Page 57 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“Whatever you’re wearing that’s covered in bird shit. Would you like to wash it, or do you prefer your clothing covered in animal crap?”
“I preferun-crappedclothing,” she answered as the awkward meter skyrocketed.
“The laundry is upstairs on the same floor as the bedrooms.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I said that. There are also closets and bathrooms on the second floor. And doors, plenty of those,” he finished, looking more discombobulated by the second.
“Yeah, that happens in many houses on the second floor, here, in America. We have doors and closets and bathrooms,” she answered, then shook her head as her cheeks burned and another dose of mortification hit her bloodstream.
She had to pull herself together.
She lifted her chin to project an air of purpose and a determination to rid herself of shit-covered clothing. She cleared her throat. “Maybe we should go upstairs and do it.”
Dear universe, please render Libby Lamb mute ASAP.
“You want to do it?” he bit out, his jaw nearly hitting the floor.
Libby pasted a plastic grin to her face, hoping to disguise the feeling of complete and utter embarrassment that tore through her like a runaway freight train.
Could a person combust from mortification?
She was about to find out.
“The laundry. Do the laundry, not each other,” she clarified, not doing a hell of a lot to dig herself out of the humiliation hole that kept getting deeper and deeper.
“Let’s just…” Raz said, then pointed to the grand staircase.
She nodded, then, without a word, fell into step with the man.
Opting for nonverbal communication was a good call.
Raz was right about the doors. This place was enormous. They passed a ton of them before he opened the one at the end of the hall. He flicked on the lights to reveal a room larger than her last apartment. With shiny appliances, cabinetry lining the walls, and a quaint seating area, this was the type of laundry room celebrities must have in their homes—or at least, that’s what she figured. It almost made ironing and sorting socks sound enticing.
“Washer, dryer, detergent,” the man grunted as he pointed out the items.
Okay, she could do this. It was laundry. She removed her wrap, then tossed it into the washer.
“Could you throw this in, too?” Raz asked.
She peered over her shoulder, and hello, abs for miles! Raz had unzipped his hoodie, and he didn’t have anything on underneath it. She stared at the rock-hard wall of muscle. “Beefcake,” she whispered, her mouth moving of its own volition.
“Do you mind washing my hoodie with your wrap?” the man tried again, snapping her out of an abs-induced stupor.
“I’d beabbyto. I mean,happyto,” she yipped, accepting the item while trying not to lean forward and lick the man’s torso. She cleared her throat, then fell back on a habit from when she used to do the twins’ laundry. She reached into the hoodie’s pocket, feeling for pens or loose change when her fingertips brushed against something cool and smooth. Immediately, she knew what it was. “My aquamarine gemstone,” she said, removing it from Raz’s pocket before tossing his garment into the washer. She kept the stone in her hand, added detergent, then started the machine. With the hum of the washer beginning its first cycle, she studied the stone. She hadn’t really looked at it yet. An oval-shaped piece of polished aquamarine, a little larger than a quarter, with a greenish-blue tinge. It honestly wasn’t that extraordinary. Aquamarine was Colorado’s state gemstone. Any rock shop or new-age boutique in the area carried them. But like the woman who’d gifted her with the stone, there was a familiarity about it.
“I forgot I had that. You threw that rock at me after you ran out of vibrators,” Raz commented as a rosy blush dusted his cheeks.
She sighed, feeling a strange sense of calm as she rubbed her thumb over the stone’s smooth surface. “I bet that’s something you never thought you’d say.”
“You seem to bring out another side of me,” Raz remarked.
She smiled. “It’s safe to say you’ve done the same to me.”
“I didn’t mean to mess up your chi. It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t expect…” he trailed off.
“What didn’t you expect?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“That’s not important. But I want you to know, if there was something, anything I could do to fix it, I would. But I should warn you. I’m a boxer. I’m better at breaking things than I am at putting them back together, plum.”
Had more heartbreaking words ever been spoken?
