Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“Olivia, I want . . .”

“Stop.” She held up a hand, palm out, effectively halting the rest of his words. “You’re not a part of this family. You removed yourself, along with your wants and needs, from the equation. What you want? It’s no longer relevant.”

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, and her eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t quite place before she lowered her hand and crossed her arms over her chest.

“For what?”

“That this is so hard,” he said after a moment’s thought, and she sighed, the exhalation from her nostrils short and irritated.

“Wrong thing to be sorry about, Greyson. Care to try again?”

Not certain what she meant or what she wanted, he stared at her. Afraid to talk, knowing that he’d only say the wrong thing again.

His silence didn’t help, and she shook her head before casting her eyes to the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention.

“Fix my water, please,” she said after a long moment of strained silence. She turned and walked away, leaving him staring miserably at the empty doorway.

Libby checked on Clara when she returned to the living room and found that she was still sleeping soundly. She dragged out her laptop and sat down on the sofa, ready to start planning next month’s dessert menu. She wanted MJ’s to be renowned for fantastical and delicious desserts. She wanted to have a full evening every week dedicated to desserts. A chef’s tasting menu of only desserts.

This was a revised dream. Originally Libby had wanted to own and operate her own dessert bar, but she now wanted to spend as much time as possible with Clara. Working at MJ’s was a way for her to achieve both dreams.

But she couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts were jumbled and confusing. She should have told him to leave. Should have insisted he go. Why was he still here? She knew he would have gone if she’d insisted, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

Maybe it was the glimpses of vulnerability she had seen in his eyes and on his face. That was new. He was so far out of his comfort zone that it was ridiculous. With the clothes and the damned toolbox. She still couldn’t get over the toolbox. Typical Greyson—he didn’t do things by half measures. He had bought the biggest, heaviest, most professional-looking toolbox he could find. And Libby was pretty damned sure he didn’t have a clue what most of the tools were for.

She shouldn’t have allowed that kiss. Or reciprocated. But it had been so long since she’d felt his mouth on hers, and she’d be a liar if she said she hadn’t missed it. She was only human; she had weaknesses, and Greyson had always been her biggest one. And it was so much worse now that she knew how it felt to be held, touched, and kissed by him.

Her hand drifted up, tracing the curves of her lips as she recalled the heat of his mouth on hers. Her nipples beaded, and she groaned and flushed when she recalled the reason their kiss had stopped. She had read about sexual arousal sometimes resulting in a letdown reflex but hadn’t really thought about it after that. Since she hadn’t been particularly concerned about being sexually aroused anytime soon.

Her body was still something of a mystery to her after giving birth. There was the unfamiliar weight of her breasts. The swell of her stomach had gone down a lot, thanks to her natural slenderness, but it still retained a poochiness that she wasn’t sure would ever go away. And the fading silvery stretch marks streaking down her abdomen felt like battle scars, which she wore with pride.

There was so much about herself that she no longer understood or recognized. But that surge of arousal—the need and urgent desire—that she had felt when she had kissed Greyson had been so welcome and achingly familiar.

Until her breasts had leaked, plunging her back into confusion and reality.

“Damn it,” she muttered to herself. “Get it together, Libby. He’s going to fix the water, and you’re going to send him on his way. And that will be that.”

She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath and scrubbed her palm over her face before forcing her attention back to the computer screen and going to work.

Greyson tentatively emerged from the bathroom nearly an hour later. Clara was awake, and Libby had set aside her computer in favor of playing with her baby. She was sitting on the sofa, holding Clara up in both hands and blowing raspberries on the chuckling infant’s round tummy, when Greyson walked in.

He was a mess. His hair was in disarray, and his face and still-naked chest were gleaming with sweat. He was absently patting at his chest and under his arms with his hoodie. Yet another uncharacteristic thing for the very fastidious Greyson to do. But then he followed that up by carefully folding the hoodie and placing it on the wide arm of one of her easy chairs. If she wasn’t so distracted by his utter sexiness, Libby would have laughed at the quintessentially fussy Greyson move. Something familiar amid all the unfamiliarity.