“I didn’t know she could laugh,” he said, his voice low and gruff with emotion. Libby swallowed with difficulty, reacting to the shocking vulnerability in his eyes more strongly than she’d thought possible. Part of her felt she should be happy to see him hurting like this . . . but she couldn’t find it within herself to revel in his misery.
“Close the door, will you? It’s cold,” she said softly, and he seemed to come out of whatever daze he was in and stepped farther into the house, his hands filled with grocery bags, which he put down before shutting the door. Clara was groping for the towel in Libby’s hand, and she let the baby have it. She absently lowered her eyes to Clara and gasped when the baby clumsily lifted the towel to her own eyes and then squealed with laughter, creating her own adorably awkward version of peekaboo.
“Did you see that?” she asked Greyson, her voice hushed. He knelt on the floor next to Libby and made a sound of affirmation, still looking dazed. They both watched Clara fixedly, waiting for her to repeat the action. Libby’s breath caught when the towel went up again, and then she exhaled on a shuddering sigh when it went straight into Clara’s drooling mouth and the baby proceeded to gum the flannel fabric contentedly.
“She’s been giggling and laughing for the last month or so. She gets really into peekaboo,” Libby explained huskily, and Greyson cleared his throat.
“I see. She seems really smart.”
“I think she is. Very precocious. I wish she’d slow down a bit. I want to enjoy this part a bit longer.”
Greyson’s eyes were stormy as he nodded his agreement. He had missed out on so many milestones already. And she knew he was thinking of those. These firsts were so precious, and Libby knew that if she were to miss out on any of them, the loss would be immense.
Clara’s eyelids were starting to droop, and they both watched as she drifted off. Libby reached out and supported her lolling head while unhooking her from the seat. She picked the baby up and gently deposited her on her back in the middle of the thick comforter. She covered the baby with a light blanket and scattered a few light cushions in a wide protective circle around her.
“Is that safe?” Greyson asked gruffly, and she looked at him with a quick, involuntary smile.
“Safe as houses,” she replied in a hushed voice.
“Is the floor warm enough? Is the carpet clean?” Fastidious Greyson couldn’t disguise the wrinkle of his nose at the last question, and she knew he found the carpet less than acceptable. Which, she had to admit, was a fair assessment.
“There are two thick blankets underneath the comforter. She’s fine.”
He nodded curtly, still looking skeptical, his gaze not shifting from the contentedly sleeping baby.
“How did we make something so damned perfect?” he asked softly, the awed words barely loud enough for Libby to hear. But she did hear them, and they made her irrationally angry at how easily he was able to claim Clara now. After four months of zero contact following that first vehement denial.
So easy for him. While she still had no idea what had triggered this change in him. The huge chasm between the way he had been that last night in hospital versus his behavior now was completely unbelievable to her. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak to him just then, and headed for the kitchen to continue her reorganization of the room.
She knew he was watching her, but he wisely refrained from saying yet another dumb thing. He picked up the grocery bags and brought them to the kitchen. She eyed them askance before glaring at him.
“That doesn’t look like just milk and nappies.”
“I brought a couple of steaks, for dinner.”
“Dinner? You assume you’re staying for dinner?” she asked flatly. It wasn’t even close to lunchtime yet, and he was thinking about dinner?
He had the grace to look embarrassed by the question. “I may be here awhile, what with the door and the plumbing and the roof . . .”
“Greyson, I’m not letting you anywhere near the roof.”
“But . . .”
“Look, I may be pissed off with you, but I don’t want you dead. And in this weather, if you fall off that roof—and let’s face it, you’ll fall off the damned roof—you’ll kill yourself!” Besides, he couldn’t suffer if he was dead! And Libby bloody well wanted him to suffer. Ugh, she was turning into a monster . . . but she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t want to punish him for the pain and confusion and loneliness he had inflicted on her for so long.
She didn’t want him dead! Greyson could barely contain his jubilant grin at that. Still, why was everybody assuming he was so damned useless at physical labor? When he had picked up his toolbox earlier, his brother had been equally disparaging of his handyman abilities. And of course the other man couldn’t resist adding a few more dire warnings about not forcing himself into Libby’s life.
