Greyson woke up with a stiff neck, a sore back, and a surly disposition. To say he had slept badly would be putting it mildly. The sofa was too short and too narrow to adequately house his tall, broad frame, and any movement had had the potential to send him tumbling to the carpeted floor. And he sure as hell didn’t want to wind up on that carpet. It was stained and looked like it hadn’t had a decent steam clean in years.
Greyson would be the first to admit that he was mildly germophobic. Well, it wasn’t so much germophobia as a revulsion to anything less than a clean living space. He knew some people would probably call it snobbery. But if that meant wanting to exist in a clean environment, then okay, he was a snob! Truth be told, this entire little trip to the Garden Route was severely testing his boundaries. The place he shared with Harris was truly revolting, and now Olivia’s house was less than ideal too.
He knew from living with her before that she liked to keep things neat and tidy too. She wasn’t borderline OCD about it like Greyson, but she wasn’t a messy person. Which likely meant that living here, with the house in its current state, couldn’t be too pleasant for her. And all he wanted to do was make it a little less unpleasant. For both Olivia and Clara. He reached for his phone, placed within easy reach on the small table in front of the couch. He wasn’t sure what purpose it was meant to serve, footrest or coffee table. It seemed like a random thing to just plonk in the middle of the living room.
He checked the time on his phone—just after seven in the morning—and went through his messages. There was one from Harris.
Where are you? Nothing more than that, but the three words conveyed a level of concern that Greyson wasn’t sure he deserved. He felt like an ass for not telling his brother he wouldn’t be back last night. It would have been the considerate thing to do.
At Olivia’s place. I didn’t mean to worry you.
Not worried. His brother’s response was brisk and to the point, and Greyson felt curiously let down by it. Until his brother’s next message: Okay maybe a little worried. I was concerned you’d skipped out on me without paying your half of the rent.
Greyson’s lips tilted at the lame little joke. It was better than nothing.
I’m good for it.
What do you mean you’re at Libby’s? Why are you there? Are you saying you slept there?
I slept on the sofa. I think it did my back in.
Good. This time the unsympathetic reply startled a quick laugh out of Greyson. Anyway. Got to go. I have a coffee date.
Greyson didn’t bother to reply to that and put his phone back on the coffee table–footrest–hybrid thing. The other room was silent. He was thankful for that because Clara had cried three times last night, startling him out of a sound sleep every time. It must have been exhausting for Olivia. He didn’t know how she did it. She had not once lost her patience. Her sweet voice had remained soft and crooning each time, and Greyson had been filled with so much admiration for his lovely wife. She was an amazing mother. Kind, attentive, and loving. He had found himself wanting to relieve some of her burden. If things had been normal, maybe he would have rocked Clara to sleep or changed her nappy. Anything other than uselessly lying in the other room and listening to her cry.
He sat up and bit back a groan at the various aches and twinges that seemed to awaken with the movement of his body. Screw this crappy couch—it was a goddamned torture device.
He contemplated the closed door of Libby’s room again. She’d probably be up in an hour or so to get ready for work. Since she hadn’t explicitly stated that she wanted him gone before she woke up today, he was going to overlook the possibility that it might have been an unspoken expectation. He needed a shower to ease some of the aches from his body, and he wasn’t going all the way back to Harris’s place for that.
He quietly padded to the bathroom and contemplated the tub shower for a second. It was going to be cramped. The showerhead wasn’t tall enough to slot Greyson beneath it, but he’d have to make do. He wondered if there were any special tricks to the shower, like with the toilet and kitchen tap, but then shrugged and figured he’d soon find out.
He was wearing only the boxers he had slept in and quickly shoved them down and off. He checked the water, and thankfully it was hot and the water pressure perfect. He used her soap, and the familiar fragrance of vanilla and honeysuckle wafted in the steam and surrounded him. It smelled like Olivia, and it made him hard.
