Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

At twelve she had taken to following Greyson around, happy to watch him while he sunbathed at the pool, content to sit a few meters away while he studied in the garden, satisfied to gaze at him while he ate whatever quick snack he had mooched off her mother. Surprisingly, Greyson had allowed that to go on for a couple of unhealthy years before seemingly getting sick of her. Which had led to the lowest, most humiliating point of her relationship with him. She could still hear the disgust in his voice when he’d flat out called her creepy and commanded her to stop “stalking” him.

She shook her head now at the ridiculous child she had been. Libby had left for culinary school four years after the boys had gone to college. She had set aside her childhood infatuation with Greyson Chapman and had instead focused on building a reputation as a pastry chef.

She had dreamed of opening her own dessert bar and had worked brutally long hours in the kitchens of some of the top restaurants in Paris, Rome, and London, striving to achieve that goal. Until eleven months ago, when all of that forward momentum had come to a grinding halt. Two months after meeting him again, she had found herself married and—as she would later discover—pregnant. Or maybe that was pregnant and married. She had never been entirely sure of the timing. But this little one had been born just over nine months after their rushed wedding.

Maybe Greyson felt trapped, forced into a life that he’d never really wanted. But he had pushed for the marriage. They had seen each other every night for two months after that rooftop party, and he had mentioned—sometimes practically demanded—marriage every single night of their “courtship.” If nearly two months of constant sex—and little else—could be considered a courtship.

Libby had finally caved because her infatuation had returned with a vengeance, and it had felt more intense with sex thrown into the mix. It had started to feel perilously close to love. And because he had made her feel so damned special, with his slavish attention to her every little need, both in bed and out, she had wondered if he was verging on feeling the same way about her.

She thought back to those first few months of marriage. Everything had seemed fine. She had been dazed by the speed of their nuptials, and they had been dealing with parental disapproval on both sides—the only one who had seemed truly happy for them was Harris. And despite her relative inexperience, the sex had been off the charts. Even though her entire life had been devoted to her craft, without much time for intimate relationships, Libby had known that what she had with Greyson was rare and uniquely intense.

When Libby had discovered that she was pregnant, she had thought they could actually make something of their marriage. It hadn’t been planned and had definitely put her career on hold, but Libby had been ecstatic at the thought of a baby.

Greyson had not been as thrilled.

But she had expected his attitude to change, soften perhaps, as her pregnancy advanced. Instead, he had retreated further and further from her. Leading to today. To this moment . . .

Where it appeared that her husband hated her.

And their baby.

He returned ten minutes later, by which time the baby had been fed and burped already. Libby was staring down at her beautiful daughter raptly when Greyson reentered the room. She looked up and held his eyes for a brief moment before allowing her gaze to travel over his face and body. There were circles under his deep-set, dark-blue eyes, giving his handsome face a gaunt appearance. He looked absolutely exhausted; his strong jaw was blue with stubble, and his thick, silky black hair stood up in tufts. He had clearly agitated it with his fingers, as he was wont to when he was stressed or tired. He was wearing a gray, pin-striped, Dior three-piece suit, but half of his pale-blue shirt hem was untucked and hanging over the front of his waistband, his tie was askew, and as she watched, he tugged his jacket off and threw it over the back of the visitor’s chair, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his tanned, corded forearms. She loved his arms and hands—they were so strong and capable. In the beginning, she had often lain wrapped in those arms, running her fingers over the veined ridges on his hands.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. They hadn’t been that close or intimate in months.

His cool gaze dropped to the baby’s sleeping face.

“Would you like to hold her?” she asked, her voice low, and his eyes snapped up to hers. Something resembling horror roiled in those dark-blue depths.

“She’s asleep, I don’t want to disturb her.” The panic in his tone melted her heart—he was terrified. Greyson probably had the same reservations and doubts she had about being a good parent. Why hadn’t she realized that before? It was easier for her to adjust and to love this little stranger thrust so suddenly into their midst. She had carried the baby under her heart for months. Greyson hadn’t had that luxury. He probably just needed a chance to develop the same bond with his daughter.