Three weeks later
“I don’t understand why you won’t move in with us,” Stella Lawson, Libby’s mother, said quietly as she gently rocked a contentedly snoozing Clara in her arms. “We have the extra room; your father’s just using it for storage right now. We could have you and Clara settled in no time.”
It was a familiar refrain, one she had heard from her mother, father, Harris, and even her in-laws. It seemed that everyone wanted Libby and Clara to move in with them. Everyone, that was, except Greyson, who had not contacted Libby in any way, shape, or form since that last fraught exchange in the hospital. Nobody dared mention him around Libby. The one time her mother had hesitantly brought up the subject, Libby had very coldly informed her that the topic was not up for discussion.
Harris was the only one who never bothered to drag her into any forced discourse about her marriage. Something in him had changed after the night he had offered to chat with Greyson. He had never reported back on the conversation; clearly it hadn’t gone as he had anticipated, and he had instead helped Tina move some of Libby’s clothes and a lot of spare baby paraphernalia into Tina’s flat. Which in itself was a notable feat, since Tina and Harris could barely tolerate each other under normal circumstances. Having them set aside their differences to help Libby move had been significant.
Libby had moved out without fuss and fanfare, and she hadn’t seen her husband since that awful night three weeks ago.
“I’m sorry, Mum, I wish I could stay with you, but you know I want nothing from the Chapmans.”
“It’s a bit late to say you want nothing from the Chapmans when you married into that family, my girl. And just so we’re clear, it’s not the Chapmans who are offering right now, Olivia. We’re your parents, and while you may think this place is a handout, it’s our home, and we worked damned hard for it,” her father’s stern voice interjected, and Libby shut her eyes, gathering herself to meet the man’s gaze. She hated the disappointment she frequently saw in those brown depths of late. Her father had always been so proud of her, and his disappointment stung like a whip. Libby hated knowing that she had let him down. He had never approved of the marriage, stating that a man like Greyson would make a terrible husband.
Her father had never been fond of Greyson. Harris, yes. But Greyson was cold and unapproachable and, according to her father, had never been good enough for Libby. An opinion that she was sure would have surprised the very high-and-mighty Greyson Chapman, who thought he was God’s gift to the fricking world.
“I don’t think of this place as a handout,” Libby muttered, ashamed that her father thought she felt that way. “I really don’t. But you worked for it. I didn’t. And I don’t want to live here. Not right now. Not right after . . . everything.”
“Roland, leave the child alone. We’ve always encouraged her to make her own decisions; we can’t make this one for her. Are you happy staying with Tina?” her mother asked astutely, and Libby hid a grimace. Truth be told, she wasn’t happy living with Tina.
The woman had been her best friend since they were teens. Tina had spent a great deal of time around the Chapmans and their friends when they were kids but, like Libby, had never really fit into the group. She had been a couple of years younger than most of the others in the group and had always flitted on the fringes of that clique. In the end, the lonely girl had befriended Libby, despite the fact that she was two years Tina’s junior. The age difference hadn’t mattered; both girls had desperately needed the friendship. They had been firm friends ever since.
Because Tina was older, Libby had always valued her opinion on everything from hair and clothes to the seemingly hopeless crush Libby had had on Greyson. Despite Tina’s natural shyness, she had always seemed so glamorous and perfect to Libby. Libby had envied her gorgeous red hair and silky-smooth skin, as well as the breasts and curves she had started to develop very early on in her teens. Libby had remained flat chested and boyishly slender throughout her adolescence, and that situation had only marginally improved in adulthood.
Tina’s future had once seemed so assured. She was intelligent and had had medical school firmly in her sights. She had just seemed to have it all: brains, beauty, and the sweetest personality. She had always been there to listen and offer advice. And Libby had considered herself so lucky to have her as a best friend.
But somewhere during Tina’s gap year after high school, the wheels had come off. Medical school had fallen by the wayside, and over the last ten years, she’d aimlessly drifted from job to job. Libby wasn’t sure what had happened, and maybe she should have delved a little deeper, but she had been abroad a lot and crazy busy with her own studies and career. She’d been confident Tina would work it out.
Especially since Tina had always seemed so happy and self-assured whenever Libby had spoken to her over the years. They had remained close, despite the physical distance between them. But now, despite that closeness, Libby inexplicably felt like an unwelcome intruder in Tina’s home.
It wasn’t anything overt, but Tina seemed so distant. She was always out late and left for work early. She barely looked at Clara, and that more than anything was what bothered Libby. She didn’t expect everybody to automatically love her baby, but damn it! Clara’s father had already rejected her, and now her de facto aunt, Tina, who had given up half of her living space for Libby and the baby, had barely even touched Clara.
Libby wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but she was sick of this weirdness coming from the people who were supposed to love and treasure Clara. Maybe Tina was feeling cramped in her own home . . . which was why it would be best if Libby left. Before things got too strained and started to really hurt her longest-standing female friendship.
“That’s why I’m here today, actually,” Libby said in response to her mother’s question. Her voice was hoarse. “Uh . . . remember Chris? My mentor in Paris?”
“You mentioned him a few times. The model?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“He owns a charming little café, and he has offered me a job as his second.”
“That’s lovely.” Her mother beamed happily. “We could look after Clara while you’re working, of course.”
“It’s not that simple,” Libby said before clearing her throat. “It’s on the Garden Route.”
Her parents both stared at her in silent dismay, and her mother’s rocking motion sped up slightly.
“That’s a six-hour drive,” her mother gasped, her voice strained.
“I know. But it’s, like, only an hour by plane,” Libby pointed out with forced cheer.
It had taken her a long time to decide that this was what she wanted. The distance would be hard, but she needed it. She needed that physical space between her and Greyson, even if he didn’t seem to care where in the hell she and Clara actually were. And she needed an entirely clean slate, a fresh start in a new town, where she could begin her life with her beautiful baby. Some place where she didn’t feel like she was encroaching on someone else’s space. Somewhere she could finally regain her independence after her ridiculous brain fart of a marriage.
“I need this, Mum,” she said, meeting her mother’s golden-brown gaze, so similar to her own. “I hate moving so far away. But I really need this.”
“Who will help you? With her?” her mother asked, her eyes dropping to the baby’s sleeping face, and Libby’s eyes flooded. She would miss her mother’s proximity, the immediacy of any counsel, solicited or otherwise. Constance, too, had opinions on what was best for Clara, how to hold her, burp her, feed her. Both grandmothers had their own ways of doing things, and while their advice wasn’t always welcome, they were doing what mothers did best, filtering their knowledge down to the next in their feminine tribe. It was invaluable, and Libby would find a way to maintain it, but for now, more than that . . . she needed to find herself again. Needed to find her own voice as a mother.
“We’ll be fine. And you’re just a phone call or a Skype session away.”
“Roland.” Her mother’s voice was imploring as she diverted her gaze to Libby’s father, obviously hoping he would find a way to talk his daughter out of her decision. But Libby’s father stared at his daughter for a long moment, his stern, attractive features searching as he assessed her face.
