Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

It had once been so easy to love him. To permit herself to be vulnerable with him . . . but he had taken that vulnerability and stomped all over it.

She had vowed never to let him close enough to do that again.

But in that moment, in the warm, soft darkness, with her baby’s snuffling breaths lightly peppered in between Greyson’s heavier exhalations, Libby remembered how wonderful it had been to simply trust that he would never hurt her.

She allowed that false sense of comfort and security to wash over her before finally falling asleep.

Chapter Fourteen

The first thing Libby saw when she opened her eyes the following morning was the flower. A pretty, freshly bloomed purple African daisy. Its petals glistened with raindrops, and it could only have come from her garden.

She sat up and stared at the simple, lovely blossom. It lay on the pillow that still held the impression of Greyson’s head.

“Damn it, Greyson,” she whispered, hating the sweet unexpectedness of the gesture. But hating herself even more for being so oddly affected by it. It felt like her brain had turned to mush over a silly, tiny romantic gesture that only a teenage girl should have gone so giddy over.

Exhaling on a shuddery gasp, she picked up the hardy early-spring flower.

“Good morning.”

She turned her head to look at Greyson. He stood in her bedroom doorway, Clara in the crook of one arm and a bottle in his other hand.

It had been a rough night for all of them. Clara had woken them several times more, and they had groggily taken turns soothing the baby and taking care of her needs. Libby hadn’t even considered the appropriateness of having him stay over until now. It was unsettling how seamlessly he had integrated into her and Clara’s routine.

“What’s this for?” she asked, lifting the flower.

“Happy birthday,” he said, his voice rough with sincerity. “I would have made breakfast in bed, but I’m sure you know how that would have turned out.”

The statement surprised a laugh out of Libby. With everything that had happened recently, she hadn’t given her birthday any thought at all. And she was shocked Greyson had remembered it.

“Thank you,” she said, offering him a small smile. She felt a little shy and not at all sure why that was. “How’s young miss today?”

“Still uncomfortable, but I’ve been giving her a steady supply of iced teething toys. She’s had some mashed banana and pear for breakfast, but she was more interested in chewing her spoon.”

“Thank you for all your help last night,” Libby said, idly running her fingers over the daisy’s soft petals.

“Least I could do after you so kindly offered to let me stay.”

“I should get ready for work.”

“Of course.” He nodded and started to leave before pausing. “I was wondering if we could have dinner on Sunday. We need to talk.”

“Greyson,” she said with an impatient sigh. “Our talks never achieve anything.”

“It’s important, Olivia.”

“Fine. But no more ridiculously romantic, highly inappropriate restaurants. I’ll cook, and you can come here. That way I won’t need a sitter for Clara.”

He looked hesitant. “I was hoping for neutral territory,” he said, the words emerging slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“Why? Are you expecting our conversation to get volatile?”

“Possibly,” he admitted, and her eyebrows flew up in surprise at his honesty.

Extremely curious now, she tilted her head and eyed him speculatively. “We could go to Chris’s café. But for lunch. I don’t want to do dinner.” It was too intimate.

“Your friend? The model? The one you worked for when you first came here?”

Libby wondered if it was possible for one’s eyebrows to ascend all the way to the top of one’s head. Because that was how high she felt hers had risen.

“Ex-model. And how did you know all of that? Did Harris tell you?”

“No. Nobody spoke to me much after you left.” He sounded so morose admitting it that Libby very nearly felt sorry for him. Very nearly. Until she remembered why everybody had been pissed off with him.

“So how did you know I’d worked for Chris? How did you know I was here in the first place?” Why had it never occurred to her to ask him that before? Harris and Tina wouldn’t have told him. His parents hadn’t known. They had sent care packages for Clara to her parents, who in turn had forwarded them to Libby.

“That’s part of what I want to talk to you about on Sunday.”

“I think this is something you can tell me now. Since I’ve asked, and it’s a simple question requiring a simple answer.”

“Maybe the answer isn’t that simple,” he retorted. He looked at Clara, and his expression softened. His shoulders sagged in defeat, and he continued speaking without diverting his gaze from his daughter’s face. As if he didn’t want to see Libby’s reaction to his words. “I hired an investigator. Immediately after you left the hospital. It was my last lucid act for a while . . . but I had to be sure you and Clara were okay.”