He groaned at the erection, his first in months. He hadn’t been aroused in so long. It was like his sex drive had died the day she’d walked out on him. Before that, during her pregnancy, even while he’d thought she’d cheated on him, he had seen her increasingly lush body and had wanted her. Every time he’d found himself in her presence, his cock had swelled and strained, forcing Greyson to will it away with the reminder that she’d betrayed him with someone else. Probably with Harris.
It had been as effective as a cold shower . . . but now, surrounded by what felt like her essence, nothing could deter this erection, and he fisted himself, pumping up and down for a few strokes before groaning again and swearing. He forced himself to let go. He wasn’t going to jack off in his wife’s shower like some creepy pervert.
He turned the water to cold and manfully refrained from yelling when the water doused both his libido and his will to live with a deluge of ice that he felt right down to his bones.
“Jesus,” he swore viciously. It was beyond cold. But at least it succeeded in getting rid of that damned inconvenient hard-on. His teeth were chattering when he stepped out of the shower and folded the tiny towel around his waist. Where were her large towels, anyway? This thing was so small it left a gaping slit over his thigh, and his dick and balls were on display with every step he took. He opened the bathroom door tentatively and cast a look down the hall. Thankfully, her bedroom door was still shut. Great—he didn’t wish to be harangued because he couldn’t find a towel large enough to accommodate him.
He crept out of the bathroom, back to the living room, where he had left his clothing in a neatly folded stack on the coffee table. He had just bent and reached for his jeans when the bedroom door opened, and he froze, glancing over his shoulder to the stunned face staring fixedly at his ass and his junk, which he knew had to be on prominent display to her horrified gaze.
She made a funny, squeaky little sound of dismay before her hand flew up to her mouth in shock. Her eyes were still on his tackle, and he shook himself out of his horrified reverie and cautiously stood upright again. Keeping his back to her while still watching her over his shoulder. All that staring had a predictable effect on his dick, and the erection was back.
Fucking fantastic. She was never going to believe that he hadn’t planned this. Especially if she happened to catch a glimpse of his raging hard-on.
“I grabbed a shower,” he explained unnecessarily. “It was quick; I’m sure there’s plenty of hot water available. You don’t have any adult-size towels in there, by the way.”
He had to say the last thing . . . wanting to explain himself but knowing she wouldn’t be receptive to it. At least this way he could let her know that he had looked for other towels.
“Just . . .” She waved a frantic hand in his general vicinity. “Get dressed, okay?”
“Yes. Of course.” He reached for his jeans and hoodie again, trying to do it without bending.
“I’m going to get changed,” she said, her voice still unusually high. She retreated back to her bedroom, and he could hear the sounds of quiet rustling around in there. He tugged his clothes back on, foregoing underwear because he didn’t have a clean pair; he felt very unlike himself, going commando like this. He wasn’t sure he liked it. But he had no other alternative.
He moved to the kitchen, got the kettle on, and tried not to wince at the unfamiliar sensation of the rough denim against his sensitive male bits. It felt fucking weird. Maybe with a different fabric he could get into the no-underwear thing, but definitely not with denim.
He scrounged around and found cooking implements. He got some scrambled eggs going and had bread in the toaster before she finally exited her bedroom again.
“What are you doing?” she asked in horror.
“Making breakfast. I figured you’d be too tired after last night. And, uh . . . maybe you eat at work . . . ,” he concluded awkwardly, suddenly comprehending that that was probably exactly what she did and feeling stupid for not thinking of it before. It was humbling being around her lately; he always felt wrong footed and like everything he said or did was dumb, inappropriate, or just plain insensitive. He felt like he was walking on a tightrope and a wrong move could send him tumbling into the void.
“It’s Sunday. MJ’s is closed on Sundays.”
Well, okay. He could work with that. He nodded and gestured toward the stove top. “Then you’re going to need to eat.”
“I can prepare my own breakfast,” she said, and he nodded. Of course she could—she was a brilliant chef. But he remembered that she absolutely loathed cooking for just herself, and back in London—when they had been dating—they would often order takeout. Greyson had once attempted cooking for them . . . it had been a disaster. This breakfast was only his second attempt at cooking. How hard could it be to scramble eggs and put bread in a toaster?