“She’ll be fine, Ma,” he said with a decisive nod. “Let the girl figure it out for herself.”
Three months later
“You don’t have to move out, you know?” Chris said, crunching into an apple as he watched Libby neatly fold Clara’s tiny clothes and pack them into the huge suitcase spread open on the unmade double bed.
Libby had really enjoyed reconnecting with her friend and mentor, Christién Roche. She would have been an idiot to pass up the chance to work with Chris again. So she had happily escaped to Chris’s beautiful forest cottage on the Garden Route three months ago. She had been even happier with the comfortable amount of physical distance the move had put between her and Greyson. A former model, Christién Roche had strutted his stuff on the catwalk and in magazines for years before going to culinary school. Libby had met him while doing an internship in Paris five years ago, where he’d been the pâtissier at a well-known Michelin-star restaurant.
The man was a creative genius, and for some reason known only to him, he had given it all up to open a tiny coffee shop in the Western Cape of South Africa. The place had been running for four years and was only now starting to build a reputation as a quality restaurant. Chris barely advertised and was wholly dependent on word-of-mouth referrals. It was starting to work, as patrons loved the idea of eating at a hidden gem of a restaurant that only they and a few others knew about.
“I know that,” Libby said in reply to the tall, gorgeous man’s former statement while offering him a small smile. “But Clara and I are cramping your swinging bachelor lifestyle. We’ve imposed enough, and I’m excited about the new place. And you know I can’t commute between your place and Riversend every day. It’s a forty-minute drive.”
Chris made a rude sound and waved his hand dismissively. “I do not know why you have chosen to buy that house. It is . . . how do you say? A dump. Not fit for you and this precious bonbon!”
“I like the town, and I know the house needs work, but I’m looking forward to fixing it up.”
“It will take more than some paint and the crack filler to fix that place up.”
Libby bit back a smile at the awkward turn of phrase. Chris’s English was generally excellent, but occasionally words like Polyfilla defeated him.
“I know that commuting to and from Riversend every day could be a nightmare in that piece-of-shit joke you call a car. But this means you should change cars,” he pointed out. These were all familiar arguments; he had been against the idea of her buying that house from the start. Libby had filled out the paperwork two months ago. The transfer deed had been finalized just the week before, and Libby would be moving out of Chris’s place today.
But her extremely handsome Congolese friend with the dreamy accent was not too crazy about the fact that she was leaving. He had taken her and Clara in without reservations, had asked few questions about her marriage, and had gone completely gaga over the infant. Which was a bit shocking, as Libby didn’t think Chris had ever really been near a real, live baby before. He was a completely doting uncle and spoiled Clara rotten.
“There’s nothing wrong with my car, Chris.”
“It is in worse shape than that dump you want to live in,” he argued, holding up a finger and glaring at her. “I do not understand why we cannot continue like this. You can work here, and there is ample space for Clara.”
“You don’t really need me, you know that,” she muttered. He had a small but highly competent staff at his restaurant. Employing Libby had been a favor, and they both knew it. Especially since she could only work part time while Clara was so tiny. The arrangement was fine for the short term, but it had never felt permanent to Libby. She wanted to settle down and build more of a career. Working for Chris would be too limiting: because of the nature of his business, there was absolutely no room for growth for Libby.
“I’ll be putting Clara into day care; they have an excellent kindergarten—which offers a phenomenal infant day care service—in Riversend. I’ve loved working here, and I owe you so much, Chris. But it’s time for me to find my feet and establish a secure future for myself and Clara. Besides, MJ’s offers an exciting new opportunity for me.”
“A fast-food restaurant. You will waste your exceptional talent at a fast-food restaurant.” He practically spat the words, and she grinned wryly. He could be such a snob sometimes.
“It’s hardly a fast-food restaurant. It’s a family restaurant, with a decent and varied menu.”
“I know this place. The menu has not changed in twenty years.”
“How do you know that? You’ve only been here for four years.”
“How I know is not important. I do not understand why you want to be a grill cook at some diner with a mediocre menu.”
“I won’t be the grill cook. I’ll be revitalizing the menu. Tina has big ideas for the restaurant.”
Tina had first seen the restaurant when she had brought Libby and Clara to stay with Chris three months ago. It had been a long drive, and Libby could easily have flown, but she hadn’t wanted to risk taking her four-week-old baby on a plane. Tina, despite her emotional detachment while Libby and Clara had been living with her, had seemed hurt that they were moving out and had eagerly suggested a road trip.
They had stopped in the tiny, picturesque town of Riversend and had enjoyed a meal at MJ’s. Shockingly, Tina, who had been directionless for so long, had fallen in love with the faded establishment and immediately claimed that she had to have it. Said it was fate since she had the same initials. Never mind that she knew absolutely nothing about running a business. But Tina had inherited a huge amount of money from her paternal grandfather and had more than enough to purchase and revitalize the restaurant. Upon purchase, she had offered Libby a partnership of sorts: free rein to run the kitchen as she saw fit and license to create the new menu and focus on experimental desserts, while Tina ran the business end of things.
Libby sometimes wondered if Tina had bought the place just so that she, Libby, could have something to fall back on. Which would be exactly the kind of impulsive, impractical, mad thing one could sometimes expect from Tina. She hoped Tina wouldn’t be that foolhardy, but Libby wasn’t going to leave her best friend to manage a restaurant without her help. Not after everything Tina had done for Libby and Clara. Besides, MJ’s had potential, and she was sure she and Tina could help it succeed.
Libby hoped working closely with Tina would fix whatever was broken in their friendship as well. Things had been rocky and uncertain since she had moved out of Tina’s flat. They were treading on eggshells around each other, and Tina still seemed a little hesitant around Clara. But this venture felt like a chance for them to rediscover their bond and possibly reinvent their friendship.
It also presented a massive opportunity for Libby. She could be her own boss and create a signature menu. She’d have time to experiment with desserts—her true passion—and really turn the place into a buzzing premium eatery. She could barely contain her excitement at the thought of how much this could change her life. She loved that she could feel excited about her career again. For too long the only emotions she’d had associated with it had been regret and loss.
She had been going through the motions at Chris’s café. But with MJ’s, she felt a thrill whenever she considered the potential, what it could mean to her as a chef, to Tina as a burgeoning businesswoman. How much independence it could give them both.
And it didn’t hurt that the town was gorgeous. The perfect place to raise Clara.
“Tina is giving the restaurant a face-lift. She’s rebranding, changing the menu, and redecorating. MJ’s is nearly unrecognizable now.”
Chris muttered something unsavory beneath his breath and offered her a rueful smile.
“If this will make you happy,” he conceded begrudgingly, “then I cannot stand in your way.”
Make me happy? Libby wasn’t sure what it would take to make her truly happy again. But this shot at independence, a second chance at the career that she’d so willfully abandoned for a man who felt nothing for her, was a good start. She returned his smile, fighting back the ever-lurking melancholy, and put down Clara’s tiny onesie to hug the man who had gone from fun acquaintance to invaluable friend in just three short months.
