Page 80 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Libby squeezed her friends’ hands. They wanted the best for her, but no man was going to surprise her. In fact, despite her heart breaking for the beefcake over the loss of his wife, Raz’s disappearing act today solidified her position. “Mark my words, girls. Unless there’s a cataclysmic shift in energy, and the beefcake undergoes a metaphysical transformation, in fifty-nine days, Erasmus Cress will be nothing more than my former employer.”
She’d said the words, now she had no other choice but to believe them.
Eleven
Erasmus
Raz grippedthe steering wheel and kept his gaze trained on the road. It took everything he had to focus on the simple task of driving a bloody vehicle.
Irritation prickled through his veins.
Augie would label this state of mind as acting like a wobbly twat who wasn’t batting with a full wicket. Or perhaps his trainer would fall back on barking out that he looked as steady as a thirteen-year-old who just hoovered his first pint. The thing is, as an athlete training for the fight of his life, he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in months. And as far as the wicket slang for acting like a deranged lunatic, it wasn’t that far off the mark.
No, this state of discombobulation was of his own making.
And the reasons for his cockeyed state of mind sat mere inches away.
This was the first time he’d been with Libby and Sebastian in over a week. He glanced at the nanny in the passenger seat. She and Sebastian were passing a book back and forth. Chatting and laughing, the cadence of their voices drifted through the cab of the Hummer. Still, he couldn’t concentrate on the content of their conversation or even enjoy the breathtaking mountainous scenery that stretched before them as they headed down the interstate to Rickety Rock for the summer.
This day seemed to arrive in the blink of an eye. One minute, he was balls deep inside a woman who’d awoken a burning desire inside him. The next, searing guilt that cut bone-deep laced with a prickling frustration engulfed his entire life.
Set to his default of arrogant beefcake mode, he’d been running on autopilot for the last ten days.
Wake up before dawn.
Train for hours on end.
Return home and collapse into bed after the house was dark.
Ignore the world. Ignore everyone.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
A dreary exhaustion washed over him. If there was such a thing as a zombie boxer, he was it.
And like a bloody zombie, despite his self-important facade, he’d gotten slower, sloppier. The set of Aug’s jaw was enough to know that London’s Lion looked more like a headless chicken in the ring.
Good boxers understand the difference between speed and power. The great ones, the champions, know exactly when to turn that dial to find the sweet spot. Over the last ten days, one singular notion had become abundantly clear. He couldn’t find the bloody dial if he were hooked up to GPS and had a trail of breadcrumbs to lead him there.
He was utterly lost. What had once come as second nature, that rhythm, that steady tempo, had vanished, and in its place had left this wobbly, off-kilter joke of a boxer.
It was as if the picture of himself as that boxer faded with each passing day. The energy he’d once easily tapped into the moment he gloved up grew fainter with each passing hour. Like a song on the tip of your tongue that you can’t quite remember, the words are there, stuck deep in your brain, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t access the melody, can’t touch the magic.
The Lion was lost in a maze of his own making. And every passing minute had taken its toll as three conflicting emotions tore at his heart: desire, doubt, and dread.
He desired to be with Libby and Sebastian, but his doubt in his abilities fueled his obsessive need to train. And then there was the dread—the emotion that sucked the energy from his soul.
And what did he dread?
He feared they’d see him for who he really was—a man whose own actions cost him the person who had meant everything to him.
He had one way left to honor Meredith. He couldn’t fail her again.
He’d timed his comings and goings these past ten days, making sure Libby and Sebastian were asleep when he’d get home and still in bed when he’d left before dawn.
But he couldn’t ignore them. He could feel their presence the second he set foot in that bloody enormous house.
Each night, he’d slip into Sebastian’s room like a ghost. The boy would be curled up on his side like he used to do as a toddler and would have one of two things clutched in his little palm, the pocket watch with Mere’s picture or Libby’s blueish green gemstone—the rock she’d thrown at him. And every night, he’d unfold the boy’s hand and place the trinket on the bedside table. The six-foot-five fighter who couldn’t be missed in a crowd hid in the cover of night, bobbing and weaving among his demons.