“I know, but I’ve already finished most of it, so why don’t you have a seat?”
“Greyson, the last time you cooked for me, I nearly died of food poisoning.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” he said, his brow lowering in consternation.
“Well, I probably would have died of food poisoning if I had eaten that raw chicken.”
“It wasn’t that raw,” he said defensively.
“It was bleeding on my plate,” she reminded him. “It turned the lumpy mashed potatoes pink.”
Back then they had both laughed at his failed attempt at cooking. She had kissed him and thanked him for trying. Then they had ordered Indian food and spent the rest of the night making love. That was the night she had finally said yes to his marriage proposal.
“Eggs are easier,” he said confidently. “I was too ambitious that night. I guarantee a salmonella-free breakfast today.”
She pursed her heart-shaped lips before shrugging. He kept sneaking glances at her as he worked. She looked absolutely stunning, as usual. She could wear a sackcloth and look gorgeous. Her figure still retained some of her pregnancy weight, but it suited her. Her breasts were fuller, her hips seemed rounder, and despite the innate athleticism of her willowy body, she looked lush. He ached to touch her, to explore those fuller curves, her plump breasts . . . she looked like an earth goddess, with the frayed silk of her wavy black hair billowing around her face and all of that golden, glowing skin that he knew would be satiny soft to touch.
She was wearing a short, long-sleeved lacy white dress—the contrast against her skin was fantastic—combined with a faded denim jacket and heavy-duty combat boots. She loved those boots. She liked working in them and had once told Greyson that they were the comfiest shoes she owned and perfect for standing for long hours. He hid a grin at the sight of the frilly socks peeking over the tops of the boots.
He had always enjoyed her quirky dress sense. The combination of hard and soft suited her to a T.
“Something’s burning,” she said, her voice interrupting his mooning thoughts.
“Shit,” he swore. He leaped for the toaster and pushed the button that would eject the slices. The bread popped from the appliance, and he managed to catch one piece, swearing when it burned the tips of his fingers. The other slice landed on the floor. And that was fine because it was burnt to a crisp.
“What the fuck?” he couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming, raising his voice a notch. “I’m sure I had it on medium.” He checked the dial, and it was definitely on medium. “Did the toaster come with the house?”
“Yes,” Olivia said, her voice tiny and almost contrite, and yet he was sure he detected amusement threaded through the regretful tone in that one word. “I do have one of my own.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he asked, a little exasperated.
“Well, I didn’t know that one was broken,” she confessed. “I mean, I haven’t really made toast since living here.”
“Where’s your toaster?” he asked, his voice a surly grumble. He bent to pick up the other slice of toast from the floor and chucked both in the dustbin.
“Cabinet next to the oven. It’s still boxed. I don’t think it’s worth the effort. I could just have normal bread.”
“I’ll decide if it’s worth the effort,” Greyson stated, then hid a wince at the imperiousness of both his words and tone of voice. She raised her eyebrows, looking seriously unimpressed with him, and folded her arms over her chest, nodding her pointed little chin at him.
“Go for it,” she invited him, and fully committed now, Greyson turned to fish out the brand-new four-slice toaster. He removed the eggs from the stove top, not wanting to burn those as well, and shoved the skillet into the oven before focusing on the toaster once more.
He had to use a knife to slice through the tape, and the first one he used was too blunt, so he exchanged it for a butcher knife, nearly cutting himself in the process. After that he had to deal with the weird soft bag thing wrapped around the device. It stuck to the metal of the toaster, and Greyson had a hard time extracting it from the bag. He then battled his way through seemingly endless plastic wraps and ties, as well as the weird tiny cardboard housing that seemed to have been jerry rigged around the plug, before finally exultantly holding the unboxed toaster aloft, curbing the instinct to throw back his head and utter a triumphant war cry. He felt like a conquering hero until he happened to glance at Olivia. She was sitting at the kitchen table with her cheek resting in the palm of her hand, watching him with an enigmatic curve to her lips.
