Page 122 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“Phoebe,” came Rowen’s voice, laced with exasperation, and Raz chuckled. Despite the turmoil in his chest and the buzz of electricity he simply couldn’t turn off between himself and Libby, he couldn’t help but smile. The nerd had his hands full with his firecracker of a niece.
“It happens everywhere,” the girl continued, ignoring her uncle. “In our Denver house, on our big boat, in our Aspen house, and our California house. How many more houses do we have, Uncle Row?” the child bellowed.
“It’s bedtime, Phoebe,” Rowen called. “Say good night to your friends. And do I smell chocolate? Do you have cookies hidden in your room, Phoebe?”
Libby smiled and shook her head as he did the same, delighting in the sweet craziness that was Phoebe Gale. Libby met his gaze, and all he could do was relish the warmth in her amber eyes. In this seemingly mundane parenting moment, on the surface, it was nothing, but experiencing it with Libby felt like home.
“Grimy, I’m busted again!” Phoebe whisper-shouted, switching back to her grating English accent.
Grimy?
“It’s blimey, Phoebe,” Sebastian instructed, grinning at the mobile’s screen like he’d won the lottery.
And maybe he had. Granny Fin had mentioned more than once that the lad didn’t have any mates at school. Could Oscar and Phoebe be his first real friends? He turned his attention to the glass of water and swallowed past the lump in his throat.
“Right-o, tally-ho, cheerio!” Phoebe called, reverting to the French maître d’.
“Bye, Sebastian!” Oscar exclaimed. “I can’t wait for your donkey birthday. My dad and I are going to bake you a cake. I’d bring popsicles, too, but every time I see them in the freezer, they’re gone by morning. My dad and my Charlotte are popsicle maniacs,” the boy added as Mitch’s audible, mock-hotheaded, grouchy groan echoed in the background as the children waved to each other before logging off.
He chanced another look at Libby.
He should have kept his focus on the glass of water.
He’d caught her gazing at Sebastian, eyes shining like she was so happy she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. He knew that look well. It was the same way Mere used to gaze at the boy when he was just a little thing.
Bloody memories.
He ground his teeth together, the muscles in his jaw tightening, then startled when Sebastian cleared his throat.
The boy stared up at him. “Do you need to fart, Dad?”
Fart?
Raz almost fell over. “No, of course, not. Why would you ask?”
The boy studied him closely. “Your face is pinched like you’re holding in a giant whopper of a fart. Beefcake made the same face before he farted in the trailer.”
What was it with boys and farting? Never mind. Part of being a little boy was remarking on farts. Still, he was no child, and he sure as hell wasn’t making a fart face.
“I don’t need to fart,” he announced, then glanced at Libby. Pink-cheeked, with a playful glint in her eyes, she’d pressed her fingertips to her lips to keep from laughing. It was better than watching her fold-a-thon but still blooming embarrassing for him.
“You think it’s funny now, Libby Lamb,” he teased. “Just wait until Sebastian starts asking you about farting.”
“I don’t have to ask her, Dad,” the child replied as quick as a whip. “Mibby farts. I heard her. It echoed in the room.”
“What?” Libby exclaimed, wide-eyed.
“Yeah, when you were on your yoga mat a few days ago, bending over to touch your toes. I heard you fart,” Sebastian clarified.
Libby’s lips parted, then they opened and closed like a fish out of water. “That must have been my…bare feet…sliding across the surface of the mat. It can make a squeaky, fart-like sound.”
Sebastian didn’t look convinced. “It wasn’t a squeak, Mibby. You farted.”
Libby’s gaze bounced from him to the boy, her cheeks growing pinker—and he loved every adorable second of it.
“If I did fart,” she began, not quite conceding, “and I’m not saying that I did, passing gas is a natural bodily function.”
“Your fart sounded like a loud mouse fart, Mibby. Likeeeeeeee!” the boy shrieked, close to breaking windows and cracking wineglasses with the high-pitched nanny-fart demonstration.
