Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

In the end he armored up . . . going with what was familiar and safe. He figured he was going to need the extra protection.

“This is quite off the beaten track,” Greyson observed when they arrived at the quaint cabin nestled among tall yellowwood trees. The place was aptly named Le Café de la Forêt.

“Didn’t your investigator inform you of that fact?” Olivia asked caustically. She dragged Clara’s nappy bag from the back seat, while Greyson unbuckled the baby from her seat.

At Olivia’s insistence, they had traveled in separate cars. Greyson had chosen not to argue, meekly following her from her house for nearly forty minutes before they arrived at their destination. Her sarcastic question about the investigator didn’t bode well for the rest of their talk. She was clearly still upset with him after his revelations on her birthday, and Greyson hated that they were starting such a crucial discussion off on the wrong foot.

The door to the café opened, and a tall, impressively built man with sharp, striking features stepped out.

“Aaah, you brought my little bonbon for a visit,” he raved, heading straight toward Greyson and plucking Clara from his arms before he could react. Greyson instinctively moved to grab her back, but the baby was chortling happily, and the man was already at Olivia’s side and sweeping her up into an effusive hug.

Greyson stared in mute frustration as this . . . this godlike creature of masculine perfection monopolized Greyson’s family’s attentions and affections for endless moments. Fussing over a babbling Clara and peppering Olivia with questions about the restaurant, her new recipes, how she was doing, how the house was shaping up . . . while not acknowledging Greyson at all.

Asshole.

Greyson stepped forward and deliberately invaded their cozy little cocoon of hugs and kisses. “Greyson Chapman,” he interrupted rudely, thrusting his hand out pointedly. The other man, Chris, stepped away from Olivia and thankfully dropped his arm from around her shoulders. He looked down at Greyson’s hand for a long moment before shaking it. The action was pointedly reluctant and perfunctory.

“Oui, I know who you are,” the guy said, his voice cold.

“Greyson and I have important matters to discuss, Chris.” Olivia’s quiet voice.

“I will happily keep my sweet little Clara occupied while you do that.” He kissed Clara’s cheek, and the baby gurgled happily in response. “Did you miss your oncle, ma petite? I missed you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Greyson protested, hating how at home Clara seemed in the man’s arms. How clearly familiar he was with her. “She can stay with us.”

“Nonsense, we are old friends, Clara and I. She remembers all those poopy diapers I had to change. And all those times I rocked her to sleep and soothed her when she cried. Not so, little one?”

“She probably doesn’t,” Greyson said tautly. “Babies only start remembering people they don’t see regularly when they’re six months old.”

“Clara is much more intelligent than your average baby.”

Well, there was no way Greyson could argue with that, since he happened to agree with it. He clammed up. He couldn’t help resenting the history Chris had with both Clara and Olivia, but he was unable to deny that the man had been there for them at a time when Greyson had been too incapacitated by his own self-pity and weakness to do the job himself.

Chris slid an arm around Olivia’s waist and led her into the restaurant, leaving Greyson standing there like a chump. They looked like the perfect little family, and jealousy gnawed painfully away at Greyson’s gut.

He glowered at Chris’s broad back, seething silently while the man continued to fuss over Clara.

So much for this being neutral territory. Olivia was clearly very at home here, while Greyson felt immediately wrong footed and out of place.

Chris led them to a small, intimate table in a quiet back corner of his tiny coffee shop. The place wasn’t very busy; in fact they were the only ones there, and Greyson cast a puzzled look around, wondering why this place was considered so successful when it was this quiet on a Sunday.

His question was answered when Olivia took a similarly quizzical look around the shop. “Chris, the café is closed, isn’t it?” she asked, sounding exasperated. “I thought you were open on Sundays.”

“I usually am, but this seemed urgent.”

“Wait, you closed because of us?”

“No, of course not,” he said soothingly, before tossing Greyson a seriously disdainful look. “I closed because of you. And of course this little mamsell.” The last was directed at Clara, and he tweaked her nose. A gesture that was greeted with a delighted chuckle.

“Chris, that’s crazy. You shouldn’t have done that,” Olivia said. Greyson looked down at the floor, furious. If he made eye contact with anyone right now, he would probably blow a fuse. This was so far out of bounds he wasn’t sure how to react. All he knew was that he wanted to take his kid away from the arrogant, ridiculously good-looking douchebag and . . . and steer his wife out of this place where the owner obviously had strong feelings for her. Feelings Greyson wasn’t sure were strictly platonic.