But maybe she was right about the roof. At the best of times, Greyson had a thing about heights. He couldn’t imagine being up there in slippery conditions, with the howling wind . . . he shuddered at the thought.
“Fine, I won’t attempt the roof. Today.”
“Ever.”
“We can discuss it later.”
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“I think I’ll fix the bathroom faucet first. I don’t want to make any loud noises in case it wakes Clara.”
She nodded, and he turned to the front door, intending to go back to his car to pick up his toolbox. Her voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Greyson?”
“Yes?” He turned to face her. She looked so damned gorgeous with her hands planted on her hips as she glared at him.
“You’re cooking your own damned steaks.”
“Damn it!” Not even the internet could save Greyson from this disaster. He had no idea what the hell he was doing. He had managed to find and turn off the water mains and removed the hot-water tap from the bath. The guy at the hardware store had said that it was probably a bad washer that needed replacing and had given Greyson a quick explanation on how to replace said washer.
Unsure of the size needed, Greyson had bought all the sizes—sneakily ringing up only one on the receipt he had handed to Olivia. The rest he had paid for separately. He knew he was treading a fine line . . . any dishonesty, no matter how harmless it seemed, would be ill received by her right now. He knew that, but at the same time he tried to rationalize it to himself. She only needed one washer, and so she only had to pay for one. Not knowing the size had been on him, so it should be his expense.
Whatever—that was the least of his concerns right now. He had managed, with the help of several YouTube videos, to replace the washer and had even—after a lot of sweat, swearing, and even spilled blood, thanks to the fleshy part of his left palm getting scratched on some sharp edge or the other—gotten the tap screwed back on. But it wasn’t working. He had switched the water back on, and nothing. Not one drop.
There was a sharp rap on the bathroom door, which swung open without further warning. Olivia looked like she was about to say something, but her eyes narrowed when she saw his bare chest.
“Why are you always half-naked in my house, Greyson?” she asked, her voice peppered with annoyance and wobbling slightly. Her gaze seemed glued to his chest, and she swallowed heavily after asking the question.
“Sorry . . . I was hot in the hoodie and needed my T-shirt to mop up some water.”
“I have old towels you could have used. You didn’t have to ruin a brand-new shirt.”
“It was already ruined,” he admitted reluctantly, and she tilted her head in that damned appealing quizzical way of hers.
“What do you mean?”
He lifted his hand to show her the bloodied makeshift bandage wrapped around his palm, and she gasped before surging in from the doorway and coming to stand right in front of him, grabbing his hand in both of hers.
“You foolish man,” she muttered. “What did you do?”
Greyson didn’t reply, his eyes focused on the top of her downturned head as she unwrapped the bandage he had devised from a torn strip of his T-shirt. He hissed slightly when the cloth pulled against the dried blood on the edges of his cut.
“It’s bleeding again. Did you even rinse it?”
“Uh . . .” He forced himself to focus, his head swimming with both the scent of her and the pain in his hand. “No water.”
She lifted her face unexpectedly, nailing him with that whiskey-colored stare of hers, and he inhaled a shuddering breath at the beauty in those eyes.
“Which reminds me! Why is there no water, Greyson?”
He barely heard her question, his eyes lost in hers.
“God, you’re so damned beautiful,” he said beneath his breath. He lifted his free hand to trace the silky curve of her cheek with his knuckles.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, one of her hands releasing his injured one to halt the movement.
“Olivia. I’ve missed you so much.”
“No, I think you mean you’ve missed so much. So much, Greyson. That first kick, when I felt her and knew she was in there and alive. The first ultrasound, when I heard the incomparable rapid whooshing of her heartbeat. It was . . . it was so indescribable.”
“I know. I know, Olivia. And it kills me to have missed all of that.”
“You don’t understand what it did to me, Greyson. You don’t know . . .”
