Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

He heard the bedroom door open and sensed Olivia’s presence at the bathroom entryway before she spoke.

“You fixed it,” she said, her voice flat. He turned to face her, noticing that she had changed from jeans and a sweater into a pair of black yoga pants and a comfortable-looking slouchy white top that slid off one shoulder. Her soft, wavy black hair was swept away from her face in a high, sloppy bun.

He swallowed audibly at the sight of her. He remembered the first time he’d recognized her beauty. She’d been sixteen, and he’d been home from college for Christmas. Before that he’d never seen her as anything more than a pesky kid, but that year, he’d finally seen the exquisiteness in that delicately boned, heart-shaped face with its rounded, high cheekbones and wide, whiskey-colored eyes, framed by long, thick black lashes and accentuated with sweeping, perfectly arched brows. She had the prettiest button nose, almost too cute for the rest of the beauty in that face, but it matched the adorable dimples, which gave her smile an impish quality. Then there was her mouth, that full, luscious mouth that tasted like honey and kissed like heaven. He forced back a shudder as he recalled those gorgeous lips closing over his length and . . .

Jesus . . . this was not the time or place for these thoughts. But seeing her again stirred up so many memories. She was a contradiction in so many ways. Tall but delicate, she had the rangy athleticism of a long-distance runner but moved with the grace of a ballerina. Back when she’d been sixteen, he’d taken one look at her, still a schoolgirl, before turning around and walking out of his parents’ home. He’d spent more time away from the house that vacation than at home with his family.

After that he had gone to great lengths to avoid her. Even after she’d reached adulthood, it hadn’t felt appropriate to want the daughter of family employees. It wouldn’t have been an equal partnership. He would have felt like that guy. The one who took advantage of his family’s wealth and power to coerce the girl he wanted into sleeping with him.

But when he had seen her again last year, knowing that her parents had retired and she was an independent, career-oriented woman capable of making an informed decision about sleeping with him, all bets had been off. He had wanted her, he had known she wanted him, and that was it. He’d gone after her, he’d gotten her, and then he’d wanted to keep her.

He cleared his throat, aware of her staring at him in puzzlement when he didn’t respond to her statement.

“I didn’t fix it,” he denied. “I merely closed it. It needs to be replaced.”

She shut her eyes and shook her head tiredly. “Add that to the growing list of repairs, then.” Her voice was heavy with exhaustion.

“Where’s, aah . . . where’s the baby?” he asked.

“Clara is in her baby seat, in the living room,” she said, emphasizing the name pointedly. “She’s been fed and changed and will probably doze off soon. Now’s the time for you to say your piece and get it over with.”

She turned and headed back to the living room, where she curled up in an easy chair and watched him as he followed and tentatively perched on the edge of the sofa. His eyes were drawn to the cooing baby, whose seat was on a small table, as she clumsily swept her chubby hands at the bright mobile dangling above her. She was making happy little sounds, gurgling and bubbling like a cheerful brook.

“What do you want, Greyson?” Olivia asked pointedly, and he looked at her, stunned by the directness of her question.

“You. Clara.” Perhaps not the most appropriate of responses, considering the frigidity of her expression.

“You can’t have us, so what’s next?”

“Olivia, I know I fucked up,” he said, and she nodded.

“You did.” She didn’t give him anything more than that.

“I’m trying to fix it.”

“You can’t.”

“Olivia . . .” He tried hard to keep the misery he was feeling from seeping into his voice, but he wasn’t sure he was successful.

“Greyson,” she began in an unemotional, perfectly reasonable tone of voice. “This was no small thing. You don’t get a do-over on something like this. And I’m not just talking about the night of her birth—I’m talking about the months and months of disinterest and absolute contempt before that. It was like being married to a ghost. You were never there. You couldn’t have made your lack of anything resembling affection or concern for me, or her, any clearer. I don’t want you in my life any longer, and if I could get away with it, I would prefer not to have you be a part of Clara’s life either.”