Page 237 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“Keeping the peace before the fight and wrangling the media,” Joey answered, gesturing with his chin toward where they’d kept the cameramen at bay.
“We don’t mean to be rude, but are you talking about Libby Lamb?”
“Yeah, I am. I love her.” He grinned. Bloody hell, he liked saying that out loud.
“We had a feeling you two would end up together,” Joey replied, sharing a look with George.
“We’re not together yet. I screwed up, but I’m going to get her back.” He scanned the group. “For the record, that’s my intention. I’m putting it to the universe. It’s not me acting like a cocky…” he glanced at Sebastian and tapped his foot twice.
“Beefcake!” the boy exclaimed.
“I wish that’s what Phoebe meant when she tapped at me,” Rowen muttered.
“If you need any help from the city’s cops, we’re here for you. The whole department appreciates you competing in the Ass-in-nine for us. Honestly, none of us wanted to do it.”
Excellent! It was never bad to have local law enforcement on your side!
It was coming together.
The light shining in through the windows shimmered a perfect shade of indigo.
Their color.
Their strength.
This was his path—a path lined with Meredith’s blessing.
“What do we do now, Dad?”
He turned to Rowen. “Libby’s off the grid, right? The only thing she’s doing tomorrow is meeting up with her dad?”
“As far as I know,” Rowen answered.
This is it. Everything had led him to this point.
Wham, Bam, lookout, Libby Lamb, the beefcake’s coming!
Excitement laced with pure adrenaline coursed through his veins.
He surveyed his friends and family. “Alert the International Space Station, and let’s get out a press release, Briggsy.”
“And what should it say, champ?”
He grinned and held his son’s gaze. “Erasmus Cress will be fighting tomorrow—fighting for the woman he loves.”
Thirty-Five
Libby
Libby strolled downthe path as four little girls zoomed past her, their pigtails swishing from side to side as they skipped along. The girls couldn’t be much older than five or six, and their little voices popped and fizzed as they giggled and tittered, headed toward a pen of black and white goats. A little redhead, a blonde, and the third girl with chestnut-brown curls stopped at the gate, waiting for their friend, a curious child with raven-colored locks, who’d stopped shy of the pen to watch a butterfly flit across the path.
“I can’t wait to pet the goats,” the little blond girl exclaimed.
“Me too,” called the redhead.
“Me too,” echoed the girl with jet-black hair, waving goodbye to the butterfly to catch up to her friends.
The child with chestnut curls huffed. “My feet hurt, and the goat better not eat my sock again. Stupid hungry goat!”
