Erasmus
Raz entered the cozy room, tucked away on the third floor, and set a glass of water on Sebastian’s bedside table.
Was he a bloody waiter now?
No, but he needed to do something to quell the frantic energy flowing through his veins. And even more than that, he had to quiet the thoughts that whirled through his mind like an out-of-control carousel.
What sort of thoughts had him shuffling around the Victorian with his head in the clouds transporting cups of water?
The type of thoughts that transported him back in time—back to the patter of mountain rain tap dancing on the roof of a ramshackle barn, which happened to be the location of his berry-scented, almost-kiss with Libby Lamb.
Aptly described as an almost-kiss thanks to his son’s arrival.
He stared out the window and was met with a sea of twinkling lights set against a midnight blue backdrop.
At least he’d made it through the first day.
Well, he’d almost made it.
It wasn’t over yet.
But it was Sebastian’s bedtime.
Once the lad was asleep, it would be himself and Libby, face-to-face with no loquacious lad buffer between them.
They hadn’t had a moment to acknowledge what had almost happened in the barn. Add that near indiscretion to the Rickety Rock arrival make-out session in the blue and purple crow curtains room. He was doing a shit job of keeping his hands off the nanny. And to say that there was a whole lot of awkward fizzing in the mountain air tonight was an understatement.
What was he supposed to say to the woman?
My bad for going full-on beefcake?
Sorry for kissing you, then almost kissing you again?
Here’s the thing.
He wasn’t sorry.
At that moment, with the light taps and scrapes of hooves on wood and the calming neighs and gentle whinnies of the donkeys indulging in the wild berries, he’d wanted to kiss her. But when he’d heard his son’s voice, the bubble had popped. He’d barely had two seconds to pull away from Libby before Sebastian got an eyeful. Luckily, the pair on the verge of ripping each other’s drenched clothing off wasn’t what caught the child’s eye. Sebastian had zeroed in on the burros before noticing them. And the boy wasn’t alone. Augie and Luanne were only seconds behind. And with the trio’s arrival, the weight of his folly set in.
He’d done it again. He’d lost his head and crossed the line.
It shouldn’t be that hard to comply. There was one rule to follow.
Do not kiss the bloody nanny.
He should have it tattooed to the inside of his eyelids.
It was a close call. It was simply dumb luck that Beefcake had whinnied as Sebastian approached the barn.
He couldn’t allow himself to stumble again. He had to put Libby, with her dark hair, alluring eyes, and lips he could kiss until his last breath, out of his mind. And thank bloody Christ, he’d had a bit of a reprieve since they’d returned to the Victorian.
Sebastian had provided a kind of respite these past few hours.
After he and an equally quiet Libby listened to the boy go on about the care and feeding of pack burros during dinner, he’d informed the nanny and his son that he would check the grounds and lock up the house—otherwise known as a hyper-masculine bullshit excuse to get away.
And why did he need the escape?
Because he didn’t want to escape.
Because if he were a different man, a worthy man, he’d deserve Libby and Sebastian. He could sit at that table and allow the joy of simply being near them to fill his heart.
But he couldn’t.
He’d forfeited that pleasure the day Mere died.
After checking the animals, who’d settled into their luxury barn digs quite well, he puttered around, locking doors and closing windows, while listening to the Victorian’s creaking floorboards above. Libby and Sebastian’s muffled voices floated down from upstairs like leaves falling dreamily from a tree.
The two already had a rhythm—a pattern they must have picked up in Denver while he’d been holed up at the gym. The chipper cadence of his son’s voice, then Libby’s gentle tone, then laughter played out over and over as the pair moved from the bathroom to the boy’s third-floor bedroom with the quaint, sloped ceiling. Somewhere between listening to the whoosh of water from the draining bathtub work its way through the Victorian’s old pipes and the patter of feet trekking down the hallway, he’d left the confines of the house. He’d purposely moved slowly, taking ten times longer than it should to check on the donkeys. Had he not left and blocked out the sweet murmurs of their sounds, he would have surely gone mad.
He’d recognized the voices and rhythm. Once upon a time, he’d been a part of it.
But he couldn’t hide out for the entire night.
The second he’d made it back to the house and closed the door behind him, Sebastian had called to him and requested a glass of water.
And that’s where he was now, standing in the bedroom, his head nearly hitting the sloping triangular ceiling like a bloody useless third wheel. With nothing left to do other than fall back on his water boy gig, he picked up the glass of water and set it a few inches closer to the boy, listening as his son held Libby’s mobile and chatted away with Phoebe and Oscar on a video call.
Perhaps, it was another respite of sorts.
This situation allowed him to pretend to attend to the child while watching Libby like a hawk from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t one for evaluating energy or giving much credence to the hocus-pocus chakra stuff Libby ascribed to. Still, he couldn’t ignore the anxiety coming off the woman in crashing waves. If he was the water boy, then she was the laundry lady. He’d observed her fold, unfold, then refold Sebastian’s shirt and track pants half a dozen times since he’d joined them.
“So, you’re a real donkey rescuer, Sebastian?” Phoebe questioned, her curious voice weaving its way through the tension-filled room.
Sebastian leaned against a wall of pillows in his new bed. Lit by the golden glow of the bedside table and fresh from the bath, the boy beamed. Drops of water from his still-damp hair dotted his pajama top as he stared at the mobile’s screen.
“Yeah, Phoebe, I’m a real donkey tracker. The two strikes of lightning had them running as fast as race cars. After the rain stopped, I begged Augie and Luanne to let me help my dad and Mibby find our donkeys.”
“Mibby?” Oscar repeated.
“That’s what I’m calling Libby now. You know, like you call Charlotte, my Charlotte. Well, Libby is my Libby, but I didn’t copy you, mate, so I shortened it up to Mibby.”
Raz glanced across the room at Libby, who’d stopped folding and froze at Sebastian’s declaration. She caught his eye but looked away as quickly as she’d met it before returning to her folding routine.
Bloody hell! He couldn’t even pinpoint what she was most worked up about. Between offering up Zen Dougie as her benchmark screw, then falling back onto beefcake mode, he’d cocked up an already mucked up situation.
“Mibby! I love it, Sebastian. It’s a blooming brilliant name,” Phoebe sang out in the worst British accent he’d ever heard. Still, despite the whirlwind of emotions hitting him harder than any boxing rival ever could, he chuckled at the child’s remark and caught Libby doing the same.