Page 90 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“Look at that,” Libby answered as she checked her appearance in a mirror. “Everyone here is a fan of crows. Crows are special birds. Some say they can see the future.”
“A crow pooped on your shoulder the day before we met, right, Libby?” the child pressed.
“Yes.”
“I wonder if that crow knew you’d be meeting me and that I’d be living in a house with my dad, and you’d be with us?” the boy pondered, wide-eyed.
“Maybe it did,” Libby answered, slightly awestruck.
Raz ignored the emptiness in his chest. This wasn’t the time to go over his faults as a father, and they needed to drop the crow chatter. Now that they had the love bite situation under control, he had to deal with whatever was waiting at the door asking for Libby. He paced the length of the room. “This shouldn’t be too bad—probably a PR thing.”
Why, why, why hadn’t he skimmed over Briggs’s emails?
Libby smoothed her makeshift scarf as she swallowed hard. “What do you think? Do I look okay?” she asked with a shake to her voice, edging out the momentary astonishment.
She was nervous, and he didn’t blame her.
The press could be vicious. Briggs had given them an excuse for the vibrator situation, but he couldn’t figure out why they’d be asking for her now. There was only one thing to do—the one thing that used to be offered to him when the whole world went topsy-turvy.
And that lifeline was unwavering reassurance.
He softened his expression and stared at her reflection in the mirror. “That curtain actually works as a scarf. Sebastian’s right. The crows look…nice. They match your…hair.”
He sounded like a moron.
He was a boxer, not a stylist, but he had to say something.
She turned from side to side, watching the fabric flow in the mirror. “Are you sure? You know what happened last time I was in front of the press.” She gave him a weak smile, the nerves getting the better of her.
He came up behind her, assessed the material, and smoothed the fabric at the nape of her neck. His fingertips brushed against her soft skin. A shiver tingled down his spine. It was torture to refrain from kissing her, but he held back. She caught his eye in the mirror and watched him closely as he went back to work adjusting the scarf. His throat tightened as a strange sense of déjà vu came over him. This moment felt more intimate than their kissing frenzy against the door. Adjusting her scarf was a simple gesture, but one he hadn’t done for another in over three years. How many times had Mere asked him to zip her up or clasp a necklace? He lowered his hands, holding Libby’s gaze. “It was twisted. I fixed it for you.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned back the slightest bit, and her body grazed his chest. Did she even know she’d done it? Had she felt her shoulder blades brush a whisper-soft kiss to his torso? The movement was so slight, it was hardly detectable. But there was no mistaking her touch. Was it that pull between them? That maddening sensation drew him to her like two halves of a whole.
“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice a raspy scrape of sound. She stared into his eyes, and in that blissful slip of time, there was no fight to prepare for, no PR blitz, and no silly donkey race. It was just the two of them, trying to decipher what came next.
What did he want?
“I’ll tell them you’re coming,” Sebastian called, popping the hazy Libby Lamb bubble. The boy turned on his heel and bounded down the staircase, his rhythmic descent clomping against the creaky boards.
Ready or not, it was time to face the press.
Raz stepped back and ran his hands down his face. “So much for the lad not mentioning the whole dirty coming bit.” He met Libby’s gaze in the mirror and found her staring back at him, her jaw on the floor. “Not like there was any dirty coming-coming. We were simply caught up in the moment, or maybe it could be the altitude,” he offered like a right twit.
He was grasping at straws. But he wasn’t the only one who seemed like a fish out of water.
Libby twisted the curtain scarf around her index finger and nodded vigorously. “Yes, it’s probably that pesky altitude. We’ve got to be up at around ten thousand feet—possibly higher. That can do things to people—kissing things and dirty coming things. Oh gosh, we should stop saying, coming. You know, the sexytimes type of coming. Not the, hold the elevator, I’m coming-coming kind of coming.”
If this kept up, the press would eat her alive.
They’d had a few awkward back-and-forth exchanges, to say the least, but this one was taking the cake. Granted, it seemed as if she was also keen on blaming the mountain air for their lip-lock situation. Brilliant, they were on the same page. That’s what it had to be. They’d ventured into a new town, and each had new endeavors on the horizon. It was bound to feel a bit unsteady.
It took time to get one’s bearings, right?
Oh, who was he kidding?
It didn’t matter how high up they were. He would have kissed her if they were ten thousand feet beneath the sea.
She turned toward him. With those sparkling eyes and kiss-swollen lips, an urge that had nothing to do with the altitude had him cupping her cheek in his hand. “Try not to worry about the media, plum. I’ll be out there with you. You won’t be alone.” His emotions were all over the bloody place—that is, until he touched her, and the energy that flowed between them smoothed out his jagged edges.
