Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

He wondered where Harris had gone and was tempted to message his brother to ask. But he knew the man wouldn’t reply. The recognition of that fact made Greyson feel a little lost.

And a lot lonely.

Greyson had never before felt lonely, and it had taken him a beat or two to even identify the curious emptiness in his chest as loneliness. He took a shower, the water lukewarm after Harris’s shower earlier, and then walked around in underwear and socks for a while, reluctant to drag on one of the many suits he’d brought along with him. They were all carelessly flung over the back of the rickety chair in his room, still in their garment bags. Unusual for him. He didn’t like disorder. He had briefly toyed with the idea of unpacking his suitcase and hanging up his suits, but . . . an unfamiliar apathy, mixed with the belief that he’d probably be moving from this house soon, kept him from doing so.

Still, he couldn’t walk around in his underwear all day long, and he definitely couldn’t wear a three-piece suit in this tiny beach town. Harris’s bedroom door was ajar, and his duffel bag lay open on his bed. After staring at the bag for a long time, Greyson determinedly strode into his brother’s room and rifled through his stuff.

The sportswear the other man had brought felt soft and a lot more wearable than Greyson had ever thought possible. Before he knew it, he had dragged on navy-blue sweatpants with a matching hoodie and a pair of his brother’s scuffed trainers.

He felt odd. Unlike himself . . . but curiously light and free.

He dragged his hands through his hair and considered his options. For a brief moment he toyed with the idea of going to MJ’s. Talking to Olivia.

But he knew it wouldn’t go well. He needed to know what to say to her, and right now he didn’t have a clue. And after comprehending that she might know about his accusations to Harris . . . the thought of facing her was daunting.

In the end he withdrew to his room, shoved his suitcase to the floor, and curled up on the bed. He retreated into sleep mere minutes later.

Chapter Five

It was a quiet lunch service, and while that was bad for business, part of Libby appreciated the easy pace because it allowed her kitchen staff to get into a comfortable working rhythm. A few of the cooks were left over from the former kitchen staff, but Libby had chosen her own sous-chef, butcher, and fish chefs. They had had a few trial runs earlier that week, practicing prep for some of the dishes Libby had created for the new menu, but nothing could really prepare a team for working together in an open kitchen for the first time. There had been a few hiccups last night, but because it had been a slower night, they had been able to smooth out the wrinkles, and they were running more efficiently today.

As head chef, Libby had creative license over the entire menu and made sure her kitchen ran like a well-oiled machine. They were getting there, and she was more than happy with her team.

They were halfway through lunch service, and Libby—whose passion lay in confectionaries—was in her happy place, at the dessert station. She turned to pick up her piping bag and froze in her tracks. For a heart-stopping second, she thought the tall, dark, gorgeous man standing staring at her with a tentative smile on his lips was Greyson. But the crooked nose, so unlike Greyson’s, and the loose-limbed relaxed stance, nothing like the rigid, military precision of her husband’s posture, quickly identified him as Harris.

“Hey, Bug. I’ve missed you.”

“Oh my God, Harris.” She choked on his name before happily walking into his arms. He enfolded her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground in the process.

“I’ve missed you too,” she said into his shoulder, her voice muffled. They stood wrapped up in their embrace for a moment, happy to reconnect after such a long and emotional absence. Libby pushed at his chest after a few self-indulgent moments more, and he let her go. She wiped her damp cheeks with the backs of her slender hands and cast a self-conscious glance around the kitchen. The rest of the staff were pointedly keeping their heads down.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice pitched low.

“The waitress said it would be okay if I popped in to say hi.”

“Not in the kitchen, here in Riversend.”

“I wanted to make sure my brother toed the line and didn’t hurt you again.”

She compressed her lips before looking around for Agnes Ngozi, her second.

“Agnes, continue prepping for dessert, please. I’m stepping out for a few minutes. Send for me if you need anything.”