“You’ve been such a wonderful friend to me, Chris. I can’t tell you how much this has meant to me.”
“It has been my privilege, ma petite,” he said into her hair. “You deserve happiness. You and my precious Clara bonbon both deserve it. I will visit all the time. I do not want Clara to forget her oncle Chris.”
“That will never happen,” she promised and gave him one more huge squeeze before resuming her packing.
“Ugh, this place is falling apart, Libby,” Tina said, wrinkling her nose as she took in the house Libby was in the process of moving in to.
“It just needs a bit of TLC,” Libby disagreed, her eyes running around the tiny living room and kitchen as she mentally cataloged all the work that needed to be done. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, she had a renewed sense of purpose. She was optimistic about this house, about the future. While she had this to focus on, she didn’t have to think about Greyson. About the divorce papers she’d had drafted up. The ones she had shoved into Clara’s nappy bag and tried to dismiss from her mind.
“I got it at a fantastic price,” she said. It had taken nearly all of her savings and a small loan from her concerned but supportive parents, but Libby considered it money well spent.
“Yeah, I can see why.” Tina opened up the kitchen faucet and winced when the pipes groaned and slightly brown water spluttered from the tap in spurts rather than a steady stream. “You and Clara should at least move in with me until you have most of this sorted out.”
“Then we’d be living with you indefinitely.” Libby laughed.
“I don’t see a problem with that.”
“You will when she wakes you up at night again,” Libby said, and Tina smiled slightly in return. Her eyes dropped to where Clara’s baby seat had been placed on the scrubbed-down kitchen counter, before hastily darting away.
Libby wanted to ask her. She really did, but something painful and desperate in Tina’s eyes stayed her tongue. She had once believed she and Tina had no secrets from each other, but this was something huge and potentially emotionally destructive, and with everything else she had to deal with right now, Libby let the moment pass. She wasn’t proud of her own cowardice, but at the same time, she felt resentful that Tina had put her in this position.
It had been hard not to miss Tina’s reaction to Clara during those first four weeks when they had shared a space. She had happily helped Libby with everything else but had never offered to hold the baby, or change her, or do anything that involved direct interaction with Clara. It was abundantly clear that her friend—who had once considered becoming an obstetrician—was not comfortable around Clara. But Libby had given Tina’s behavior a little more consideration after moving in with Chris. The other woman had given up her home to a constantly crying newborn and her emotionally wrecked best friend. With everything going on, of course it must have been difficult for her to adjust. Clara was older now, starting to develop a distinct personality, and she was a complete delight to be around. Libby felt certain that with their situation being less fraught, Tina would finally have the opportunity to enjoy Clara. It would just take some time.
“We’ll be okay, Tina. The bedroom is fine, so’s the bathroom . . .” Well, it would be if she could just get the freaking plumber to come and sort out the pipes. But the guy was proving hard to pin down. Libby was tempted to google the solution and try her hand at plumbing. But she knew that would only exacerbate the problem.
Libby had painted the bedroom and scrubbed it from floor to ceiling a week ago, after the transfer had been completed. She’d bought a single bed for her, and happily—thanks to Harris and Tina—Clara had a crib and anything else a baby could possibly need.
Also, her parents sent way too many clothes and toys. Spoiling their first grandchild the only way they currently knew how. As did Greyson’s parents, in addition to Harris, Tina, and Chris.
Libby felt overwhelmingly guilty about excluding her parents and about the fact that she knew Harris and his parents would like more of a presence in Clara’s life. Harris had been trying to arrange a visit for months, but Libby tended to avoid his calls, keeping their correspondence limited to text messages instead. Sending him pics of her life and her baby every day. She knew that Harris was concerned; he kept asking if she was all right, to which Libby only ever responded that she and Clara were both okay.
Constance and Truman Chapman had visited them while they were staying at Tina’s. That had been predictably awkward. But the older couple had lavished attention on Clara, clearly enamored with her. After Libby had moved to the Garden Route, Constance had messaged her once only, a tersely worded missive asking if she and the baby needed anything. Libby had politely thanked her and told her they were both fine. It hadn’t deterred them from sending numerous care packages.
Greyson, of course, hadn’t attempted to call or text her. Not once. And though she told herself that she didn’t care, that still hurt like hell.
Greyson had been strictly rationing himself. No more than one look a day. It was all he deserved. As such, the innocuous-looking manila folder remained firmly closed and tauntingly perched on the edge of his desk. He had put it there, of course; having recently discovered a masochistic bent within himself, he had placed the folder just within eyesight, perfectly straight, its edges not touching any other piece of stationery on the large walnut desk. He couldn’t open it yet. Not for another hour.
His phone chimed, and he glanced at it and shut his eyes for a moment when he saw his brother’s name on the screen. He knew what it would be. It was all Harris sent him these days, outside of business emails. His brother, ever the opposite of Greyson, had recently discovered a sadistic inclination within himself, and Greyson was the one and only person on whom he chose to practice that tendency.
Every day. Just one text. With an image attached.
He swallowed and reached for the phone. The folder would wait, per his ritual. But this could not. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and opened the text.
The breath escaped on a shuddering sigh as he stared into bright eyes and a gummy, dimpled smile. Again, that instant gut punch he felt every time he received a new picture from his brother.
Clara.
The name brought a grim smile to his lips. Olivia had chosen it to spite him, of course. And he couldn’t blame her. That one soft little jab didn’t come close to what he deserved. Besides, he found that he didn’t mind the name at all anymore. Whenever he thought of it, this was the face that came to mind.
He didn’t ask from whom Harris got these pictures; Greyson knew Olivia was sending them to his brother. But he also knew that she hadn’t really spoken with the guy since she’d left. Depriving both Harris and Olivia of a friendship that had meant so much to them: yet another fault that could be placed at Greyson’s door.
He stared at the image avidly, his finger tracing the soft curve of one chubby cheek. She was getting so big. He added the picture to the album he had titled Clara and flipped through the four months’ worth of photos slowly, working back from today’s to the first one he’d received from Harris about a week after Olivia had walked out of the hospital and his life. The angry, wrinkled, wet face, mouth open, gums gleaming as she cried. The picture broke a piece of his heart, as it did whenever he saw it. He knew she was probably crying because she was hungry or needed a nappy change, but every time he looked at the photo, he ached to pick her up, to cradle her as he should have that first day, to protect her, love her, and soothe her.
But he had thrown that privilege away. Had tossed her and Olivia aside without once considering the consequences. Always so certain he was right.
He had failed as a husband, and he had failed as a father . . .
He shook his head in self-disgust.
A father.
All these years of feeling less than whole. Of feeling somehow lacking. All because he had been too damned proud to go for a second opinion. Because going to another doctor—to a fertility specialist—would have made it seem important to him. Would have made him look like he cared. And he hadn’t wanted to care.
No. That was wrong . . .
He hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he cared.
His worst fear—unacknowledged even to himself—was having the belief that he was incapable of doing something so fucking basic reinforced. No kids for him. No grandchildren for his parents. No niece or nephew for his brother.