Mona Lisa had nothing on the mysterious little smile gracing Olivia’s mouth. Was she laughing at him? Probably. He couldn’t even open a bloody box without fucking it up.
“Toast coming right up,” he promised, hoping the eggs weren’t too cold by now.
The toast was blond, so pale it was just warmed bread, really. It turned out Greyson, in his haste to get breakfast served, hadn’t checked the settings. Libby kept her amused grin hidden when he swore a blue streak at the sight of that underdone toast.
Because Greyson so rarely swore, hearing all those f-bombs dropping from his lips was quite entertaining. He also never failed, and this breakfast was just one miserable fail after another. The eggs were cold—expected, what with him taking twenty minutes to open up that box—and congealed. She took a polite bite, then wrinkled her nose and lifted her napkin to her lips to discreetly spit out the mouthful she’d just chewed: it was sickeningly sweet.
Greyson, who had been silently brooding on the other side of the tiny kitchen table, his festering glare flitting from eggs to toast and back again, took a forkful of eggs into his own mouth before spitting it back onto the plate.
“What the fuck?” he exclaimed, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “What in the actual fuck?”
Libby bit her lips to keep her laughter at bay.
“I think,” she said in a distinctly wobbly voice, “maybe you used sugar? Instead of salt?”
He glanced over at the stove, and the glare deepened even further.
“Why the hell is your sugar next to the stove?”
“If you look closely,” she said, an acerbic bite in her voice, “you’ll note that it’s placed next to the kettle, right between the tea and coffee. And if you squint, you may be able to make out the letters on the surface of the glass.”
He scowled at the huge black letters on the glass, prominently spelling out the word sugar as clear as day.
He shook his head and shoved the plate aside.
“At least the coffee is good,” she said, taking a cheerful sip from her mug, and he glowered at her.
“You made the coffee,” he reminded her, and she sent him a grin over the top of her mug.
“I know,” she said. He focused his scowl on the steaming black liquid in his own mug.
“Grab a couple of bowls and some cornflakes from the cabinet behind you,” she offered him quietly, not because she felt sorry for him. Never that. She was just . . . hungry. And since he was here, she might as well share with him.
His eyes lit up at her words, and he jumped up to do her bidding. She got up, too, heading to the refrigerator for milk and fruit.
They didn’t speak again until both had a large bowl of cornflakes garnished with fresh berries and bananas placed in front of them.
“Does she—uh, Clara—usually sleep this late?” he asked after swallowing down his first spoonful of cornflakes.
“It varies. She was more restless than usual last night; I think it exhausted her.”
“You’re really good at this,” he said, sounding almost shy.
“What do you mean?” she asked, genuinely confused.
“Mothering. It seems to come naturally to you.”
“Thanks,” she said self-consciously, her cheeks heating at the compliment. “I’m a wreck most of the time. I call my mother every day for advice, and I’m always terrified I’m going to do something horribly wrong and mess her up for life.”
“Nothing you do will ever compare to my colossal fuckup,” he muttered, crunching his way through another spoonful of cereal.
Libby kept her focus on her bowl, reluctant to acknowledge his words. Right now, this situation with Greyson was one of those moments she was afraid would negatively impact Clara’s life. Her baby would grow up shuttling between two households, not knowing what it was like to live in a stable home with both her parents present. And maybe, because she would never know any better, that would be okay. But it was so, so far from what Libby had wanted for her child.
And Libby felt like she was at the crossroads now. The decisions she made about Greyson during this messed-up period of her life would forge the framework for Clara’s childhood. It felt like a huge and terrible responsibility, and she resented Greyson for putting her in this dreadful position.
A tiny whimper sounded over the baby monitor, and Libby tilted her head, waiting to see if it would lead to anything more. Another whimper, followed by a soft inhalation, and then a thin little cry.
“Aaaand she’s awake,” she said. She got up immediately and made her way to the bedroom. Clara’s cute little face was screwed up, and Libby grinned at how truly tragic she looked. “Oh, sweetie. It’s okay, Mummy’s here. Are you hungry? Pee-ew! Maybe we should change that nappy first, you little stinker.”
