Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

The smile became genuine when the pleasantly rounded, apple-cheeked middle-aged nurse lifted the infant and gently handed her over to Libby. Avoiding Greyson’s intense stare, Libby kept her focus on the adorably scrunched-up face of her gorgeous daughter.

“Hey there, sweet thing, are you hungry?” she asked gently. “Oh my God, you’re so beautiful.” The last was breathed reverentially as she unwrapped the folded blanket and once again took inventory of those perfect little fingers and toes, that delightful button nose, the pair of confused milky-blue eyes, and the tuft of black, downy hair on a perfectly round little head. Libby would have to say that this was probably the most perfect baby that anyone had ever birthed ever.

She tried to share a smile of delight and wonderment with Greyson and found him glowering at their tiny daughter like she was a strange and particularly unattractive species of insect. Libby hugged her baby close to her chest, immediately feeling the overwhelming urge to protect her from the borderline hostility she saw in her husband’s eyes.

The nurse was bustling about, helping Libby sit up a little straighter, elevating the hospital bed so that her back was supported.

“Do you need help feeding her, or do you think you can cope?” the woman asked brightly, and Libby shook her head, her eyes on the baby, who was already starting to root against her chest.

“I think we’ll be fine.”

“Congratulations, Daddy.” The nurse finally acknowledged Greyson’s brooding presence, and her bright smile dimmed a bit when she received nothing in response. “Um, so I’m Sister Thompson. Press the call button if you need me.”

She cast another uncertain look at Greyson before leaving.

Libby concentrated on her baby’s needs, because that was so much better than dealing with Greyson right now. She unbuttoned her pajama top and gently directed her daughter’s seeking mouth toward the nipple. The infant latched on greedily, and soon the room was filled with nothing but the sounds of her suckling and contented little snuffles.

Libby couldn’t stop touching her, brushing her thumb over the baby’s downy cheek, then the silken fluff of her black hair, the barely there brows, and her sweet nose, which looked like it would eventually take Greyson’s perfect shape. She lifted the warm, sweet-smelling bundle slightly so that she could drop a kiss onto her brow.

“You need a name, sweetheart,” she whispered against the soft skin of her baby’s head. “What about Clara?”

She deliberately chose a name she knew Greyson hated, wanting some reaction from him. Something that would show that he cared. If he protested against the name, at least she’d know he was interested, that he wouldn’t want his daughter named after his and Harris’s much-despised childhood nanny.

But he said not one word, and she lifted her eyes to his face. He was staring at the baby, his gaze hooded and his expression blank.

“Greyson?” she whispered, wanting him to look at her, to tell her what was wrong. He lifted his eyes, and all that frigid hostility came flooding back. She started shaking, feeling that ice settle into her bones.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” he said abruptly, shoving himself out of the uncomfortable-looking chair. It looked too small for his massive frame. Strange how that worked: Harris was the same height and size as Greyson, but she hadn’t feared for the chair’s immediate future when he’d been sitting in it earlier.

Greyson always seemed so much larger than life. At least he did to her. He had always been the one she’d been drawn to, even when they were kids. He’d been the broody twin, the one who would nurse a grudge and seethe in silence for hours. Harris had been, and still was, the complete opposite. His temper would boil over, and he’d have a good old rant and then go back to being his jovial self in very short order. The twins were as opposite as night and day when it came to temperament.

Growing up, Libby had always been fascinated by Greyson’s mysterious silences. Harris had never interested her in the same way. Four years younger than the brothers, Libby had known the twins her entire life but had never been a part of their social circle. Even though she had attended the same private school they had—a stipulation in both her parents’ employment contracts—she had never really belonged. Only Martine—Tina—Jenson, also ostracized from the twins’ glamorous clique of friends, had befriended her.

Libby and the twins had played together at home, of course, but when the boys had reached their teens, they had started hanging out with their social equals, had attended parties and events that nobody had ever bothered inviting Libby to. Harris had happily given her the details her voyeuristic, envious heart craved, and she would listen breathlessly and gawk at the pictures on his phone.