And no child for his wife.
He should have gone to another doctor once Olivia had agreed to marry him. He should have checked. But he had been too damned proud, too afraid of failing again. He hadn’t had to check. He’d thought he already had all the answers.
His wife was pregnant? She must have cheated. That had been his answer, his universal fucking truth.
He shook his head again, choking back a bitter laugh.
He hadn’t just failed as a husband and as a father . . . most importantly, he had failed as a man.
Once he had believed that his supposed infertility made him less of a man. But this, his treatment of Olivia. Of Harris . . .
That was what made him less of a man. That was where he had fallen down.
He buried his face in his hands and longed for a drink. But he was rationing himself there as well. No more alcohol.
Drinking himself into a stupor would in no way make him the better man he was striving to be.
He lifted his head and glanced at his watch.
Twenty minutes to go. His eyes fell to the folder again. He could no longer fight the urge to open it. And while he knew he didn’t deserve this fix, he was too weak and selfish to resist it.
He reached for it, opened it carefully, and stared down at the latest collection of photos his investigator had sent him. The man was old fashioned and paranoid—he never emailed information. Instead, every week, he brought his latest update straight to Greyson’s office.
The folder remained on Greyson’s desk, and every day he allowed himself a glimpse into Olivia’s life. Today was special, because there were new pictures, updates, and anecdotes about how she was doing. He knew he shouldn’t be keeping tabs on her, knew it was invasive and that he had absolutely no right, but he told himself he was watching out for her. Making sure she was doing all right.
He exhaled on a shuddering sigh as he stared down at the two-dimensional pictures. They didn’t do her justice. She was so beautiful. He was happy to see she was putting on some weight again. She had looked positively gaunt those first couple of months. But now her wavy black hair was glossy with health, and despite the encroaching cold, wet winter weather, her perfect brown skin had a sun-kissed golden glow to it. He knew it was warm and silky to the touch.
Like so many other Capetonians, Olivia was of multiracial descent, going back several generations. She was exotically beautiful and had always fascinated him with her big, luminous light-brown eyes; her heart-shaped, generous mouth; and her slender athlete’s body. He’d hidden that fascination, of course; she was the only daughter of longtime family employees and had grown up in the Chapman house, and Greyson wasn’t going to be that guy.
It had felt wrong to want her, and he hadn’t acted on his attraction until he’d seen her at a party more than a year ago. She had been so independent, talented, smart, and absolutely gorgeous, and added to the fact that her parents had retired the year before, he hadn’t been able to resist her. They had fallen into bed that very first night, and it had stunned him to discover she was a virgin. It had felt right to offer her marriage. He had pushed for marriage, and it had soon become all he could think about. All he wanted.
He should have told her about his belief that he couldn’t have children; he knew that. It was a fucking huge betrayal of trust to go into a marriage without telling the other party that you were unable to have kids. But he had wanted her—it had been crazy and irrational. He’d wanted to keep her in his bed, and the only way he could see himself doing so guilt-free was by marrying her. He’d had a vague idea that he’d somehow find a work-around to the humiliating “sorry, can’t have kids” conversation, and then before he knew it, she’d been telling him she was pregnant, and he had been fucking livid. He had watched her every move afterward like a hawk, hoping she’d reveal the identity of her lover to be anyone other than Harris. But the only man she’d been close to was Harris. Always fucking Harris. His brother and Olivia had always been tight. Always laughed and joked and talked . . . it hadn’t been that much of a stretch to imagine they’d taken that extra step toward intimacy.
Greyson swallowed the nausea the mere thought of Harris and Olivia together still had the power to produce.
The possibility had once seemed so damned real to him.
But he really should have known better, considering his brother seemed to harbor complex and intense feelings for someone other than Olivia. But Greyson had been irrational. The emotion he’d experienced had felt perilously close to jealousy. But that was ridiculous; he couldn’t be jealous. No woman, not even Olivia, was worth feeling jealous over.
And yet . . .
One year ago
The flowers were a little over the top. And uncharacteristic. Greyson pensively glared at the huge bunch of pale-pink peonies and seriously considered tossing them down the trash chute once he reached the penthouse.
But he wanted to do something nice for Olivia . . . he had been working full on in the month since their rushed wedding, and he’d been home late and gone early most days. He had stayed in London much too long while trying to win over Olivia. Two months. He had allowed too many minor tasks to lapse, and he’d been playing catch-up for a few weeks. In addition to that, something fishy was going on in one of their Australian branches, and he was working hard to figure it out. That meant staying in the office late to make conference calls with their Oceania Division VP.
Until he knew exactly what was happening, he was keeping it under wraps. Harris knew about it, of course, but Greyson wanted to be certain his suspicions were correct before he handed the matter over to his brother, the CFO. He knew he should have allowed Harris to take over by now . . . but the company was Greyson’s responsibility, and he liked to run a tight ship.
Today was the first time in weeks that he was home in time for dinner, and he wanted to surprise Olivia by treating her to a romantic meal at one of her favorite restaurants and lavishing some attention on her. He hadn’t seen much of her lately, and he . . .
He huffed a short, incredulous laugh as he turned the realization over in his head for a moment: he missed her.
He stepped out of the elevator, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced down at the flowers again; it was a stupidly romantic gesture. But he wasn’t going to toss them down the chute. Peonies were her favorite flower, and he wanted her to have them. He wanted her to know that he had bought them with her in mind.
He opened the front door to their penthouse apartment, his entire body tensing in anticipation. He was excited to see her. He would apologize for his neglect and promise that things would get better soon.
The apartment was silent. No music or noise from the television. Just the loud, ominous ticking of the huge grandfather clock. Olivia had once told him it reminded her of—how had she put it?—every horror movie ever. The memory made him smile. She always made him want to laugh or smile with her offbeat observations and unintentionally funny insights.
“Olivia?” His voice bounced off the walls; the apartment was too large and sparsely furnished. Shortly after moving in, Olivia had told him the penthouse felt cold and unwelcoming, and he had suggested she redecorate. He wanted her to feel at home. And it wasn’t like he felt any particular connection to the stuff in here.
She had recently started looking at color and fabric swatches. And the coffee table in the living room was now laden with decor magazines.
Greyson wandered from room to room, hoping to find her in one of them, but he could tell that the penthouse was empty. Immensely disappointed, he moved to the huge chef’s kitchen—the one place in the penthouse Olivia truly appreciated—in search of a vase for the flowers.
He was just placing the filled vase on a side table when the front door swung open and his laughing wife stepped over the threshold. Harris was with her, his face alight with amusement as he held something aloft above his head while Olivia tried to grab it from him.
“No way, Bug,” Harris was saying, his voice wobbly with amusement. “You ate most of the others, this one is mine.”
“You don’t even like chocolate that much,” she replied with a pout, and Harris grinned at her before deliberately popping whatever it was he was holding—chocolate, presumably—into his mouth.
