Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“Oh. Well. Thank you,” Libby said, a little flustered to recognize that Greyson was making real connections and friendships in town. He wasn’t a man to socialize easily, and he definitely didn’t have any close male friends that Libby knew of.

It made her think of what he had said yesterday . . . about how easy it was for her and Harris to talk and laugh and joke. Harris had said something similar to Libby a while back. And Tina had alluded to it as well. It was easy for her to make friends and socialize. It wasn’t for people like Tina and Greyson. And she didn’t always have the patience to appreciate that.

That impatience was something she needed to work on because she was now beginning to comprehend that she tended to project her unrealistic expectations onto others. Like with Tina and this restaurant: she had expected her friend to simply comprehend the ins and outs of the industry. And then, when Tina hadn’t immediately excelled at it, Libby hadn’t shown her any empathy or understanding. That did not reflect very well on her as a person or as a friend.

She needed to readjust her thinking and loosen up a bit. Life would be a lot less disappointing if she didn’t keep placing people on unrealistically high pedestals.

“She’s a darling,” Lia said, bringing Libby’s attention back to the present. “She’s been sleeping for the most part, but it’s good practice for when Sam and I have babies.”

Brand went white as a sheet at her words, and his faintly panicked expression didn’t escape Lia, who laughed and gave him a reassuring kiss.

“When Sam and I have babies, years and years from now, I meant to say. We’ll be in our dotage by the time he’s ready for parenthood,” Lia teased her, and Libby grinned. She left the couple and headed back to the kitchen, stopping when the sound of crashing glass brought all conversation to a halt.

“Sorry, sorry! More drinks on me,” Greyson shouted from across the room, and the crowd laughed.

“You’re just trying to get us all drunk, Chapman,” someone called.

“The more you drink, the more you eat, Dr. McGregor. There’s method to my madness,” Greyson retorted good naturedly, and more laughter followed. Libby watched in shock, not sure who this friendly, bantering man was, because he bore very little resemblance to the quiet, reticent man she had married. This was the man who just yesterday had told her that he had no idea how to laugh and joke, yet here he was. Showing absolute grace under fire and surprising even himself, she was sure.

“You were quite a hit with the crowd tonight,” Olivia said hours later, when she came into the office after everyone else had left.

Greyson was slumped on the lumpy sofa, feeding Clara, who was lazily kicking her legs as she contentedly drank from her bottle. He really should gift Tina with a more comfortable piece of furniture for her office. It would benefit only him in the long run, since he was the person who seemed to use it the most.

He stared at Olivia for a moment, slow to process her words. He was beyond exhausted.

“I don’t know how many glasses I broke tonight. Tina may well kill me when she returns. That kid, Vusi . . . he’s a great waiter. I’m going to talk to Tina about promoting him; he’s friendly, efficient, and coped well under pressure tonight.”

Olivia sank down onto the spare office chair. “I’m sorry about earlier . . . you were right about the busboys being support for the waitstaff. But I tend to turn into a bit of a rage monster when I feel like someone is trespassing in my kitchen.”

“Admit it . . . ,” Greyson said on a yawn. “You could have spared one or two of those vegetable-cutting dudes.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a twitch of her lips. She seemed to be battling a smile. “But when the front of house is slammed, it’s usually three times as bad in the kitchen, so I wasn’t going to risk losing them.”

“I think Ricardo may well go crying to Mummy after our little dispute earlier.”

“He did look a little freaked out, didn’t he?” Olivia asked with a giggle, and Greyson smiled, not sure what to make of her mood. She seemed relaxed, friendly . . . not as on edge as usual.

“We’d better get out of here; I’m afraid if I don’t move right now, I’ll never get off this sofa,” he said, and she got up and took Clara from him.

“You do seem to be doing a lot lately. Do you even have time for the business?” she asked as she strapped Clara into her carrier.

“Gym in the mornings, important emails and paperwork after that.” He yawned again, which set her off. And—adorably—Clara too. “That usually takes me through to lunchtime, after which I help out with the self-defense classes—depending on the day—or take on hours of boring international business calls. I prefer the classes, frankly. But one does what one must. Then it’s Clara time. My days are pretty full . . . but I’m enjoying them.”