Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

The back door needs a dead bolt as well.

“God!” This again.

It doesn’t. It has a perfectly serviceable lock.

It’s flimsy.

GREYSON!

FINE!!!

Greyson had always been so calm and emotionless—she couldn’t remember ever finding him aggravating before. But he was like a dog with a bone about this handyman stuff. He was taking it so seriously, when Libby knew he didn’t have a gnat’s chance in hell of fixing anything in this place.

His persistence was annoying. But kind of endearing too. And she wasn’t sure how the hell something could be annoying and endearing at the same time. It was bizarre how Greyson, the most logical man in the world, completely defied logic right now.

Her phone chimed again. Irritated, she lifted it, ready to blast him for his crap.

The grocery store is still open. Do you need anything while I’m out?

Oh. That was kind of sweet and considerate. She did a quick inventory of her kitchen.

I’m out of milk. Full cream. And Clara needs nappies. Hold on I’ll send you a pic. She went to her room and took a picture of the nearly empty bag of disposable nappies, then sent it to him.

Anything else?

No. Thanks.

Coolio.

Coolio? That was weird and uncharacteristic. But that seemed to be the new normal for Greyson lately.

Libby decided to rearrange her kitchen to her liking, hoping it would feel more familiar when she was done with it. It wasn’t a great kitchen, small, with very few surfaces to work on. Not her dream chef’s kitchen by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hers, and it was better than nothing.

Clara was starting to squeal, high-pitched happy sounds, and Libby glanced over at the baby. Clara was clumsily reaching for one of the soft toys Libby had scattered in the playpen. She kept missing it, and her squeals were starting to take on a frustrated edge. Abandoning the kitchen for the moment, Libby walked over for a closer look—always very interested in Clara’s every move. The baby’s head lifted at Libby’s approach, and she blinked up at her mother before gifting Libby with one of her wide, dimpled smiles.

“Hey, sweetheart, you wanna play peekaboo with Mummy?” Libby asked in a deliberately excited voice. One that Clara usually responded to. It made Libby recall the ridiculous voice Greyson had used while talking to Clara the night before, and she found herself involuntarily grinning—and then chuckling—at the memory.

Clara slapped her plump starfish hands on the floor of the playpen, kicking her legs in reaction to the voice, and Libby picked her up. She carried Clara over to where she already had a play area set up—a thick, clean comforter spread on the carpeted floor, strewn with more soft toys. She placed Clara in the secure, padded floor seat that helped sit her upright. The cute, bright seat had been yet another gift from Clara’s paternal grandparents, one that Libby was finding more and more useful. Clara seemed to love it, her hands constantly grabbing and exploring the attached toys. And because it allowed her to sit upright, she could watch the world around her with increasing fascination. Libby found it especially great for peekaboo.

She knelt in front of the seat and smiled at the baby, who watched her animatedly. Using one of the clean spit-up towels she kept close by for emergencies, Libby started a rousing game of peekaboo with Clara.

“Wheeeere’s Mummy?” she asked in a gradually rising voice, hiding behind the little towel. Then she dropped it with a high-pitched “Here I am!”

It never failed to elicit the most jubilant sound imaginable from her gorgeous daughter. A contagious, chortling laugh that lit up her beautiful face and shook her round little body.

The game never got old . . . for Clara. But Libby was starting to flag after her tenth miraculous reappearance from behind the towel.

The front door opened in midreveal, and Greyson walked in to the sound of Clara’s burbling laughter. He stopped dead on the threshold and simply stared, the expression on his face revealing shock, pleasure, and pain. So much pain. Much more than such a joyful sound should ever be responsible for.

Chapter Eight

“I didn’t know she could laugh,” he said, his voice low and gruff with emotion. Libby swallowed with difficulty, reacting to the shocking vulnerability in his eyes more strongly than she’d thought possible. Part of her felt she should be happy to see him hurting like this . . . but she couldn’t find it within herself to revel in his misery.

“Close the door, will you? It’s cold,” she said softly, and he seemed to come out of whatever daze he was in and stepped farther into the house, his hands filled with grocery bags, which he put down before shutting the door. Clara was groping for the towel in Libby’s hand, and she let the baby have it. She absently lowered her eyes to Clara and gasped when the baby clumsily lifted the towel to her own eyes and then squealed with laughter, creating her own adorably awkward version of peekaboo.