“I like this chocolate,” he said, his voice muffled by whatever he was chewing. He looked up, spotted Greyson, and swallowed before smiling. His teeth were still covered with some chocolate. “Hey, Greyson . . . settle an argument. Would you say turkish delight is the most hideous thing they could possibly put inside a chocolate? Or . . .”
“Pineapple,” Olivia finished for him. A smile lit up her lovely features as she bounced toward Greyson and planted a happy kiss on his lips. “You’re home early.”
“I, uh . . .” Greyson wasn’t sure what to respond to. The chocolate thing or her observation about him being home early? Instead he settled on, “I don’t care for chocolate.”
“Philistine.” Olivia wrinkled her nose at him. But her smile deepened. She stood on her toes and gave him another kiss. “We were just about to have some Thai takeout and watch a Say Yes to the Dress marathon. Joining us?”
“Wait, you said we could watch the football,” Harris complained. “I’m not watching that dress show, Libby.”
“And I’m not watching a bunch of guys aimlessly kicking a ball around for ninety minutes.”
“You always do this. You always lure me in with these false little promises, and then we wind up doing whatever the hell you want.”
It was the Harris-and-Libby show, and as always Greyson felt relegated to merely an observer.
“I brought some work home,” he fabricated quickly, never sure where he slotted in when they were in their best-buddies mode. Olivia looked a little disappointed but unsurprised, and she wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a hard hug. His arms closed around her instinctively, and he relished the warmth of her slight body against his, the smell of her skin and her hair. She was intoxicating.
The hug ended too soon, and she stepped away after one last lingering kiss.
“We’ll be in the den, watching something,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Join us if you need a break, okay?”
He nodded, and she brushed a loving hand over his jaw.
“If I send you an SOS text, come and save me from whatever ridiculously girly show she’s forced me to watch, okay?” Harris muttered in an aside to Greyson. The latter forced a smile and nodded curtly.
Greyson watched—eaten up with resentment and disappointment—as his brother draped a casual arm around Libby’s shoulders and steered her toward the den.
Neither of them so much as glanced at the flowers on the side table as they walked right by.
Present day
Greyson shook his head, impatient with himself for allowing the disturbing memory to intrude on the already unpleasant present. So many nights he had come home hoping for some one-on-one time with Olivia, only to find Harris—or sometimes Tina—there. Tina he didn’t mind, but to find Harris there so often . . . he made an involuntary sound at the back of his throat. Greyson now recognized that the sour emotion churning away at his gut every time he had seen Olivia and Harris chuckling over some incomprehensible joke had been jealousy. He had been wildly jealous over their easy familiarity, the camaraderie, the casual touching.
The jealousy had eaten away at him, had made him irrationally suspicious. It had allowed him to completely lose sight of reality, to color his view of the two of them. By the time he had spotted them in that restaurant, he had been more than ready to believe the absolute worst of them.
Four fucking months since he had seen Olivia last. Since he had grudgingly looked at the infant he now accepted was his child. It was too long, and he couldn’t stand the thought of another four passing without seeing them. Worse . . . of years passing. Of never seeing Olivia again and never getting to know Clara.
The thought was beyond bearing.
Before he could overthink it, he swiped his screen and brought up his brother’s number. He and Harris very rarely exchanged personal calls anymore. Except for the pictures Harris sent him every day, they kept things strictly business between them. But Harris needed to hear his decision. Greyson owed his brother that much, at least.
Harris replied almost immediately.
“Yeah?” The man’s voice was curt and unwelcoming, but that didn’t deter Greyson. His decision had been made the moment Harris had sent him that first picture so many months ago. It had just taken him this long to summon up the guts to do what he knew needed to be done.
“I’m bringing them home.”
“Nobody’s coming,” Tina lamented, agitatedly chewing on her thumbnail. Libby tugged her shorter friend’s hand away from her mouth.
“They’ll come,” she said confidently, even though nerves were gnawing at her stomach. It was MJ’s grand relaunch, and they’d opened the doors half an hour ago. Opened the door to crickets.
Not the queues they’d been hoping for. Libby had expected the place to be packed, especially on a Friday night. She’d hoped curiosity, if nothing else, would have them come in to check out the place. The staff, which they had kept largely intact, stood around uncertainly.
“People here are really old fashioned,” Thandiwe, a college student home for the holidays, offered. The young woman had worked for MJ’s throughout her teens, always part time. She was one of their best servers and had helped train the new staff members. “MJ’s has been something of an institution in this town, and maybe they think you’ve messed with tradition or something?”
“But when I first arrived in town and ate here, people were complaining about how the menu never changed and it would be nice to have some variety,” Tina pointed out.
“Yes, but they’ve been saying that for years.” Thandiwe shrugged. “I think they enjoyed complaining about it. But it was familiar, and they loved it. I’m sure people will come. Give it time. It’s this or Ralphie’s”—the local pub—“and everyone knows the food is mostly terrible at Ralphie’s. Once they’ve sampled the new menu, they won’t know what to do with themselves.”
Thandiwe excused herself and went to chat with some of the other waitstaff. After what looked like a terse exchange, they all scattered in different directions, immediately looking a lot busier than they had just moments before.
“You sent notice of the reopening to the district paper, right?” Libby asked Tina. The paper, Riversend Weekly, circulated on Thursdays and usually contained job opportunities, advertisements for local businesses, and news about town events.
“Yes, of course,” Tina said, and she lifted her phone and swiped at her screen. She seemed to be looking for something. “I . . . it has to be here. I sent it on Monday.”
“Did you check the paper?” Libby asked, not liking how this was going. Tina shook her head, a frown marring the smooth lines of her forehead.
“I forgot to pick up a copy. I meant to get one, but it completely slipped my mind. But I sent it—” She paused, her eyes glued to her phone screen, and the sick dread in her expression did not bode well. “Crap.”
“Tina?” Libby prompted her, not really sure she wanted to know. She could guess anyway.
“It didn’t send. I don’t know why it didn’t send,” Tina said, sounding horrified.
“Oh, Tina.” Libby tried to keep the censure from her voice, knowing that her friend probably felt terrible already, but this was bad.
“I should have double-checked,” Tina said. “I’m sorry, Libby. First the banner and now this.”
Tina was referring to the huge, festive banner they had both designed to announce the relaunch, which hadn’t arrived on time. That, along with a few hundred flyers to circulate around town and the ad in the paper, represented their entire promotional plan for the relaunch. But Tina had given the graphic design company the wrong dates. The banners and flyers, which promoted their opening-week specials, would only be arriving next week. At which point they would be about as useful as nipples on a man.
There was usually some amount of organized chaos around the launch of a new restaurant, but this was worse than usual. Everything had gone wrong at the eleventh hour. Nothing was going according to plan.
“It’s okay.” Libby tried to appease her friend, even though she was horribly disappointed. “People are coming in; it could have been worse.”
Tina shook her head. Her hand lifted to her mouth, and she started gnawing on her thumbnail again.
The door tinkled, and a couple ambled in. The two were holding hands and chuckling, but they stopped abruptly and cast surprised looks around the near-empty restaurant.
