dad’s company donated in my name. You know how it goes. He wants the best for me.”
“I do know how it will go. I know exactly how it’ll go,” Raz replied like the Cheshire cat, luring Derrick in. “Are you ready to get your money’s worth and spar with the British beast?”
“I was hoping that for donating twenty large, you’d let me land a shot or two,” Derrick said, hamming it up for his friends by bobbing around like an over-caffeinated buffoon.
“Those your mates?” Raz asked, eyeing the Derricks.
“Yeah.”
“How are you boys doing?” he asked, then scanned the crowd and found her. He grinned that slightly insane smile and tossed her a wink.
She tried to read him but couldn’t.
Was that a see-I’m-playing-nice wink, or was it a just-wait-and-see-what’s-going-to-happen wink?
She was about to find out.
The two Derricks tittered and whooped, jostling between pointing their phones at Raz and then at themselves. In the space of ten seconds, they had to have taken three hundred selfies.
“How about this, Derrick,” Raz announced as the crowd grew still, hanging on the boxer’s every word. “I won’t move my feet, and you can have two free swings at me. But in return, I get one shot at you.”
“Are you guys getting this?” Derrick called, vibrating like an electrified toddler.
“Focus, Derrick. Take the punch,” Raz chided, planting himself in front of the man.
Wild-eyed, Derrick Dawson pounded his gloves together, reared back, then let loose.
And what did he hit?
Nothing but thin mountain air.
With the grace of a Prima ballerina, her giant, muscled beefcake angled his shoulders and deftly dodged the first punch.
“Come on, spaghetti arms. You’ve got to have more than that,” Raz goaded.
Derrick Dawson’s features hardened. He shot a glance at his friends, then raised his gloves. Back to bobbing like a buffoon, the guy threw not one, not two, but three rapid-fire punches.
Swish, swish, swish.
Derrick missed again, and again, and again.
Libby watched with bated breath as a lightness took over, and a tantalizing tingle popped and fizzed in her chest.
Maybe she was a boxing fan.
She knew one thing for sure.
Derrick Dawson was simply no match for Erasmus Cress, and she liked it.
A lot.
Like, a lot, a lot.
Butterflies erupted in her belly.
She could watch Raz knock the bro down a few pegs all day long.
The noodle-armed Derrick swung again and again, grunting with exertion.
But it was no use for the grand Derrick douche canoe.
Her beefcake had gone into champion boxer mode. As if he were channeling a Zen master, Raz’s torso glided side to side, flowing with his chi as he evaded the punches. She couldn’t take her eyes off the pair. It was as if she were watching the scene play in slow motion.
Raz be nimble.
Raz be quick.
Derrick Dawson’s ass, Raz, please kick!
Her beefcake was the epitome of boxing perfection, and she was there for it.
“Let him have it, beefcake!” she howled, banging her hand on the ring’s padded floor as Penny, Char, Mitch, and Rowen joined in.
Derrick Dawson pouted like the spoiled bro he was. All he needed now was a sad trombone rendition of the wah, wah, wah, wah disappointment soundtrack. At his pathetic failure to land a punch, his jaw dropped, along with his gloves, and his cheeks grew scarlet.
Raz tossed her a mischievous smile, then set his sights on the man. “Hey, Derrick?”
“Yeah?”
“How’s the venture capitalist life treating you?” he growled.
“What?” Derrick shrieked, confusion marring his features.
And that’s when Raz went in for the punch. In the space of a breath, he got the guy right in the solar plexus.
Pop!
It wasn’t a hard hit. She’d been watching him train. The tap he administered to Derrick Dawson would barely sway the heavy bag. Still, the bro stood there, frozen with the wind knocked out of him, as the crowd expelled a collective gasp.
“Ooh,” Wobbly Bob said with a wince.
Yeah, ooh, was right.
Raz grinned at the audience. “Don’t you worry. Derrick’s only playing around, aren’t you, boyo? All he got was a tap to the diaphragm. What a great sport you are, mate. Look what twenty grand gets you. This man knows how to spar with the Beast,” Raz finished as cameras flashed, illuminating his shit-eating grin.
Derrick tried to nod, but the man was well and truly stunned—and chasing his breath to boot.
Raz met her gaze, then leaned over like he was listening to something Derrick had to say. He nodded, then took a stroll around the ring. “Listen to this, folks. Derrick has a request. He wants me to invite my Pun-chi yoga coach into the ring to demonstrate a few of our moves. It turns out he’s a huge yoga fan. What a banger of an idea!” he exclaimed, slipping off his gloves.
And sweet chakra pie, what did he say?
She stared at the man. “No, Raz, I can’t,” she whispered.
“You’ve got this, Mibby!” Sebastian cheered.
“It is for charity,” Charlotte offered, biting back a grin.
“Do it for the donkeys,” Penny added. “And give me your phone. I’ll hold it for you and take some pics for Anders and Alec. They’ll get a kick out of this.”
“Go on, Libbs!” Charlotte coaxed.