Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“It was good,” he agreed, and she smiled. Greyson Chapman would never use a frivolous word like fun. She had often wondered if he even knew how to have fun. He had always been so quiet and serious. She had known him her entire life, and she couldn’t recall once hearing him laugh out loud.

She knew he was surprised by the fact that she’d been a virgin; many of her friends and acquaintances would have been as well. She wasn’t shy, or prudish about sex, and she’d had no noble objectives of abstinence before marriage. She had simply been busy and too distracted by her studies and then work to bother with the opposite sex. She had been much too exhausted most of the time to concern herself with dating and often wondered how others found the time to manage a successful career along with a healthy relationship.

She couldn’t believe she had so meekly done his bidding tonight. Following him out of that party like an eager little puppy. She hadn’t given it a moment’s thought, and she wondered: Had she reconnected with Greyson at the restaurant instead of a party, would her work have taken precedence as it had on so many other occasions? Or would the end result—them in bed together—have been inevitable? She tilted her head to look at him, and yes, she had no doubt at all that she would have been in this exact same position, regardless of where or when they had met again. She would probably have followed him right out of the restaurant at the merest haughty crook of his finger.

It was a humiliating realization. She was still such a giddy girl when it came to Greyson.

She had stayed in contact with his brother, Harris, of course. They texted and called each other often. He was one of her dearest friends, and she couldn’t imagine not maintaining contact with him. But she had lost track of Greyson. He was literally the last person on earth she’d expected to see tonight. So very far away from his home in Cape Town.

And while she would never in a million years have believed they’d wind up in bed together, there had been a sense of inevitability to their union. This man, who had avoided her at all costs and had never so much as looked at her after her sixteenth birthday, was now her lover, and it was incredibly surreal.

“The condom broke,” he pointed out gruffly, and she pushed herself up onto her elbow to look down into his remarkably unperturbed face.

“Did it?” She wasn’t particularly concerned; she knew how fastidious Greyson was about his health. And pregnancy was highly unlikely, considering she had finished her period just a few days before.

“Yeah, the first time.”

“I’m not on the pill,” she said, and he shrugged before stretching and yawning languorously.

“You were a virgin,” he said after his long, catlike stretch, his voice completely lacking inflection.

“I was. No time for lovers.”

“You want to get married?” he asked.

“Eventually,” she responded, baffled by the question.

“I meant to me.” His voice was still ridiculously nonchalant, and Libby huffed an incredulous little laugh.

“Don’t be preposterous,” she said dismissively, curling up against his chest as one of his hands dropped to her butt cheek and squeezed.

“I’m serious.”

She lifted her head again and met his sleepy blue eyes curiously.

“Why?” she asked, entertaining his silliness for the moment. Greyson wasn’t one to really make jokes, but this couldn’t be anything other than a jest.

“Why not? We’ve known each other for years. And we’re clearly sexually compatible. I have to settle down at some point, and I think we’d be good together.”

Marriage. To Greyson.

For a moment she allowed herself to fantasize. Once, long ago, she had dreamed of just such an eventuality. To have ownership of his heart and his body. To allow him the same over hers. She played that out in her mind for a moment. Imagining the life they’d build together. He would finally allow her into the dual fortresses of his heart and mind. She would know his every secret, understand what made him tick. And she would use the knowledge to make him adore her as much as she had once adored him. As she could so easily come to adore him again. It was a heady little fiction. And she knew it stemmed from the vestiges of her long-ago adolescent crush.

Her current reality was exciting and surreal enough without adding to it with ridiculous fantasies.

Besides, he couldn’t possibly be serious.

“I don’t need a husband,” she pointed out, feigning insouciance with a roll of her eyes. She thought about that broken condom. Was that where this was coming from? And what if—against all odds—she was pregnant? She wouldn’t have to marry if she was, but it would be better. She stared at his beautiful, stern features for another long moment and acknowledged that she still felt that absurd pang of excitement mixed with desire, awareness, and fascination when she looked at him. She deliberately forced those emotions aside. Hating how vulnerable they made her feel.