“Hey. You’re open! That’s fantastic. Where is everybody?” the woman—Libby recognized her as one of the childcare workers at the kindergarten—asked.
“Apparently resistant to change,” Libby said with a bright smile, focusing on business. An answering smile lit up the woman’s pretty face.
“Hello, we haven’t officially met. I’m Lia McGregor. You’re Clara’s mum.” She walked toward Libby, dragging the handsome blond man behind her.
“Olivia Lawson. Please call me Libby,” she said, taking an immediate liking to her. She held out her hand to the slightly older woman, who took it and shook enthusiastically.
“Really lovely to officially meet you. This is my fiancé, Sam Brand.”
“Nice to meet you,” the man said, also taking Libby’s hand. He had a wicked smile and an English accent, if she wasn’t mistaken.
“This is the restaurant’s new owner, Martine Jenson. But everybody calls her Tina,” Libby said, gesturing toward her friend, who acknowledged the couple with a slightly austere smile, as was her habit with strangers. Tina didn’t befriend people easily.
Lia McGregor seemed to have no such problem. She was still smiling warmly, and her eyes brightened at Tina’s name. “Ooh. You’re an MJ too? That’s perfect,” Lia enthused.
She continued chatting cheerfully, and Libby watched Tina closely during the exchange. Her friend, never one to immediately warm to new people, still looked distracted and anxious. But Libby knew that this time Tina’s anxiety did not stem from being forced to chat with strangers. She could tell that Tina’s mind was still on the unsent email. Libby couldn’t understand how Tina could have made such elementary errors just before their opening weekend. They both had so much riding on this restaurant, yet now—at the most crucial time—Tina seemed to be mentally and emotionally imploding.
And that terrified Libby. Unlike Tina, she didn’t have wealthy parents and an inheritance to fall back on, and she couldn’t help feeling a simmering pang of resentment at the other woman’s seemingly careless attitude toward her responsibilities. Libby needed Tina to recognize that she had staked Clara’s future on this restaurant. This could not become yet another one of Tina’s failed “projects.”
She feared that Tina was crumbling beneath the pressure, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to make things right. She only hoped Tina would find a way to cope. If she couldn’t, then they were both doomed to lose much more than just a business. Libby wasn’t sure their friendship would survive such a catastrophic loss. Not when she had left a stable—if unremarkable—job to do this with Tina. If it were just her, she would be able to brush off such a loss and move on, but she had a baby now, and everything she did was for Clara.
The evening wasn’t the disaster they had feared it would be. But it wasn’t the capacity crowd they were hoping for either. Still, it was a busy and tiring night for both women. Libby tried to maintain focus, but it was hard when she knew Clara was in Tina’s office in the back, with a young sitter they had found online. She was trying to gradually wean Clara off the breast, planning to pump milk for bottle feedings—a necessity—at day care and then to continue with breastfeeding in the evenings. She wanted to maintain a stable routine for Clara. But she felt incredibly guilty about it, as her original plan had always been to breastfeed for at least six months before even thinking of weaning. She hated losing out on those last two months. But in this case, head had to overrule heart.
At least she still had the evenings, and tonight she popped in occasionally to cuddle and breastfeed her baby and to make sure both Clara and her teenage sitter were comfortable and happy.
The sixteen-year-old girl, Charlie Carlisle, had been frank about the fact that she’d never sat for an infant before, but Libby had been desperate and had liked the no-nonsense teen immediately. Still, it made her feel better to know that they were close by.
At the end of the evening, Libby was relieved to call it a day. She knew Tina was disappointed by the turnout and wondered—not for the first time—how much money her friend had put into this venture. Tina had been secretive about the finances, telling Libby to focus on creating the mouthwatering, inventive dishes that Tina was sure would put MJ’s firmly on the map as a premium eatery.
Their new friend Lia McGregor and her immediate family had lavished the food with praise. But most of the other locals who had ventured out had been stingy with their feedback. Time would tell if word of mouth would generate new business and if the people who had come out tonight would turn into regular patrons. Come summer, tourists would flock to the seaside town, and there would definitely be an uptick in business then. But Tina and Libby knew that the only way the business would survive was if the locals took to it. Or they would go belly up before next winter.
Once the last of the patrons had left and the kitchen staff had the cleanup under control, Libby joined Tina in her office. Charlie was still there, putting her e-book and phone into a tattered denim backpack.
“Thank you for all your help tonight, Charlie.” She smiled at the pretty girl, found her purse, and dug through her wallet for the payment.
“She’s a darling, Mrs. Chapman. I enjoyed taking care of her.” Libby winced inwardly at the name, wishing she’d thought to introduce herself as Libby Lawson to Charlie. Now she was stuck with Mrs. Chapman, which was aggravating when she would rather not acknowledge the fact that she’d ever been married.
“Please, call me Libby,” she said hastily. “Clara seems to like you. How often do you think you would be available to sit?”
“I can sit most weekends. School nights will be a bit more difficult because I have swim practice after school, followed by studying and homework.”
“Of course.” Libby smiled, swallowing down disappointment. She wasn’t sure what to do about the weeknights. She had to be at the restaurant from ten thirty to three for the brunch and lunch crowd and then back by six thirty for dinner service. The early shift was fine because Clara spent those few hours in day care. But evenings would be a problem. She needed to find a nanny . . . but the cost was prohibitive.
Libby paid Charlie, and the girl beamed happily.
“Do you need a ride home?” Libby asked.
“Oh no, my brother, Spencer, is waiting for me.”
“Spencer is your brother?” Spencer was Lia McGregor’s good-looking but intimidatingly big brother-in-law. The man had hovered around his heavily pregnant wife, Daffodil, all night. The woman in turn had rolled her eyes and good naturedly teased him about his overprotectiveness. Libby envied the woman her doting, concerned husband. And couldn’t help but compare how the man was around his wife with how absent and disinterested Greyson had been throughout Libby’s pregnancy.
She forced the bitter memory to the back of her mind and focused on the girl. Spencer and Daff had been introduced by their first names only, so she hadn’t made the connection that they might be related to her babysitter. Charlie was biracial, and with her dusky skin and soft dark-brown curls, the familial relationship wasn’t immediately apparent. But now she could see the resemblance: the girl had her brother’s emerald eyes, shy smile, and dimples. But she was very petite, while her hulking brother was huge.
“Yep. He’s a little overprotective; he’d never allow me to walk home or even use Uber. I mean, we have, like, two Uber drivers in town, and Spencer knows them both, so I don’t know what his deal is.” She rolled her eyes, clearly finding this bit of brotherly tyranny tiresome. Libby hid her smile and nodded.
“Best not to keep him waiting any longer,” she said, and the girl nodded.
“Thanks again, Mrs. Chapman. Same time tomorrow night?”
“Yes please.” Libby nodded, and the girl bent over the crib to gently stroke the sleeping baby’s head.
“Sweet dreams, Clara. See you soon. Night, Mrs. Chapman. See you, Tina.”
Tina—who had been silently staring at her laptop throughout Libby’s exchange with the teen—looked up and waved as the girl flounced out in that carefree manner only teens seemed to possess.
