Page 96 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
He returned the stone. “Yeah, I do. Thanks, son.”
With a wide, proud smile, the lad shared a look with Libby and slipped the stone into his pocket. Then the child reached out, first taking Libby’s hand before reaching out to him. Raz swallowed past the lump in his throat, not realizing how much he’d missed this.
He wasn’t always the absent father. When Sebastian was a tiny thing, bright-eyed and babbling with chubby legs, they’d spend hours playing in the garden. Sebastian was so curious. He used to toddle into their home gym and wrap himself around his leg while he was knocking out pull-ups. Mere used to call it the boxer’s version of a carousel. Oh, and how the boy would laugh and laugh as he went up and down with each rep.
“Ready, Dad?” Sebastian asked.
He stared at the boy, his boy, the lad with Mere’s eyes. “Yeah, I am.”
Linked together as one, the three of them joined Briggs on the top step, and he surveyed the sea of reporters and news cameras blanketing the grounds. He hadn’t noticed the swarm of media that wrapped around the side of the house. This was absolute insanity. He waved Briggs in. “This is what you call a little meet and greet?”
“They’re chomping at the bit to see Libby in action. My phone’s been blowing up ever since that video. The media requests are through the roof. We’ve got promo events lined up that coordinate with the Ass-in-Nine burro race and the festival that goes along with it—not to mention the usual promo before the fight. This is the best kind of buzz we can get.”
“Do we need all that, Briggs?” he pressed.
The agent dropped his syrupy smile as his expression grew earnest. “This is what you want, Erasmus. You win this fight, and it’ll be worth it. You’ll be the champion again.”
That was what he wanted, right—to be the champion?
Briggs nodded to him, then gestured to Libby. “The floor is yours, Miss Lamb,” the man announced and stepped aside.
“Hello, I’m Lib—” she began when a slight man in the front of the group cut her off.
“Libby Lamb, the Irish Snake, Silas Scott, commented about you on social media,” the reporter called out, holding up his mobile.
Oh shit!
“And what did Mr. Scott say?” Libby asked.
“He writes, I doubt that deranged chick Libby Lamb knows the first thing about yoga or training athletes—but I’d sure do her.” The reporter lowered his mobile. “Silas Scott’s words, not mine, ma’am.”
“He said that?” Libby shot back.
The man nodded. “There’s more. He goes on to say, real fighters don’t waste their precious training time touching their toes and twisting around like a pretzel. Do you have a reply, Miss Lamb?”
Bloody Silas Scott! That little twat.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. It was one thing for the Snake to go after him. That was part of the show. But to say that about Libby? The bloke just signed his own death warrant.
“Bloody Silas Scott can go right to—” he began when Libby cut him off.
“I most certainly do have a response to Mr. Scott,” she answered brightly, flashing him a serene smile as she slipped off her trainers.
Why the hell was she taking off her shoes?
“And what is that reply?” the reporter prodded, glancing at the woman’s bare feet.
Libby pressed her hands into a prayer position. “I’m sending him peace and love.”
“Peace and love?” the reporter shot back.
“Yes, my heart goes out to the man. From the sound of Silas Scott’s post, I’m picking up a distinct energy. In my professional opinion, as a certified yoga instructor, I’m getting the vibe that Silas Scott is a man with tiny chakras—very, very, very tiny chakras. One might need a microscope to find them.”
Bloody hell! Libby could handle herself. She was ripping the Snake apart with a smile.
“That’s your reply?” the reporter asked, biting back a grin.
“It is. Now, let’s forget about the man with the teensy tiny chakras and clear his negative energy,” she said, stretching from side to side, which looked a little nuts in a crowd of reporters.