“Tell me,” he invited her, and she shuddered and closed her eyes, tears—which he had seen shimmering in that golden gaze—overflowing to streak down her cheeks. Greyson made a dismayed sound in the back of his throat and clumsily wiped at the moisture. The first tears he’d seen from her since that night in the hospital. Those tears still haunted his nightmares, and these would torment his waking hours. He hated making her cry. He fucking despised it.
She shook her head in response to his invitation and rested her forehead on his naked chest, just a few centimeters above his heart. He palmed the back of her head, his fingers entwining in the thick, soft curls of her hair. He kissed the top of that honeysuckle-scented head, and she lifted her tear-drenched face to look at him. His hand moved to cup the curve of her cheek, and before he could think of what he was doing, his lips dropped to hers, claiming her mouth in a hungry kiss. A kiss that offered comfort and asked for the same in return.
She made a soft sighing sound and hooked her arm around his neck while her mouth blossomed beneath his, opening up to his gently questing tongue. His other arm curved around her waist, and his fist clenched in the fabric of her dress, just above the swell of her behind. He dragged her close, until he could feel her every curve outlined against him.
His beautiful wife; he had missed her so much. Missed holding her, kissing her . . . loving her. He couldn’t seem to get her close enough, and she appeared to feel the same way. As the kiss intensified, she undulated against him, her pelvis grinding against his hardness.
He was suddenly grateful for his lack of underwear: it gave him room to grow, so to speak. His erection lengthened and thickened. With her thrusting against him and the rough denim rubbing his sensitive length, he already felt close to bursting. From just this kiss.
It was a sublime kiss, but he hadn’t ever come so close to losing control over his libido before, and certainly never over a kiss. But this was Olivia. His Olivia. His wife, the mother of his child, and he . . .
She planted her hands on his chest and forcefully shoved him away. His head jerked up, and he stared down at her in bewilderment. Her cheeks were flushed with pink, and she had her hands clamped over her breasts.
“I—” he began, wanting to apologize. Needing to apologize. That had been so way out of line. But she beat him to it.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said, and he frowned in confusion. What did she need to apologize for? This was all on Greyson.
“It just happened.” She was still talking, and she shook her head before uttering a miserable, “God.”
Greyson glanced down to where her hands were still covering her breasts, and he felt his own cheeks go red.
Shit.
“No. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have . . . uh . . .” He wasn’t sure what exactly could have caused the spreading damp patches beneath her hands. Possibly arousal. But he couldn’t apologize for turning her on. Not when he felt as horny as a fucking teenager himself. He didn’t even care. He wanted to kiss her again, touch her, do so much more. And if that was evidence of her arousal, then fucking bring it on.
He was ready to reach for her again when his eyes fell to her dress, and he froze. Her beautiful, unspoiled lacy white dress. All that innocent perfection . . . covered in blood. His blood.
Just another example of Greyson destroying every perfect thing that he touched.
“Your dress,” he said, his voice weighted with misery, and she looked down. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of all that red on the previously perfect white of her dress.
“Greyson, that cut is really bad,” she said, her voice urgent and seemingly unconcerned with the state of her pretty dress. “Give me a minute to change, but rewrap your hand. I’ll be right back.”
She turned and exited the room, leaving him feeling a little forlorn and a lot lost. He wanted her back—having her close made him feel anchored. Without her, everything was a confusing mess, and all he could see was the bright red on that pristine white. He felt sick to his stomach and fought the urge to retch.
He had ruined it. He had ruined her. His perfect, beautiful Olivia.
Fifteen months ago
Blood.
Why was there blood? Greyson stared down at the patch of blood on the snow-white sheets in complete confusion. Olivia had just gone to the bathroom, and he had sat up to watch her leave. His eyes had remained glued to the perfection of her naked ass until she had shut the door between them. That was when his gaze had dropped and he had seen the blood on the sheets of his king-size penthouse-suite bed.