“She’s sweet,” she said in reference to Charlie, dragging her reading glasses off and pinching the bridge of her nose tiredly. “God, I’m knackered.”
“Me too.” Libby sank down in the chair opposite her friend. “How did we do?”
“Just about broke even tonight,” Tina said with a tight smile.
“It’ll get better,” Libby reassured her—mentally crossing her fingers in hopes that her words would prove to be prophetic.
Her friend nodded with an unconvinced smile. “It has to.”
“Tina, how much did you spend on this place? Renovations and rebranding included?”
“My inheritance more than covered it,” Tina said with another tight smile. “It’s fine. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?” Libby prompted her when her friend stalled in midsentence. She hated feeling like Tina was hiding something from her. Libby knew that she had been too involved with her own life and concerns to pay more than cursory attention to her friend’s behavioral changes before now, but it was becoming more and more apparent that something was very wrong with Tina. And had been for a long time. It made her once again second-guess her decision to go into this business venture with Tina. But it was too late for regrets, and she could only hope this worked out, despite whatever was going on with her friend.
“This is the first thing I’ve done,” Tina said. “The first meaningful thing, and my parents are just waiting for me to fail. I know it. They think that I’m a total waste of space. Their flighty daughter, who could never keep down a job, trying to run a restaurant. Without any qualifications whatsoever.”
Self-doubt reflected in the woman’s pretty sea-green eyes, and Libby shook her head. She felt abruptly terrible about all her earlier uncertainty regarding Tina’s commitment to the restaurant. In a moment of revelatory clarity, she understood that Tina was absolutely terrified of failing. Libby had judged her too harshly earlier; Tina wanted this to work, but it wasn’t easy for her. Libby, with her past experience in the restaurant business, had simply expected Tina to immediately get everything right, when that was a near-impossible ask for even an experienced restaurateur.
Looking at her miserable friend, she mentally readjusted her expectations and dialed back her impatience. Reassurance and support would get both of them a lot further than criticism and doubt.
“Stop it,” she commanded the morose woman sitting across from her, and the distant look faded from Tina’s eyes as she focused on Libby again.
“Stop what?” she asked blankly.
“Allowing what your parents think of you to influence the way you think about yourself. You can do this, Tina. We can both do it.”
Tina scrubbed both hands over her face and allowed herself another deep sigh before lifting her eyes to Libby’s again. “Yeah, we just need to figure out a way to get all those previous customers back. If the townspeople really are as stubbornly loyal to the old MJ’s as Thandiwe thinks, then I’m not sure how to lure them back.”
“Look, it’s only the first night. They have to drive thirty minutes to get to another halfway-decent, affordable family restaurant. Or leave their kids at home and go to Ralphie’s for limp fish and chips or stale burgers. Soon, desperation for a good night out, more than anything else, will have them coming back.”
“Maybe.” Tina nodded, again looking completely unconvinced.
“Definitely. And Daff said she’d help us with some marketing.” The woman was the marketing-and-promotions manager for her husband’s three huge sporting-goods stores and had promised to work up a marketing strategy for MJ’s while she was on maternity leave. Her husband hadn’t been too pleased with that, but Daff had complained of being bored at home.
“It seems like a lot to expect from a total stranger,” Tina said skeptically.
“I don’t know about you, but after five minutes with those sisters, I feel like I’ve known them for years.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty nice.” Tina, being Tina, still looked doubtful.
“More than nice.” Warm and welcoming were the words that sprang to mind when Libby thought of the sisters. And immediately affectionately familiar. It was hard not to like them. Tina nodded again. Her eyes were troubled, but she didn’t say anything more on the subject.
“Come on, let’s go home and get to bed. We have another long day tomorrow,” Libby said, and Tina ducked her head, powered down her laptop, and tucked it under her arm; she then slung her bag over her shoulder. Libby packed up the baby bag and gently gathered her contentedly sleeping baby into her arms.
The kitchen staff had left, and the building was eerily quiet as Tina did a walk around the restaurant to make sure everything was off and in place. It looked amazing. The staff had done a wonderful job of cleaning up. The decision to keep them had been a sound one.
Libby watched as Tina took one last, lingering look around and smiled at the glimmer of pride she saw in her friend’s eyes. The place looked beautiful, a far cry from the shabby interior of before, and Libby experienced her own surge of pride at everything Tina had accomplished here. Her good taste was evident in everything from the furnishings to the tableware to the new color scheme. Tina may have made a few crucial mistakes this weekend, but this was something she had done exceptionally well.
Libby hoped, for both their sakes, that the townsfolk would start supporting MJ’s, because it would be a shame for all of this work to go unappreciated.
“You sure you don’t want to stay at mine tonight? I mean, does your shower even work?” Tina asked as she stood beside her car and watched Libby secure Clara in the car seat.
“I managed to get it working this morning. The water was cold, though.” Libby shuddered at the thought of another cold shower, but she was determined to tough it out. It was her home, for better or worse. She was going to make it perfect . . . and she’d appreciate it more after all the initial trials and tribulations.
Tina had a small semidetached house just a few minutes away from the restaurant, but she had driven to work because of the heavy rain that morning. Libby’s house was a little farther away, closer to the beach.
Tina nodded and got into her car. She rolled down the window and watched until Libby was safely in her own car. They both started up their vehicles simultaneously and drove in opposite directions.
The house was shrouded in darkness when she got home, and she cursed herself for not remembering to at least leave the porch light on when she left for work. Her place was a little out of town and quite a distance from the next-closest house. A security system was another item on her very long to-do list, but until then, she had to remember to do things like leave lights on. She didn’t just have her own safety to consider anymore.
It was going to be enough of a struggle negotiating the cobbled path to the porch while lugging a baby carrier, baby bag, and her own huge purse. Having to do it in the dark would be much worse.
She considered leaving Clara in the car while she dashed inside to switch on some lights, but the thought of leaving her baby in the gloom was disturbing, and she decided to leave the baby bag and purse instead.
Decision made, she unclipped Clara’s carrier from the car seat and hooked it over the crook of her arm. She was gratified when the baby didn’t so much as whimper, and she grabbed her house keys and phone, switching on the device’s flashlight to light the way. There was an overgrown garden between the carport and the path to the house, and she ducked and weaved her way through there—shuddering at the possibility of spiders—before thankfully setting foot on the path.
She screamed when a huge figure loomed ahead of her in the darkness.
“I have Mace!” she lied in a high-pitched voice after her scream petered out. Clara immediately started crying.
“Libby, it’s me.” The deep, dark, instantly familiar voice that resounded into the black night was unwelcome, to say the least. Libby screamed again, the sound rife with frustration instead of fear this time.
“Stop that, for God’s sake. You’ll have the neighbors out to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Good, let them come,” she said, hearing the near hysteria in her voice and not caring. “Let them call the cops. You’re trespassing, and I want you gone. Right now!”
She gently rocked the carrier, trying to bring the baby’s crying under control. She lifted her phone light directly into his pale face. He winced when the light hit his eyes, and she felt a petty surge of satisfaction at the morsel of discomfort her gesture had brought him.
