Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

Prologue

Eleven months ago

This party blows. The words flitted through Libby Lawson’s mind—not for the first time that evening—as she propped up a wall and watched people who were really no more than casual acquaintances talk too fast, laugh too loud, and hook up with careless abandon.

This wasn’t Libby’s usual scene. Not that she had a usual scene. Her work as a sous-chef at a tiny but exclusive restaurant in London’s Soho kept her much too busy to attend many parties. But a few of her colleagues had insisted on dragging her out to some media mogul’s rooftop on her one free night of the week. And then had immediately abandoned her.

Libby had no real clue whose party this was, and, after being hit on by several random drunk guys—and one drunk chick—she was about ready to make a discreet exit.

Her feet were killing her; she wasn’t used to the stilettos her flatmate had convinced her to wear. Libby was all about practical footwear. Why anyone would want to wear four-inch spikes on their feet was beyond her.

She ran disinterested eyes rapidly over the gathering of slightly too perfect people and froze when her gaze met a familiar dark, brooding stare.

Greyson Chapman? Recognition, shock, and awareness immediately sizzled through her body and froze her on the spot. God, talk about a blast from the past.

Even more startling was the fact that when he looked up and met her eyes, he seemed to instantly recognize her. Meeting his serious gaze felt like a jolt of electricity shooting through her entire body. He maintained eye contact, and she shoved herself away from the wall and waited as he pushed his way through the throngs toward her.

As an impressionable teen, Libby had always been fascinated by Greyson’s dark mysteriousness. By comparison, everyone else she knew—including his twin—was an open book. But Greyson had intrigued her with his silences, his brooding, and his emotional distance from even those closest to him. She had followed him everywhere, until he had called her a stalker and told her to back off. At fourteen to his eighteen, she had retreated, humiliated beyond bearing to have her crush talk to her like that.

He’d gone to Yale in the United States soon after that confrontation, and she had continued with her life. Seeing him only rarely on his returns home for the holidays. And then not at all when she’d gone off to culinary school.

“Olivia.” His dark, deep voice sent a shudder of intense familiarity through her, and her nipples beaded instantly.

She had always felt that awareness around Greyson, but he had never seemed to reciprocate.

“Greyson.”

“Let’s go.” He held out his hand to her, and she stared at it for a long moment before taking it with a quirk of her lips. His warm, dry, much-larger hand folded around hers, and he tugged her toward the exit.

She was wobbly on the unfamiliar heels but managed to keep up all the way down to his chauffeur-driven luxury car.

He paused to say something to the driver, but Libby and Greyson didn’t speak to each other until they were in the back, side by side, concealed from the driver’s eyes—and all other curious gazes—by tinted windows.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, wasting no time as his eyes trailed over her body and face. Leaving her with goose bumps, aching nipples, and an unfamiliar hot, heavy wetness between her thighs.

Beautiful?

Her throat was dry, and she felt dizzy as she tried to orient herself to this new reality. A reality within which Greyson Chapman thought she was beautiful. She swallowed several times before she felt confident enough to speak.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” she croaked. His lips tilted at the corners as he continued to stare at her with predatory intent. God, what the hell was this? He had never before stared at her with such overt desire in his eyes.

She was wearing a silky black halter-neck jumpsuit with a plunging back. The flowing pant legs and the four-inch heels made her appear much taller than her actual height of five feet seven. Her black, wavy hair tumbled wild and free down her back and framed her face. She had tried to make an effort and knew she looked good tonight, but still, she didn’t think she looked that different from the Olivia Lawson whom Greyson had known and ignored for most of his life.

He was wearing a tuxedo—much too formal for the rooftop party—and it was nearly midnight, which meant that it couldn’t possibly have been his first event of the evening. She discreetly sniffed the air, wondering if he was a bit inebriated. She smelled nothing but the fresh, masculine scent of the probably exorbitantly expensive aftershave he used and a faint whiff of tobacco smoke.

God, he looked amazing. His strong jaw was dark with stubble. And his lean, austere face, so similar to—and yet so very different from—that of his twin brother, Harris, was as beautiful as she remembered. He had perfect, bow-shaped lips; a sharp, arrogant nose; deep-set, dark-blue eyes that could pierce your soul set between thick, lush eyelashes; and straight dark brows. His black hair was conservatively cut, with a side part. Short and no nonsense. Even as a boy he had never seemed interested in having it longer or more stylish.