They had just slept together. Her body had responded to his every practiced move with predictable ardor, and Greyson had . . . well, he had loved it. She had made him feel more, experience more, than any other woman before her, and he had reveled in it. There was something powerful, so damned powerful, about finally bedding a woman he knew had wanted him for years. A woman he had wanted for almost the same amount of time. A woman whom he had considered off limits for way too damned long. It had really gotten his rocks off, and he couldn’t wait to have more of her. To try more with her.
She had been so damned receptive to his every touch—Greyson was already borderline addicted to her. The smell of her. Taste of her. Touch of her. Her softness, her heat, her tightness. God, her tightness.
His gaze remained fixated on the red splotch. Trying to make sense of it. It didn’t belong there . . . he couldn’t figure it out.
He looked down at himself, and then he saw it . . . more blood. Down there. On his still-erect shaft. It caused a shudder of primitive alarm to jolt down his spine until he realized that it wasn’t his blood. It was hers.
Olivia’s.
She exited the bathroom. Her smile was radiant. Perfect.
So fucking innocent.
God! Damn it!
She crawled back into bed with him and snuggled up to his chest. His arms closed around her automatically. This perfect woman. This beautiful woman. He should have left her alone. He wasn’t deserving of the gift she had given him.
Maybe she didn’t even consider it a gift. Maybe he was making too much of it. But damn it! He’d known her for too long to not think of it as such.
Greyson was still lost in the past when she joined him in the bathroom again. She had changed her dress, exchanging one pretty frilly thing for another. This was another long-sleeved lacy dress, a little longer than the previous one. In a light buttery yellow. She had tied up her hair and had a first aid kit under her arm.
“Sit down,” she commanded as she entered the small room. Greyson, seeing the familiar stubborn glint in her eyes, knew better than to argue and sank down on the side of the bath.
She tenderly lifted his hand and unwrapped the bloodied scrap of gray fabric. She glowered down at the ragged gash on his palm, while he took one queasy look before diverting his gaze. His palm was a mess, and he couldn’t really stand to look at it.
“How did you do this?” she asked, sounding completely grumpy.
“Not sure,” he confessed, keeping his gaze fixed on one of the tiny pearly-white buttons on the bodice of her dress.
“You’ll need a tetanus shot. It doesn’t look deep enough for stitches, but you may need some antibiotics. It would be nice if we could give it a proper clean, but without water . . .” She shrugged eloquently, and he grimaced.
“I’ll have it back on soon,” he promised. “I couldn’t work on the tap without turning off the water.”
Only he didn’t know why the water wasn’t back on.
“You can’t go back to messing around with the pipes after I bandage your hand,” she said sternly. So bossy. She’d been bossy even as a child. His mother had often called her impertinent, complaining that “the girl” probably believed she was a Chapman, she was so demanding.
His mother, while always so aware of appearances, had harbored a genuine fondness for Olivia. But that hadn’t stopped the older woman from resisting the prospect of Greyson’s marriage to Olivia. Citing their upbringing and backgrounds as prohibitively different.
But appearances had rarely mattered to Greyson when it came to Olivia. He had always wanted her, but once he’d finally had her, he hadn’t cherished her. He had allowed distrust and jealousy to cloud his relationship with her. And his relationship with his brother.
“My hand’s fine,” he said. He could be as stubborn as Olivia when he wanted. And he wasn’t about to fail at the first obstacle. He was going to prove to her that he could do this. That he could be useful to her. To Clara.
“I like the name, by the way,” he suddenly admitted, and she lifted her eyes to his and tilted her head. He loved how she could ask a question with just that head tilt. He elaborated in answer, “Clara.”
Her eyes shuttered. “I don’t care. You didn’t have any interest in helping me choose a name for her, so I picked one I liked.”
“You chose it as a dig at me,” he said, keeping his voice light. Once he had seen that first picture of the baby, the name hadn’t mattered.
No. It had mattered. It had mattered because it had been so damned right.
“But it suits her,” he continued. “It’s pretty and sweet and perfect, just like her.”
She shrugged, a quick, birdlike rise and fall of her narrow shoulders. “Like I said before, I don’t care. Your feelings on the matter are completely moot.”
Well, hell. That stung.