“We need to talk.”
“I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”
“Libby, please.”
“Why are you here? How are you here? Who told you how to find me?”
There was a long pause as he continued to grimace in her general direction, his eyes slits to protect himself from the light.
“I have money and resources. I’ve known where you are for months . . .” He hesitated before continuing, “For four months, to be exact.”
“Well, then why are you here?”
“Can we discuss this inside?”
“I don’t want you in my house.”
He compressed his lips in that way he had when he was trying to refrain from speaking his mind. An expression with which she was much too familiar. It used to bother her back when she cared about what he was thinking. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind and swallowed back the words.
Oh, wasn’t he just the model of restraint tonight? Well, Libby had no such reservations and felt a sense of complete liberation when she unleashed the torrent of resentment and fury that had been roiling away just beneath the surface for much longer than the four months since she’d left him. A lot of her anger had been tamped down during her pregnancy, when he hadn’t offered a single word or gesture of support. The excuses she had made on his behalf . . . she was disgusted with herself for not speaking up sooner. But now he was here, in the flesh, and she could finally let him have it. With both barrels.
“You’re a vile, disgusting excuse for a man, Greyson. I want nothing more to do with you. I don’t want my baby within a hundred miles of you. And even that seems too close. I don’t want you here, contaminating our lives with your toxic presence. You don’t get to come here and . . . and . . . whatever the hell this is. I don’t know what you want, I don’t want to know what you want. I want you gone.”
“Libby, I understand why you feel that way. But I thought . . .”
Clara’s crying was escalating, and Libby’s rocking increased agitatedly.
“Yes, I know. Thought you were infertile, right? And I’m supposed to—what? Feel sorry for you? Understand your cruelty? Forgive your cruelty? Am I to take it that you’ve had that paternity test done? You know she’s yours, am I right? Is that why you’re here? Because let me tell you, mister, you have no moral right to my child—I will not allow you access to her just because you now believe you’re her father.”
“I haven’t had any paternity tests done.”
That made her pause, but not for long.
“I don’t care,” she decided. “I don’t care. Go away. Back to your diamond-encrusted ivory tower. Leave us alone. We don’t need you.”
“I know you don’t. But . . . maybe I need you?” The soft voice, the hesitation, and the actual words all combined to add fuel to an already-raging fire. Oh man . . . seriously? He was going to play this card?
“Greyson Chapman doesn’t need anyone. You’re an island, with your own government, your own wealth, and your own natural resources. You need us as much as you need more money, which is not even a little.”
“That’s not true.” He tugged at his already-loosened tie. She had only seen him this disheveled and out of sorts once before. And that was on the day he’d so thoroughly renounced both her and his own child. The memory made her jaw clench until her teeth ached, and she fought back the urge to scream yet again.
“I’ve been consulting with a divorce lawyer,” she said, forcing calmness into her quivering voice. Clara’s cries had become near shrieks, and she needed to get rid of him so that she could take care of her baby. “You’ll be served papers very soon. Sign them.”
“Libby, I know I fucked up,” he said softly. She could see sweat beading on his forehead and in the stubble above his beautifully curved upper lip. He was incredibly pale and looked thinner than when she’d seen him last. His suit—usually immaculately fitted—looked too roomy on his broad, loose-limbed frame.
“This was more than a fuckup, Greyson,” she said. “You spent seven months hating me, resenting me, thinking I was a cheat. Seven months! My pregnancy wasn’t the easiest—I needed you. And you were never there. And the worst thing was I made all these stupid excuses for you. I didn’t see the truth until it was too late. You hated me, hated my baby . . . because you thought she was someone else’s, while thinking that I was a conniving, cheating slut.”
“Yes, yes.” She waved her free hand impatiently, the cell phone light bouncing wildly in the dark before coming to rest on his face again. “Infertile. And yet when I announced my pregnancy, instead of doubting your original diagnosis, you just immediately assumed the worst of me. Maybe, just maybe, you should have had yourself retested instead of instantly thinking that the woman who was a freaking virgin before you charmed your way into her bed cheated on you. Within just weeks of our first time.”
“I have a lot to make up for.”
“Let me just stop you there. You have nothing to make up for, because there won’t be any ‘making up’ here. We’re done. In fact, I’m not sure we ever started. Our marriage was a farce from beginning to end. I see that now. Please leave. I have to get my baby in out of this cold.”
She put deliberate emphasis on the possessive pronoun.
“I have nowhere to stay,” he said softly, and she laughed at that bit of nonsense.
“A man like you always has somewhere to stay, Greyson.”
“The hotel is fully booked.”
“And you assumed what? That I’d let you stay here? Don’t be ridiculous.” She shook her head and stepped around him, bracing herself in case he chose to touch her. But he let her pass without any interference, and she released a tense breath as she continued on her way to the front door.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside with a relieved sigh. Instead of switching on the porch lights as she’d originally intended, she twitched the lacy curtain over the door’s glass panel aside and watched as he stood there for another long, endless moment. Just staring at the front door. Finally, he scrubbed a weary hand over his face, and his shoulders slumped as he slowly turned around and walked down the darkened path toward the parked car that she hadn’t even noticed as she’d driven up to her house. She would have to be more vigilant in the future.
Her phone buzzed, and she looked down. It was Tina. She was tempted to ignore the call, desperate to calm her agitated baby down, but curiosity got the better of her.
“Hello?”
“Be warned,” her friend’s breathless voice said urgently. “The Twisted Twins are in town! Harris just showed up at my door.”
He had? Why was Harris in town? Was he here to offer support to his douchebag brother? And why go to Tina first?
“I know,” Libby responded. “Greyson was just here.”
“Fuuuuuuuuudge! What did he say?”
“I don’t care what he wanted to say,” Libby said defiantly. “I told him to shove off and never come back.”
“Good girl,” Tina said firmly.
“Why was Harris there?” Libby asked curiously.
“Ugh, I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’d rather not go over all of that again right now.”
“Okay. Sleep tight.”
“Are you okay, Libby?” Tina asked, her voice brimming with concern. “Do you need me to come over?”
The offer brought tears to Libby’s eyes, and she blinked them away impatiently. These moments of unwavering friendship meant the world to Libby, but Tina confused her. How could someone be so kind and considerate one moment and then completely flaky and unreliable the next? She never knew if she was going to get her best friend or some other version of Tina. The version who didn’t want to be around her baby and who couldn’t be trusted to do the simplest of tasks. Tasks imperative to the survival of their business.
Sometimes it felt like she was surrounded by unreliable people. The only one she could truly rely on to be completely consistent was Harris. And even that usually dependable relationship was floundering a bit after everything that had happened between her and Greyson. Even though he hadn’t said as much, she knew that Harris’s loyalties had to be split between her and Greyson. And that had to be placing a great deal of strain on him as well as their friendship.
“I’m fine,” she assured Tina quietly. “Just going to get the munchkin changed and into bed. See you in the morning.”