“Big of you,” Harris said sardonically. “So I can expect an apology soon, then?”
Greyson knew his brother deserved an apology—because no matter how much time Harris had spent with Olivia, Greyson should have trusted him. Trusted them both. Harris and Olivia had always been friends, and maybe if he had said something about how he felt, things wouldn’t have escalated the way they had. But he didn’t quite know how to say sorry for something so completely unforgivable. And God knew if he couldn’t apologize to his brother, he didn’t stand a chance in hell with Olivia, because she deserved more than apologies. She deserved nothing less than to have him standing in front of her barefoot on broken glass, begging for her forgiveness. And even that wasn’t enough.
Not for the first time, the daunting task that lay ahead of him nearly made him turn tail and run. Or head for the closest bar, where he could drown his fear and anguish with more alcohol.
He was such a coward. A fucking coward. He blinked and tried to focus on the here and now with Harris.
“Is that what you want, Harris?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and controlled. “An apology? Will that fix everything? Make it all right again?”
Harris tilted his head and watched him for a long moment as he considered his question. Eventually he shook his head, and Greyson’s heart sank.
“I don’t know. But it’s a step in the right direction.” Harris watched him expectantly for a moment, but Greyson, never very good at expressing emotion, could find nothing further to say. Harris’s face reflected cynicism and exasperation, and he shook his head before walking away, retreating to his room.
Greyson’s shoulders slumped, and he picked up his bag. Best to get some sleep. He was going to need to keep his wits about him and his energy up. God knew he had an uphill battle ahead of him.
Libby couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned for hours, hating that she was allowing Greyson to upset her this much. She groaned and sat up in frustration, throwing the bedcovers off and pushing herself out of the bed. She crossed the short distance between her bed and Clara’s crib and checked on her baby. It wasn’t time for her feed yet, and she was sleeping peacefully, sprawled on her back, one chubby little arm flung up over her head.
Naturally Libby tried to sleep when Clara slept, but that was proving impossible tonight. She ran a frustrated hand through her bed-mussed hair and shuffled her feet into her fuzzy slippers. Then she padded into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove top. Maybe some chamomile tea would help her relax enough to get some sleep.
She stood in the kitchen, impatiently drumming her fingers on the cracked Formica countertop closest to the gas stove while she waited for the kettle to boil. The wind was howling, and rain lashed against the kitchen window. A vicious stormy night, perfectly suited to her mood.
The kettle finally boiled, and she dropped a tagged tea bag into a mug before pouring hot water over it.
She dunked the tea bag in and out of the water in a restless up-and-down motion while she stared out into the black night. She didn’t know what she was going to do about Greyson. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe he would leave her alone, now that he was here. He would want to see Clara. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t believe the baby was his. What had changed his mind was anybody’s guess, especially since he’d said he hadn’t had any paternity tests done. She refused to be curious about whatever the hell motivated him. All she needed to do was maintain her resolve to not allow him any leeway.
He didn’t deserve it. And more to the point, she and Clara didn’t deserve to be treated like second-class citizens finally good enough for his notice. In hindsight, so many things bothered her about their hasty marriage.
The secrets more than the distrust.
If he had truly believed he was infertile, he had married her without once considering how she might feel about possibly never having children.
Selfish bastard.
She thought back to the first time he had proposed. That should have been a strong indication of what she was letting herself in for. She had laughed it off at first, but after just six weeks, she had been unable to resist him. Stupid. So stupid.
Libby shook herself and stared down at her forgotten tea. She had been so lost in her memories that the tea had gone cold and the bag was completely submerged. She clicked her tongue and tossed the cold liquid down the kitchen sink. She briefly contemplated making another cup of tea, but Clara started fussing and then crying.