He cleared his throat. There was silence while she dug around in her medical kit for whatever it was she needed. She muttered bad temperedly beneath her breath while she worked, words and half sentences that just eluded comprehension. She had had the habit for as long as he’d known her—her entire life. She grumbled to herself all the time. Happy, sad, angry, or just concentrating. Sometimes it was a list of things she needed to do. Other times it was like this . . . irritated little words and sounds that made no sense to anyone but Olivia.
He had always found the habit endearing. Even now, when he knew she was probably cursing him beneath her breath, it was cute as hell.
She gently wiped away the blood with some wet wipes, pausing for a long moment when the cleanup revealed the white gold of his wedding band. She stared but didn’t comment on it. Greyson had noticed that she no longer wore her ring, a feminine version of his.
They had had a rushed civil ceremony, nothing traditional, wanting to present family and friends with a fait accompli rather than having everyone weigh in on the subject of their nuptials. The only bit of tradition to the ceremony had been the exchange of rings, which they had chosen together.
Greyson hated that she no longer wore hers. But he couldn’t blame her for removing it. He had abandoned her at the time when a woman needed her husband most.
He hissed in shock and pain when something cold, wet, and really bloody astringent came into contact with the wound. It served as an effective distraction from his roiling thoughts, and he yanked his injured limb out of her grasp. “God. What the hell was that?”
“Don’t shout. You’ll wake Clara,” she warned, grabbing his hand again and dabbing at it some more with a wet cotton swab. Whatever was on the swab smelled sharp and surgical and burned like a son of a bitch!
He cringed when she daubed it all over his cut, his eyes watering at the vicious sting of it.
“Satan uses that shit to torture lost souls in hell,” he ground out from between tightly clenched teeth.
Olivia shot him a narrow-eyed look. “It’s antiseptic, you big baby,” she said. “Clara fussed less when she got her first shots at a mere two months.”
“Why does an infant need shots at such a young age?” he asked in horror, momentarily diverted from his own discomfort. He hated needles and couldn’t imagine his tiny daughter being stuck with one.
“Her first vaccinations,” Olivia replied, her head down again as she thankfully set the bottle of antiseptic aside to pick up the gauze. “She’s due for her second dose next week.”
Greyson didn’t say anything but wondered how she would take it if he asked to accompany them on that doctor’s visit. He filed the information away for later. She had allowed him a lot of leeway today, and he knew asking for anything more would be pushing it. He would save that particular request for a different day.
She placed a square cotton pad on his palm over the wound and wrapped it securely in gauze. Her movements were sure and efficient.
“Something tells me you’ve done this before,” he said.
“Lots of little accidents happen in restaurant kitchens. I’m certified to perform first aid and CPR,” she said, and he nodded a bit dazedly. He knew her very well, better than she realized, but she was right—there was so much they didn’t know about each other.
He tended to withhold himself from others. He hadn’t believed that she needed to know more than he wanted her to. But hearing about her first aid certification, he wondered how much more he didn’t know about her, and he was greedy—desperate—to know everything.
For the first time he understood how frustratingly elusive he must have seemed to her. He kept people at a distance, deliberately parceled out only the most basic information about himself. And he hadn’t seen the need to be any different with Olivia. He’d reasoned that she’d known him her entire life, and that was more information than most other women had ever had about him. He’d thought it would be enough.
It wasn’t.
And he now recognized that even if he hadn’t fucked everything up with his stupidity, if he had continued keeping the most important pieces of himself from her, their marriage probably would have failed anyway.
Because he had expected so much more than he had been willing to give.
“Done,” she said, releasing his hand. He immediately missed her soft, gentle touch on his skin and swallowed painfully, trying to alleviate the dryness in his throat.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, lifting his hand to inspect her neat dressing. He folded his fingers, forming a loose fist, wincing at the painful pull of his skin. “I’ll fix the water and then, when Clara’s awake, fit the bolts on the door. I’ll change the lock tomorrow. I don’t think I can do it today.”
“I don’t think you can do any of those other things today. Not with that hand,” she argued.
