Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

He came to a standstill in front of Greyson, and damned if his nostrils didn’t flare slightly as he inhaled discreetly.

Shit! Harris thought he’d been drinking. How mortifying. Yet another embarrassment brought about by Greyson’s appalling lapse in control after Olivia had left. Harris had been aware of Greyson’s fleeting entanglement with substance abuse. And Greyson hated that his brother knew about his weakness. But he knew that he owed Harris for taking care of the business and protecting Greyson’s reputation during that time.

He swallowed down the humiliation and pretended not to notice Harris’s concerned gaze sweeping up and down his body and face.

“Where have you been?” Greyson asked gruffly.

“To Knysna for a new mattress and then to the restaurant . . . to see Libby and Clara.”

Greyson forced down the swell of bitterness at that revelation. The knowledge that Harris was free to see his wife and child whenever he wanted, while Greyson himself hadn’t even been allowed much more than a glimpse of Clara last night, burned like fucking acid. He kept his face expressionless, batting away the urge to ask Harris how Olivia was today. He knew his reappearance in her life had come as an unpleasant and unwelcome surprise. But he didn’t want to panic her or upset her. He just wanted to figure out a way forward from here.

“There’s no food in the house,” he said instead, and Harris’s eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline. Not hard for him, when his hair was a shaggy mess that fell almost to his brows anyway.

“So go and get some groceries,” Harris said, and Greyson blinked. Somewhat arrested by his brother’s words.

Get groceries? What? To say shopping wasn’t Greyson’s forte would be understating it. He couldn’t actually recall ever setting foot in a grocery store in his life before.

“Maybe later,” he mumbled quickly. He closed multimillion-dollar deals every day of his life; he could damned well buy a few groceries. He turned back toward the house, and once inside, Harris’s shocked voice broke the silence between them.

“Greyson, are you wearing my clothes?”

Greyson turned to face Harris again before casting a glance down at his body. He’d forgotten he was wearing Harris’s stuff and couldn’t tell if his brother was pissed off about it or not. Harris looked mostly confused and a little stunned.

“It was the closest thing available. I haven’t unpacked my bag yet.” More eyebrow lifting from Harris, and Greyson barely refrained from childishly rolling his eyes.

“You look like crap,” Harris said, and Greyson fought hard to keep his expression neutral and his resentment from showing.

Of course he looked like crap! His life was in shambles, his wife hated him, and he hadn’t even held his child yet. Did everybody just assume Greyson was fine with that? He wasn’t fucking fine! Why the hell should he look fine?

“Fantastic,” he said, resorting to facetiousness and self-directed humor. “Nice to know I look like I feel.”

Harris stared at him like he’d never seen him before.

Now the fuck what?

“What?” he asked, swiping at his nose for good measure. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just thought you’d completely lost the ability to laugh at yourself is all.”

Of course he’d thought that. Nobody really understood Greyson. Some days he barely understood himself.

“Yeah, well, when your only options are laugh or—” Cry? Greyson couldn’t believe he’d been about to say that. He clamped his mouth shut and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He directed his eyes down to the floor, not wanting to see his brother’s reaction to that revealing lapse.

“Anyway, when your options are shit,” he awkwardly rephrased, “it’s best to choose the path of least resistance.”

“So what are your plans, Greyson?” Harris asked, his voice surprisingly gentle, and Greyson’s gaze swung upward to meet his brother’s intent stare. “What do you intend to do here?”

Get them back, was his instinctive first thought. But he knew that that was easier said than done.

Lunch service was in full swing, and the kitchen staff had a natural rhythm going. Libby was ecstatic with the way her team was working together and was happy to loosen the reins for a bit to let them do their thing while she focused on desserts for the rest of service. She was absorbed with that when Ricardo, the restaurant manager, walked into the kitchen looking completely flustered.

“Chef Libby, a word, if you don’t mind.”

Irritated with the interruption, Libby glared at the man before nodding to one of her underchefs to take over with desserts, not wanting to disturb Agnes, who was overseeing the rest of the kitchen. She led Ricardo toward the walk-in freezer, where it was less busy.

“What’s wrong?” she asked with barely leashed annoyance.

“We’re running out of napkins.”

“What?” she asked in disbelief. Interruptions were irritating. Unnecessary interruptions pissed her the hell off. “Ricardo, take that kind of stuff to Tina. Unless we have a complaint about the food, there’s absolutely no reason for you to be back here.”