Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“Did you see that?” she asked Greyson, her voice hushed. He knelt on the floor next to Libby and made a sound of affirmation, still looking dazed. They both watched Clara fixedly, waiting for her to repeat the action. Libby’s breath caught when the towel went up again, and then she exhaled on a shuddering sigh when it went straight into Clara’s drooling mouth and the baby proceeded to gum the flannel fabric contentedly.

“She’s been giggling and laughing for the last month or so. She gets really into peekaboo,” Libby explained huskily, and Greyson cleared his throat.

“I see. She seems really smart.”

“I think she is. Very precocious. I wish she’d slow down a bit. I want to enjoy this part a bit longer.”

Greyson’s eyes were stormy as he nodded his agreement. He had missed out on so many milestones already. And she knew he was thinking of those. These firsts were so precious, and Libby knew that if she were to miss out on any of them, the loss would be immense.

Clara’s eyelids were starting to droop, and they both watched as she drifted off. Libby reached out and supported her lolling head while unhooking her from the seat. She picked the baby up and gently deposited her on her back in the middle of the thick comforter. She covered the baby with a light blanket and scattered a few light cushions in a wide protective circle around her.

“Is that safe?” Greyson asked gruffly, and she looked at him with a quick, involuntary smile.

“Safe as houses,” she replied in a hushed voice.

“Is the floor warm enough? Is the carpet clean?” Fastidious Greyson couldn’t disguise the wrinkle of his nose at the last question, and she knew he found the carpet less than acceptable. Which, she had to admit, was a fair assessment.

“There are two thick blankets underneath the comforter. She’s fine.”

He nodded curtly, still looking skeptical, his gaze not shifting from the contentedly sleeping baby.

“How did we make something so damned perfect?” he asked softly, the awed words barely loud enough for Libby to hear. But she did hear them, and they made her irrationally angry at how easily he was able to claim Clara now. After four months of zero contact following that first vehement denial.

So easy for him. While she still had no idea what had triggered this change in him. The huge chasm between the way he had been that last night in hospital versus his behavior now was completely unbelievable to her. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak to him just then, and headed for the kitchen to continue her reorganization of the room.

She knew he was watching her, but he wisely refrained from saying yet another dumb thing. He picked up the grocery bags and brought them to the kitchen. She eyed them askance before glaring at him.

“That doesn’t look like just milk and nappies.”

“I brought a couple of steaks, for dinner.”

“Dinner? You assume you’re staying for dinner?” she asked flatly. It wasn’t even close to lunchtime yet, and he was thinking about dinner?

He had the grace to look embarrassed by the question. “I may be here awhile, what with the door and the plumbing and the roof . . .”

“Greyson, I’m not letting you anywhere near the roof.”

“But . . .”

“Look, I may be pissed off with you, but I don’t want you dead. And in this weather, if you fall off that roof—and let’s face it, you’ll fall off the damned roof—you’ll kill yourself!” Besides, he couldn’t suffer if he was dead! And Libby bloody well wanted him to suffer. Ugh, she was turning into a monster . . . but she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t want to punish him for the pain and confusion and loneliness he had inflicted on her for so long.

She didn’t want him dead! Greyson could barely contain his jubilant grin at that. Still, why was everybody assuming he was so damned useless at physical labor? When he had picked up his toolbox earlier, his brother had been equally disparaging of his handyman abilities. And of course the other man couldn’t resist adding a few more dire warnings about not forcing himself into Libby’s life.

But maybe she was right about the roof. At the best of times, Greyson had a thing about heights. He couldn’t imagine being up there in slippery conditions, with the howling wind . . . he shuddered at the thought.

“Fine, I won’t attempt the roof. Today.”

“Ever.”

“We can discuss it later.”

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“I think I’ll fix the bathroom faucet first. I don’t want to make any loud noises in case it wakes Clara.”

She nodded, and he turned to the front door, intending to go back to his car to pick up his toolbox. Her voice stopped him in his tracks.