“I’m fine.”
“Greyson, don’t be . . .”
“I can do it, Olivia,” he said softly, and the rest of her argument petered out into a soft sigh.
“What are you trying to prove?” she asked, her voice tired.
“That you can depend on me.”
“I don’t want to have to depend on you. I don’t need you, Greyson. I can do this on my own.”
“I know you can,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
“No, I shouldn’t. But I’m going to.”
“Olivia, I want . . .”
“Stop.” She held up a hand, palm out, effectively halting the rest of his words. “You’re not a part of this family. You removed yourself, along with your wants and needs, from the equation. What you want? It’s no longer relevant.”
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, and her eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t quite place before she lowered her hand and crossed her arms over her chest.
“For what?”
“That this is so hard,” he said after a moment’s thought, and she sighed, the exhalation from her nostrils short and irritated.
“Wrong thing to be sorry about, Greyson. Care to try again?”
Not certain what she meant or what she wanted, he stared at her. Afraid to talk, knowing that he’d only say the wrong thing again.
His silence didn’t help, and she shook her head before casting her eyes to the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention.
“Fix my water, please,” she said after a long moment of strained silence. She turned and walked away, leaving him staring miserably at the empty doorway.
Libby checked on Clara when she returned to the living room and found that she was still sleeping soundly. She dragged out her laptop and sat down on the sofa, ready to start planning next month’s dessert menu. She wanted MJ’s to be renowned for fantastical and delicious desserts. She wanted to have a full evening every week dedicated to desserts. A chef’s tasting menu of only desserts.
This was a revised dream. Originally Libby had wanted to own and operate her own dessert bar, but she now wanted to spend as much time as possible with Clara. Working at MJ’s was a way for her to achieve both dreams.
But she couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts were jumbled and confusing. She should have told him to leave. Should have insisted he go. Why was he still here? She knew he would have gone if she’d insisted, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
Maybe it was the glimpses of vulnerability she had seen in his eyes and on his face. That was new. He was so far out of his comfort zone that it was ridiculous. With the clothes and the damned toolbox. She still couldn’t get over the toolbox. Typical Greyson—he didn’t do things by half measures. He had bought the biggest, heaviest, most professional-looking toolbox he could find. And Libby was pretty damned sure he didn’t have a clue what most of the tools were for.
She shouldn’t have allowed that kiss. Or reciprocated. But it had been so long since she’d felt his mouth on hers, and she’d be a liar if she said she hadn’t missed it. She was only human; she had weaknesses, and Greyson had always been her biggest one. And it was so much worse now that she knew how it felt to be held, touched, and kissed by him.
Her hand drifted up, tracing the curves of her lips as she recalled the heat of his mouth on hers. Her nipples beaded, and she groaned and flushed when she recalled the reason their kiss had stopped. She had read about sexual arousal sometimes resulting in a letdown reflex but hadn’t really thought about it after that. Since she hadn’t been particularly concerned about being sexually aroused anytime soon.
Her body was still something of a mystery to her after giving birth. There was the unfamiliar weight of her breasts. The swell of her stomach had gone down a lot, thanks to her natural slenderness, but it still retained a poochiness that she wasn’t sure would ever go away. And the fading silvery stretch marks streaking down her abdomen felt like battle scars, which she wore with pride.
There was so much about herself that she no longer understood or recognized. But that surge of arousal—the need and urgent desire—that she had felt when she had kissed Greyson had been so welcome and achingly familiar.
Until her breasts had leaked, plunging her back into confusion and reality.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself. “Get it together, Libby. He’s going to fix the water, and you’re going to send him on his way. And that will be that.”
She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath and scrubbed her palm over her face before forcing her attention back to the computer screen and going to work.
Greyson tentatively emerged from the bathroom nearly an hour later. Clara was awake, and Libby had set aside her computer in favor of playing with her baby. She was sitting on the sofa, holding Clara up in both hands and blowing raspberries on the chuckling infant’s round tummy, when Greyson walked in.