She heard dishes rattling in the sink and threw a quick glance over her shoulder through the open bedroom door to see Greyson clearing off the kitchen table.
“You don’t have to do that,” she called while nimbly undressing Clara.
“I made a mess; I should clean it up,” he said, barely raising his voice despite the fact that she was in a different room.
“No, what you should do is leave. We’re fine now. Thanks for staying last night, but I’ll find someone to change the lock today.” She truly just wanted him gone from here. She recalled the disturbing sight of him nearly naked after his shower, bent over with that tiny towel doing nothing to cover his behind . . . or the rest of him. Seeing him like that, the firm, sculpted planes of his butt, the impressive heft of his penis swaying between his strongly muscled thighs . . . it had sent a shudder of awareness through her body.
And she had felt a disturbing awakening of senses that had been dormant for too many months. She didn’t want to feel that way around him, didn’t want to be sexually aware of him. Not again . . . not anymore. This marriage was ending; all that was left to decide on was the formalities.
“I can change the lock,” he said confidently, snapping her out of her disturbing thoughts, and she shot him a derisive look over her shoulder. She thought of his incompetence in the kitchen. He had sounded confident then too. The man really had no sense of his own shortcomings. He needed a serious reality check. And yes, it was petty, but Libby wanted to be around when he tumbled from that lofty perch of self-assurance.
“Okay.” It was hard to stay focused with the stink Clara had created wafting up to Libby’s nostrils, but she managed to get the word out almost cheerfully.
She had her eyes on Clara’s cute tush as she ran a baby wipe over it and so didn’t know Greyson was in the room until his voice had drifted to her ear from just over her left shoulder. “What did you say?”
She jumped and then glared at the man standing just behind her. And why was he standing so damned close? And in such an awkward spot? “Move over there so that I can see you without getting a crick in my neck, would you?” she instructed him, pointing to the head of the bed, the soiled nappy still in her hand. Greyson reared back comically before doing as she had instructed, giving her a wide berth. He had a pristine, neatly folded white handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth as he stared at Clara in abject horror. The baby had stopped crying and was now happily gurgling, her fat, dimpled little legs kicking as she tried to catch her toes. She was naked and completely oblivious to the foul stench she had created.
“How the hell can something so small produce a smell that huge?”
“This isn’t too bad. It can get much, much worse,” Libby said.
“Seriously?” he asked, sounding truly appalled, and Libby tried hard not to grin. He was staring down at Clara with something close to fear in his eyes, and it was hilarious.
“Uh-huh,” she said, grabbing a nappy-disposal bag from the changing table on the other side of the bed. The small room was very cramped with Libby’s double bed, Clara’s white crib, and the matching changing table all squeezed into the tiny space. She had managed to get only one bedside table in. The other one was stowed in the living room and serving as a coffee table for now.
“Did you mean it? About me changing the lock?”
“You might as well make yourself useful,” she said with a shrug, then gave him an assessing look. “In fact, since you’re just hovering there, doing nothing much, can you open that faucet again and run her another bath? Not too hot—just lukewarm is fine. I’ll feed her while you’re doing that. I don’t usually feed her before bath time, but our routine is shot to hell with my working hours being the way they are, and then she didn’t get her bath last night as planned, and . . .” She stopped talking, feeling like a failure and not wanting to reveal much more of the hopelessness she felt. Fearing he’d use it against her if they ever got into some kind of custody dispute. She didn’t trust him at all. She knew he wanted Clara, and after witnessing his reluctance to let go of the baby last night, she wouldn’t put it past him to fight dirty.
And maybe it wasn’t wise to have him constantly around, but aside from wanting to see him fail, she also felt she should begin to subscribe to the “keep your enemies closer” school of thought. But she had the very real fear that while she was waiting for him to fail, he might be around to see her fail. Fail at her job, at her friendships, or as a mother. She would hate for Greyson—of all people—to witness any of that. The terrifying possibility was nearly enough to change her mind about allowing him to “fix” things around the house.
