Page 95 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
The truth, the ugly, debilitating truth, was a whole different story.
The press hadn’t seen him on his knees, hyperventilating, trapped in the moment when he’d learned she was gone. No one had witnessed the tears streaming down his cheeks or could comprehend the punishing flood of guilt that kept him on that floor, shivering in a heap of pain and regret, unable to live up to the fighter Mere had helped him become.
He was a damned fool for responding to Silas Scott’s juvenile taunts, but when he’d replied, it was as if she’d wanted him to fight, like she was there, leaning over his shoulder.
Or maybe that was a load of crap, and he’d accepted the challenge for his own selfish ego.
One thing was for certain. There was no way he was about to untangle his thoughts standing on the porch, steps away from a herd of reporters. He turned, ready to bolt inside the house when the noise stopped, and there was only warmth. The incessant thrum in his head quieted as heat spread over his body. Tender and calming, a gentle peacefulness soothed his battered heart. He opened his eyes and found the source of the heat—a hand pressed to his chest.
Her hand.
Libby’s hand.
“Erasmus Cress, look at me,” she whispered, and he complied, grateful for the direction. “You’re going to ground yourself in this moment, and your breath will hold you together. It doesn’t feel like it can right now, but it will. Put your hand on top of mine.”
He stared into her eyes and pressed his hand to hers.
“Feel that rise and fall? That’s your breath. That’s your chi. That’s your pulse slowing down as you return to your body.”
He inhaled, becoming one with his breath as the storm of chatter cleared, and a weight lifted with his exhale.
How did she stop his panic attack with simply a touch and a few words?
“There you go. There you are,” she said, then slipped her hand out from beneath his. “We should address the press.” She adjusted her curtain scarf. “It’s more likeIshould address the press.”
“What will you say, plum?” he asked, still in awe of what she’d done to him.
She gave him a weak smile. “I have an idea, but I might need you to chime in and help me with some boxing terminology. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, I can,” he answered smoothly. Was he under her spell? Had she psychically hijacked one of his chakra thingies and reset him? Whatever she did, he felt like a new man.
“I can help, too,” Sebastian called, wiggling between them.
When did Sebastian come out onto the porch?
“No, Sebastian, wait inside with Augie and Luanne,” he directed, not meaning for the words to bite, but they clearly had, and the lad’s shoulders slumped.
Dammit.
“Actually,” Libby said, wrapping her arm around Sebastian’s shoulders, “if it’s okay with you, Raz, I’d like to have Sebastian close by. He’s the one who gave me this idea.”
“Me?” the boy asked.
“Yes, remember when we were being silly, and we modified some of those yoga moves.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’ve got an idea, and it might work,” Libby said, no longer messing with her scarf or mustering weak smiles. She had some sort of plan, and as long as it didn’t involve vibrators, he was for it.
“Libby, can I do something first for my dad?” Sebastian asked.
“Sure.”
The lad removed the aquamarine stone from his pocket and rubbed his thumb across the smooth surface, then he rested the stone on his palm and held it up. “Here, Dad, this will make you feel better.”
The old Erasmus Cress would have waved the kid off, but he didn’t. He accepted the gemstone, taking it from the boy’s small hand. He was no believer in rocks and crystals altering behavior. That being said, when he accepted the stone and rubbed it with the pad of his thumb, a strange sense of empowerment mingled with the serenity vibe Libby had imparted into him.
“Do you feel better?” Sebastian asked.