He was a mess. His hair was in disarray, and his face and still-naked chest were gleaming with sweat. He was absently patting at his chest and under his arms with his hoodie. Yet another uncharacteristic thing for the very fastidious Greyson to do. But then he followed that up by carefully folding the hoodie and placing it on the wide arm of one of her easy chairs. If she wasn’t so distracted by his utter sexiness, Libby would have laughed at the quintessentially fussy Greyson move. Something familiar amid all the unfamiliarity.
His jeans rode low on his narrow hips, exposing his sexy Adonis belt. He looked positively drool worthy, and both Clara and Libby froze when he entered the living room. They stared at him, one with a baby’s avid curiosity and the other with a woman’s sincere appreciation of a fine male form.
Libby blinked self-consciously, willing herself to look away and back to the baby, who was still dangling in front of her. Libby lowered Clara into her lap, turning her to face Greyson, at whom the infant was still staring in wide-eyed fascination.
Greyson’s eyes dropped to the curious baby, and a wide, genuine grin parted his lips for a few seconds. The expression was gone all too soon when he refocused his gaze on Libby.
“Water’s working.”
“Is it?” Libby asked in frank disbelief. She couldn’t help it: she got up, Clara in her arms, and went to the kitchen to check. After a few sputters, the water flowed without any problem at all.
“Wow, Greyson, that’s”—unexpected—“great. Thank you.”
“It’s a temporary fix. I did what I could.”
“It’s more than I was expecting,” she replied honestly, feeling terrible for underestimating him. While also feeling annoyed that this was yet another thing Greyson the Great could do.
He winced, ducking his head and avoiding her eyes while rubbing the back of his neck as if to relieve tension or muscular strain. Libby tilted her head, trying to assess his body language. He lifted his eyes to hers again, and she couldn’t quite read the expression in them.
“I didn’t quite do it alone,” he admitted softly, looking embarrassed. Her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t say anything, silently inviting him to say more. “I looked for some solutions on Google.”
Libby huffed a quiet laugh. How like Greyson to consider that a failing.
“Everybody uses the internet to seek answers sometimes, Greyson,” she said, feeling magnanimous now that he had admitted to needing help. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Momentarily diverted by the movement of his throat, Libby’s gaze snagged on that strong, tanned expanse of flesh, and she was seized by the almost uncontrollable urge to kiss him there, then lick him to taste the salt and musk of his skin.
She was so distracted by that unwelcome compulsion that she missed the first part of his next statement.
“. . . didn’t work.”
“Uh. What? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” she said self-consciously, and he cleared his throat.
“None of the so-called answers I found worked.”
“But . . . the water’s running.”
“No . . . before this. The original fix I found on the internet was the reason the water stopped working.”
“I see,” she said. When she didn’t see much of anything at all. What was he getting at?
“Nothing I googled could help me fix what I broke . . . so I had to call an expert.”
Oh.
“I see,” she said again. Leaning back against the kitchen sink and absently tugging a strand of her hair out of Clara’s grasp.
“A twenty-four-hour plumber. She talked me through what I needed to do to get the water running again. But like I said, it’s a temporary fix. You’ll need to get someone in to look at the plumbing.”
“A professional, you mean?” she asked pointedly, and he grimaced and nodded in reply.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly. His second I’m sorry in under two hours. That had to be a record for him. “I thought I could fix it.”
“Once again apologizing for the wrong things,” she said beneath her breath, and he looked taken aback by that response. She cleared her throat before asking another question. “Is the problem worse than it was before?”
“No. I just got the water back on. But the underlying problem remains the same. I can’t tell you what that is because . . .” He shrugged. “Well . . . I mean, I’m not a plumber, am I?”
The question was almost defensive, and Libby bit her lip to stop herself from laughing.
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along,” she reminded him.
“I’m paying for the plumber I called, since it was my mistake that needed resolving.”
“Yes, you are,” she agreed, pushing herself away from the sink and walking back to the sofa. He remained standing in the kitchen but turned to face her.