Nearly.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, in response to her earlier statement. His words succeeded in drawing her from her dark thoughts, and she tilted her head, curiously waiting for him to continue. “You’re doing an amazing job, despite the shitty hand you’ve been dealt.”
“The hand you dealt me, you mean?” she asked, and his eyes shut for an instant before he nodded.
“Yes.” He thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and swayed restlessly back and forth on his heels for a couple of moments. “I’ll get the bath organized.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded in response and left the room abruptly.
Libby sighed and shut the door behind him, picking Clara up for her morning feed. The baby would be transitioning to solids soon, and Libby planned to have her fully weaned by six months old. She treasured this wonderful closeness with her serenely suckling daughter. Libby would miss it, but because of her work and the fact that Clara spent half of every weekday in day care, it would be best to get her onto formula. Libby found that she was producing less milk than during the first three months as well, and she wasn’t sure if that was because she’d mentally resigned herself to transitioning Clara to formula sooner rather than later, or if it was because she was already breastfeeding less. Perhaps it was the stress of going back to work. She knew pregnancy and breastfeeding were different for every woman.
The duration of Clara’s feedings had shortened over the last couple of weeks, and she now seemed content with a quick suckle on each breast. Dr. Ngozi had told Libby it wasn’t anything to worry about because Clara was growing and gaining weight.
She had just shifted Clara to her left breast when a soft knock sounded on the door. She reached for a towel and used it to cover herself and her feeding baby before calling for him to enter.
The door opened tentatively, and Greyson’s head appeared first. He assessed her state of undress before stepping farther into the room.
“The water has been ready for about ten minutes. I was wondering if I should add some more warm water to it, since it was pretty lukewarm to start off with.”
“Yes, please, she’s nearly done,” she said, and his eyes dropped to the mounded towel. The soft snuffling noises Clara made when she suckled were the only sounds in the room, and Greyson’s gaze never moved from the gently shifting towel.
“How often do you feed her?” he asked, his voice hushed.
“About six times a day. I’ll be adding solids to her diet soon. Possibly this week. She’s drinking expressed breast milk at day care, but I want to start supplementing that with formula.” She paused before grimacing. “Sorry . . . that’s more information than you asked for.”
“I don’t mind. It’s stuff I want to know. Stuff I should know.”
Clara’s mouth went slack, and Libby, with practiced ease, slid her bra and top back into place beneath the towel before lifting Clara to her shoulder and gently patting her back.
Greyson was watching the circular motion of her hand intently. “Why do you do that?” he asked.
“Burping her. When she gets a little more active, sitting up by herself and moving around more, I won’t have to do this for her anymore. I feel like we’re nearly at that point. She’s constantly trying to roll over, and she lifts her head like a champ. She’s growing so fast.”
His eyes flickered with something resembling sadness or regret before his lids swooped down and he ducked his head to hide his reaction from her.
“I should get back to Harris’s. For my tools,” he said a moment later, bringing his carefully blank eyes back up to hers.
“Tools?”
“I, um, bought some tools yesterday because I thought you may need some help fixing things around here.”
Well, wasn’t that overconfident of him?
“That seems a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“Not really, I just like to be prepared.”
“Of course you do,” she said, finding it hard not to sound caustic. But at the same time not really caring if she did. He cleared his throat, and his eyes roamed around the room as he seemed to search for something to say.
“Did you know that Harris rented the house next to Martine’s?” he asked abruptly, and Libby felt her eyebrows shoot straight to her hairline at that bit of information. Tina hadn’t mentioned that at all.
Then again, she thought bitterly, Tina hasn’t exactly been a font of information lately.
But Harris hadn’t mentioned it either. Maybe the subject had just not come up? But it seemed like an odd detail not to mention.
“That’s weird,” she said. “Were there really no other places available?” She couldn’t imagine Tina being too thrilled about it.
“I’m starting to wonder if he didn’t do it deliberately,” Greyson said, and Libby blinked.
