Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

Chapter Twelve

“Any trouble tonight?” Olivia asked when she returned home that night. Greyson, who had been dozing on the couch before she walked in, felt disoriented and confused by her question.

“What do you mean?” he asked, then cleared his sleep-roughened throat. He massaged the stiff nape of his neck and stared down at his wife, who looked as tired as he felt.

“With Clara?” she prompted him.

“Oh. No. She protested a little when it came to the bottle, but she took it with less fuss than last night. We played a bit, and I washed and changed her. After that we settled down to watch some TV together . . . nothing bad,” he hastened to add. “Some reality show about baking. I thought she’d want to learn some skills so that she could be a fantastic baker like her mum someday. She fell asleep during the program, but I learned some fascinating things about the history of lamingtons.”

Olivia rewarded him with a smile and toed off her shoes with a relieved groan before padding into the bedroom. Greyson didn’t follow her but heard her softly talking to Clara through the baby monitor, which he had placed on the coffee/bedside table. He moved to gather up his laptop, phone, and baby book. He knew he could google some of the stuff in that book, but there were things in there that would never even have occurred to him to look up or think about.

Olivia stood with her shoulder braced against the bedroom doorframe and watched him pack.

“I started her on solids today. She loved the mashed banana. Her face was a revelation,” she said with a laugh, and Greyson felt his stomach tighten. He would have loved to see that.

“Wish I’d seen it,” he said, his voice wistful.

“Me too,” she said unconsciously and then grimaced when she realized what she had said. “You’re going to miss some things, Greyson. I am too. You’ll witness things that I won’t and vice versa. That’s the nature of the beast, I’m afraid.”

“I wish it were different.”

“It’s not.”

“So what was your meeting about?” he asked curiously, thinking it prudent to change the subject.

“Tina has hired a marketing-and-PR person. She wanted me to know about the marketing strategy they’ve come up with for MJ’s.”

“That’s a good move. The place needs help. It’s been close to empty every time I’ve been there.”

“Yes, like I said before, Tina’s been half assing it . . .” She paused for a moment before shaking her head slowly. “That’s not entirely fair. This business is new to her, but she is trying to make it work. And Daff, the PR consultant, has lit a fire under her butt, and Tina looks a lot more motivated now.”

“That’s good.”

“How’s your hand?” she asked. The question was unexpected, as was the action that followed it. She reached for his injured hand to inspect the dressing that he had meant—but forgotten—to remove that morning after the gym.

“Better,” he said, unable to properly breathe while she had his hand so tenderly grasped in both of hers. Her thumbs gently probed at the fleshy part of his palm through the dressing, but he barely felt a twinge. He swallowed when one of her thumbs swept up to his wedding ring and traced the smooth surface of the gold.

“Why do you still wear this?” she asked. Her voice was husky with some undefined emotion, and Greyson couldn’t get an accurate read on her mood.

“Because we’re still married. Why don’t you wear yours?” He shouldn’t have asked. It was a foolish question, and he knew exactly what her answer would be.

“Because I don’t feel married,” she responded, saying what he had known she would. Thankfully she didn’t elaborate on his flaws and his stupidity again but left it at that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and she stepped even closer and placed a quelling index finger over his lips, silencing anything else he might want to add.

“Again. Wrong.”

Greyson knew he was apologizing for the wrong things. He knew what she wanted, but how the hell did Greyson apologize for something so damned disgraceful he couldn’t even forgive himself for it? I’m sorry wouldn’t even begin to cover it. And when he found the right words, or when the people in charge of such things created new ones to adequately describe his remorse and shame, that was when he would apologize.

The front of her body was pressed against his, so damned warm and tempting. Her beautiful eyes were entangled with his, and her lips, moist and juicy and enticing, were right there, within kissing distance . . . and fuck, he wanted to kiss her so damned badly. He wanted to do that . . . and more. But he couldn’t. He no longer had that right, and he wished he had the strength to step away from her, but he couldn’t do that either. So he remained standing there, close enough for her to feel his arousal, for him to inhale the wonderful scent of her, to feel her heat and her every breath.