“No arguments?” he asked, sounding relieved, and she rolled her eyes before sitting down and tickling Clara, who dissolved into chuckles.
“Why would I argue? I’m a firm believer in the whole ‘if you broke it, fix it’ philosophy.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” he said, his voice thickening, and she lifted her eyes from the laughing baby to the man still standing in her kitchen. “I’m trying to fix what I broke, Olivia. I’m trying to fix us.”
“Greyson,” she said, her voice laden with regret. “We were broken from the start.”
“I don’t believe that. I refuse to believe that,” he said fiercely.
“Believe what you want, but you know it’s true,” she said with equal ferocity. Clara stopped babbling and stared up at her mother uncertainly, and Libby gentled her tone. “Thank you for being honest. About the plumber.”
She knew how much that must have cost his pride, and it did mean a lot that he had been truthful over something he could easily have hedged about.
“I’m trying to be different. Worthy. A good father and husband.”
“Greyson, please . . . stop,” she said on a broken whisper. “You still have the chance to be a good father.”
“But not a good husband?” he elaborated, and she sucked her lower lip into her mouth, her gaze not faltering from his intent stare. His shoulders sagged, and he cleared his throat before turning away quickly.
“I’ll get that dead bolt on the front door,” he said over his shoulder.
“You don’t have to,” she said, and he stopped, his back to her. He just stood there, not saying a word. The defeated droop of his shoulders and head got to her. She screwed her eyes shut, biting the inside of her cheek hard, before continuing, “Not now. Why don’t we have some lunch or something? You can give your hand a break and spend some time with Clara.”
He turned, the movement so swift it nearly unbalanced him. “Really?” he asked, the expression on his face boyishly keen and hard to resist.
“Greyson, this isn’t easy for me. You hurt me. You hurt us,” she said, dipping her chin toward Clara. “I don’t know how to . . . to move forward. How to forgive you. I don’t think I ever can. But Clara, she’s innocent in this, and I don’t want her hurt. You have to promise me. Promise me you won’t hurt her. You won’t make her love you and then abandon her.”
Like you did with me. Libby blinked fiercely, forcing her tears to remain at bay as she determinedly bit back the revealing words. They remained unspoken, and she hoped he wouldn’t find them lurking between the lines. She had never told him she loved him. Had never really known if she did. But she knew now. His betrayal had hurt as much as it did because she loved him.
“I’m so sorry you think I’d do that.”
She sighed impatiently, and he halted. “Another apology for the wrong thing,” she pointed out, and he made a soft sound of distress in the back of his throat.
“I promise you, Olivia,” he continued quietly. “On my life. On her life, which is more precious to me than you would ever know . . . I will never again intentionally hurt her. Or you.”
“I don’t matter,” she said, and he shook his head.
“You do.”
“No. I don’t. Clara is all that matters. You don’t hurt her, Greyson. You love her and protect her.”
“Of course,” he said. “Of course I will, Olivia. How could I not?”
Greyson stared at them, his daughter and the wife who no longer wanted to be his wife, and once again felt the urge to wrap them both in his arms and never let them go. Olivia, so fierce and beautiful and proud, didn’t want to need him, didn’t want to want him . . . and he couldn’t blame her for that.
But he still had one small glimmer of hope. Fifteen months ago, sex had been the driving force behind their relationship. It had brought them together and kept them together. For a time.
In the end it hadn’t been enough to build a foundation strong enough to support a marriage. They had needed more than just great sex. They had needed commitment, respect, understanding, trust. Mutual admiration—what some would call love. Those fundamental building blocks had been missing, and their marriage had crumbled at the first real test. But the sex . . . it had allowed them the opportunity to try.
Greyson wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice, but after that kiss he knew she still desired him. He saw how her eyes lingered on his body. Yes, she still wanted him. And if that was all he had to work with, he would damned well use it again. But this time, he’d make sure they added the other essential ingredients into their relationship. He’d make their bond so damned unbreakable even an earthquake would not be able to shatter it.
They had great, almost irresistible chemistry, and they had Clara.
He could make this work. He had to make it work.