More Than Anything (Broken Pieces 1)

“She doesn’t hate you,” Harris dismissed calmly. “You were tense and panicking. She probably picked up on that.”

“I can’t do this. You have to help me.” This time Harris did laugh. “No way. You seemed confident you could handle this. So handle it. Libby is literally a stone’s throw away if you need her. You’ll manage.”

“No. Damn it. She’ll never let me near Clara again if she thinks I can’t cope.”

“Greyson, you’re able to run a multimillion-dollar organization without blinking an eyelid—you can handle one tiny female.”

“No, I can’t!” His voice was frantic. “You know I can’t. She fucking up and left me before I had a chance to even recognize what an idiot I was. She defies handling.”

“I . . . uh . . . I meant the baby,” Harris pointed out, very determinedly keeping his grin at bay. It was really hilarious seeing Greyson this frazzled.

“Oh.”

“Now, take your daughter. I have a date to get back to. Call Libby if you run into trouble; she won’t think less of you. It’ll show that you’re more concerned for Clara than you are about your ego.”

He dropped a kiss on his sweetly cooing niece’s soft head and gently placed her back into her father’s less-than-capable arms. The crying started up again as he was leaving the office.

“Harris!” Greyson’s voice was sharp and fraught, and Harris just chuckled as he gently shut the door behind him.

Chapter Ten

“Lamb shanks braised in red wine and served on a bed of creamy mashed potatoes for milady’s gastronomic pleasure,” Harris said as he placed the foam containers on the kitchen table with a flourish.

“Awesome! I’m starving.”

“Got any wine?”

“In the cabinet above the fridge. Glasses in the cupboard next to that one. I’ll get the plates.”

They bustled around efficiently and a mere few minutes later were seated at the kitchen table, staring down at their delicious-looking meal in anticipation.

“My mother would have a heart attack if she were to see us having a meal at the kitchen table,” Harris said with a chuckle. Tina laughed.

“My mother would, too, but most of her horror would be reserved for the portion size. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to eat all of that, Martine!’”

Harris shuddered.

“God, you sound just like her! Never do that again!”

“I would hope I sound just like her—I’ve heard that phrase enough times in my life to parrot it with absolute ease.”

Harris shook his head in disgust.

“Fuck that! Dig in,” he said with relish. Tina grinned and happily obliged. While they ate, Harris told her about Greyson’s babysitting woes. He had her in stitches by the time they got to the part where Greyson had pleaded with him to stay. He paused in his story, just to watch her laugh.

She was absolutely gorgeous. Then again, she was always gorgeous, but the radiance that shone through when she laughed was fucking blinding.

Her amusement faded as she became aware of his intense stare.

“What?” she asked. “Do I have something stuck between my teeth?”

She lifted a knife and bared her straight pearly whites to check. She ran a tongue over her teeth, making little sucking sounds as she probed behind them.

“Did I get it?”

“No . . . I mean. There’s nothing in your teeth.”

“Why are you staring, then? Oh God! My nose?” She lifted her hand to cup her palm over her nose, and he chuckled.

“Your nose is clean as a syringe.”

“What? Seriously, you’re doing that deliberately, right?” she asked incredulously, and his brow lowered as he tried to figure out what she meant.

“What do you mean?”

“A syringe? Syringe? That’s the weirdest one yet. You know it’s whistle!”

“Why would it be whistle? That’s fucking gross. Think of the spit in a whistle. A syringe has to be completely hygienic. I can’t think of anything cleaner.”

Well, she couldn’t fault his logic.

“Is English even your first language?” she muttered, looking completely put out with him, and he laughed.

“So why were you staring at me?” she asked moodily, and he felt a little self-conscious about admitting the truth, sure she would shut him down the moment he said it.

“I was just appreciating how pretty you are.”

Her expression froze, and she stared at him unblinkingly. It was unnerving—he wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“There are some people who would argue with you.”

“Why should I, or more importantly you, give a fuck about what those people think? You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.”

Her face went an unbecoming shade of red. It was cute how unflattering a blush was on her pale complexion. It didn’t detract from her beauty but added to her charm.

“I don’t care what they think.” The emphasis on the personal pronoun told him that she still believed Harris cared what they thought. Of course she did. Nothing he said would ever dissuade her from thinking that. “I haven’t cared in years.”