“Neutral territory, huh?” he grumbled, unable to prevent himself from lifting his seething gaze to Olivia.
Crap, Chris was really going overboard with the protective-friend bit. Libby understood that Greyson had to feel ambushed and felt guilty to have led him straight into it. But she hadn’t expected this show of macho alpha male bullshit from her usually easygoing friend. Like she didn’t have enough to deal with already. She knew Chris thought he was looking out for her, and part of it stemmed from how emotionally fragile she had been when she’d first arrived here all those months ago. It had kicked his protective instincts into hyperdrive, and he had taken on a big-brother role that seemed to have morphed into whatever the hell this was.
“Chris, se détendre s’il vous plaît.”
Her friend glared at her, clearly not happy with her telling him to relax. Greyson raised his eyebrows at her words, and she sighed. She had forgotten he spoke fluent French. Also German, Japanese, Italian, Mandarin . . . and probably a few more that she had forgotten about.
“I will bring your entrée,” Chris said stiffly, and Libby bit back a groan. She was getting heartily sick of men and their brittle egos. He turned away, still holding Clara, but when the baby realized he was carrying her away from them, she uttered a protesting cry and reached her arms out toward Greyson.
Libby’s mouth fell open. It was the first time Clara had ever reached out to a specific person. Toys and her bottle, yes, but never an actual person. Her eyes tracked over to Greyson, who was staring at the baby’s outstretched arms in disbelief.
His gaze flew to Libby’s, alight with joy and something that looked very much like relief. The smile that lit his face was an appealing mix of pride, happiness, and absolute vulnerability. As if he wasn’t quite sure he could believe what he was seeing.
“She’s never done that before,” he said, his voice hushed, and Libby couldn’t help but return his elated grin.
“No, she hasn’t.”
The baby was still reaching for Greyson and wriggling in Chris’s arms in an attempt to get to her father. Greyson got up to take her, and when Chris relinquished his hold on her writhing little body, she practically launched herself into Greyson’s arms.
“Hey, sweetheart. Do you want to stay with Mummy and Daddy? That’s okay, my darling. You can sit with us.” He held her close and kissed her cheek.
“I will return in a few minutes,” Chris said, taking Clara’s rejection with a good-natured smile.
“Thanks, Chris,” Libby said as Greyson took his seat across from her. He was still talking to Clara and made sure she was settled on his lap, her pacifier in her mouth as she snuggled into his chest, her sleepy gaze on Libby’s face. She was absently tugging at Greyson’s red silk tie. He was dressed to a T today: three-piece navy-blue suit and red tie with a pair of black wingtip shoes on his feet. He looked like the Greyson Chapman she knew, and—her thoughts skidded to a halt before she could complete the phrase. Well, he looked like the Greyson Chapman she knew.
Familiar, austere, distant.
“So you and Chris—”
“He’s just a friend,” Libby interrupted tautly.
“Seems to me he fancies himself as more than that.”
“You’re imagining things,” she said dismissively.
“Possibly. Perhaps because I find it hard to imagine any man wanting to be just your friend.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Libby said, not sure if she found his words flattering or disturbing.
Chris returned with a couple of tall glasses.
“Green apple and lemongrass soda,” he murmured as he placed the glasses in front of them. “I know you don’t want to be disturbed, so I took the liberty of preparing a meal for you.”
“Merci, Chris,” Libby said with a grateful smile, while Greyson just glared at the man. Chris popped away for a few seconds before returning with beautifully presented scallop dishes.
“Butter-seared scallops with ginger-infused shallots.”
He left before either of them could thank him.
Greyson didn’t say anything, ignoring his plate while Libby picked up her fork and sampled one of the scallops. She couldn’t contain her moan of delight as the flavors sang on her appreciative tongue.
“You should try it,” she prompted him, pointing at his untouched plate with her fork.
“I’m not hungry. And let’s face it, we’re not really here to eat.”
Well, that definitely killed what little she had in the way of appetite. Libby set aside her fork and watched as he leaned to the side and picked up his bag. He fumbled around in it with his free hand before removing a familiar-looking A4 envelope from the bag. He placed the envelope in the center of the table between them. His gesture similar to hers when she had given the envelope to him a month ago.
“I signed them,” he said, not meeting her eyes. Instead he focused on Clara’s face. The baby looked on the verge of falling asleep. “There are a few changes, of course. With regards to, uh, custody, but I’m sure you’ll find my requests reasonable.”