“Why would he do that? They hate each other.”
“I think the hate is one sided. Harris has never felt any animosity toward Martine.”
“How do you know that? You and Harris don’t exactly confide in each other.”
“I just do,” he said cryptically, and Libby was tempted to question him further but didn’t want to have a cozy gossip with him. She didn’t want to encourage such familiarity.
Greyson couldn’t stop watching Olivia with Clara. Her gentle stroking of the baby’s back mesmerized him. Despite her modest claims to the contrary, there was a naturalness to her mothering that was beautiful to see. And Greyson wanted to watch and encourage and assist and hold them both close and never let them go again.
But he didn’t have that right. It killed him not to follow his instinctive inclination to claim them and protect them. He wanted to be a father . . . something he’d never dreamed possible. He wanted to be a husband—something he’d been horrendous at for the most part.
He wanted a second chance.
But he didn’t deserve one, so he had to settle for second best. He just didn’t know what second best entailed yet.
“I’ll go. I’ll be back in about an hour. I think the hardware store is open until eleven on a Sunday; I’ll pop around there for some stuff.”
“I’m paying for whatever you’re buying,” she stated, her voice brooking no argument. That didn’t stop him from trying to argue.
“That’s not necessary; it’ll just be a few things.”
“You pay for anything, and you can forget about the handyman routine,” she warned.
Check. And mate. There was no arguing with that. He hadn’t made any secret of the fact that he was desperate to make himself useful. But she could take that away in a second.
He shut his mouth but couldn’t stop himself from glaring at her.
“If you call in a professional behind my back, so help me God, Greyson . . . there will be hell to pay.”
Not keen to find out how much more hell she could dish out, Greyson dipped his head in surly acquiescence. He was a reasonably intelligent guy—a renowned problem-solver and troubleshooter. He could do this.
“Whatever you want, Olivia,” he agreed softly. “I’ll add that warm water to her bath. Then I’ll head out.”
She didn’t say anything in response to his words, just kept her focus on Clara. Greyson waited for a moment, but she had already dismissed him.
So now he knew how that felt. It was a move he had used on so many others; perhaps it was poetic justice to have the old freeze-out practiced on him for a change.
He turned away and left.
Clara was bathed, changed, and on her back swatting at the little safari animals dangling from the mobile above her playpen.
It was still pouring outside, and Libby had emptied the bucket beneath the leak twice in the thirty minutes since Greyson had left. Her only solace was that no other leaks had sprung up overnight.
The air conditioner sounded even worse than it had last night, and Libby feared the thing was on its last legs. No surprise, really—everything in the house seemed to be on its last legs.
Her phone chimed, and she reached for it, swiping at the screen to check her messages. It was from Greyson.
I’m buying a new handle for the front door, also adding two dead bolts.
She grimaced, thinking of the cost.
One is fine, she typed back quickly.
Two is better.
I want one, Greyson!
FINE!
She shook her head, swiping to check the rest of her messages. Her shoulders fell when she realized that Tina hadn’t messaged her. Then again, Libby wasn’t sure if she would have responded if she had messaged.
But at the same time, after the way they’d left things last night, Libby had expected more from the woman who was supposed to be her best friend. An explanation, more of an apology . . .
Something.
She sighed, tempted to send a message and find out if Tina was okay. She couldn’t help recalling the misery in her friend’s eyes, along with the dejection in her voice, just before Libby had left last night.
Tina was profoundly unhappy, and Libby recognized that it was an unhappiness that had been building over the years. The other woman rarely made the effort to go out and only ever went to family events, which meant she wasn’t meeting new people. It was frustrating to watch. Libby had always been the more gregarious of the two, but she couldn’t recall Tina being this bad when they were kids.
After Libby had returned from London last year, she had been keen to spend more time with Tina. But Libby was honest enough to admit that during her first two months of marriage, she had been wholly preoccupied with Greyson. And then, when she had discovered her pregnancy, which had been swiftly followed by Greyson’s emotional abandonment, it had been all about Libby. But Tina had been there, to hold Libby’s hair back when she puked, to hold her hand during doctors’ appointments, and then to simply hold her up after Greyson had flipped her world upside down.
Libby knew that Tina deserved more than the cursory and dismissive discussion they had had yesterday. But she needed to curtail her mother-bear instincts the next time she and Tina spoke. Libby knew she tended to be selfish . . . but she would have to curb that inclination, because something was fundamentally wrong in Tina’s life. It had taken Libby way too long to recognize that fact.
Decision made, she was lifting her phone to send Tina a message when it chimed again.
The back door needs a dead bolt as well.
“God!” This again.
Greyson had always been so calm and emotionless—she couldn’t remember ever finding him aggravating before. But he was like a dog with a bone about this handyman stuff. He was taking it so seriously, when Libby knew he didn’t have a gnat’s chance in hell of fixing anything in this place.
His persistence was annoying. But kind of endearing too. And she wasn’t sure how the hell something could be annoying and endearing at the same time. It was bizarre how Greyson, the most logical man in the world, completely defied logic right now.
Her phone chimed again. Irritated, she lifted it, ready to blast him for his crap.
The grocery store is still open. Do you need anything while I’m out?
Oh. That was kind of sweet and considerate. She did a quick inventory of her kitchen.
I’m out of milk. Full cream. And Clara needs nappies. Hold on I’ll send you a pic. She went to her room and took a picture of the nearly empty bag of disposable nappies, then sent it to him.
Anything else?
No. Thanks.
Coolio.
Coolio? That was weird and uncharacteristic. But that seemed to be the new normal for Greyson lately.
Libby decided to rearrange her kitchen to her liking, hoping it would feel more familiar when she was done with it. It wasn’t a great kitchen, small, with very few surfaces to work on. Not her dream chef’s kitchen by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hers, and it was better than nothing.
Clara was starting to squeal, high-pitched happy sounds, and Libby glanced over at the baby. Clara was clumsily reaching for one of the soft toys Libby had scattered in the playpen. She kept missing it, and her squeals were starting to take on a frustrated edge. Abandoning the kitchen for the moment, Libby walked over for a closer look—always very interested in Clara’s every move. The baby’s head lifted at Libby’s approach, and she blinked up at her mother before gifting Libby with one of her wide, dimpled smiles.
“Hey, sweetheart, you wanna play peekaboo with Mummy?” Libby asked in a deliberately excited voice. One that Clara usually responded to. It made Libby recall the ridiculous voice Greyson had used while talking to Clara the night before, and she found herself involuntarily grinning—and then chuckling—at the memory.
Clara slapped her plump starfish hands on the floor of the playpen, kicking her legs in reaction to the voice, and Libby picked her up. She carried Clara over to where she already had a play area set up—a thick, clean comforter spread on the carpeted floor, strewn with more soft toys. She placed Clara in the secure, padded floor seat that helped sit her upright. The cute, bright seat had been yet another gift from Clara’s paternal grandparents, one that Libby was finding more and more useful. Clara seemed to love it, her hands constantly grabbing and exploring the attached toys. And because it allowed her to sit upright, she could watch the world around her with increasing fascination. Libby found it especially great for peekaboo.
She knelt in front of the seat and smiled at the baby, who watched her animatedly. Using one of the clean spit-up towels she kept close by for emergencies, Libby started a rousing game of peekaboo with Clara.
“Wheeeere’s Mummy?” she asked in a gradually rising voice, hiding behind the little towel. Then she dropped it with a high-pitched “Here I am!”
It never failed to elicit the most jubilant sound imaginable from her gorgeous daughter. A contagious, chortling laugh that lit up her beautiful face and shook her round little body.
The game never got old . . . for Clara. But Libby was starting to flag after her tenth miraculous reappearance from behind the towel.
The front door opened in midreveal, and Greyson walked in to the sound of Clara’s burbling laughter. He stopped dead on the threshold and simply stared, the expression on his face revealing shock, pleasure, and pain. So much pain. Much more than such a joyful sound should ever be responsible for.