Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“Well, Clara’s hungry,” Libby said. “I should feed her. Do you mind getting the plates out of the oven? The food’s probably gone a bit dry by now. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Lunch was nice. Greyson could think of no other word to describe it. The meal itself was spectacular. Then again, even though it had sat in the oven for a while, it had still been prepared by an exceedingly talented chef. Perfectly cooked medium-rare steak with roasted sweet potatoes and cilantro pesto—it was mouthwateringly delicious. No surprise there.

What was surprising was how comfortably companionable the meal was. In the past, before her pregnancy, their meals had always been fraught with sexual tension, the food just fuel to replenish lost energy and prepare them for their next athletic bout of sex. They hadn’t talked much, and on the occasions he had spoken, it was invariably about work. His or hers. It didn’t matter; it had been filler. The real talking had been done with their eyes and their seemingly careless touches. Promises and intentions made clear through long, speaking glances, with the occasional brush of her hand over his or his arm against hers.

Today felt different.

“This restaurant is quite a big undertaking for both you and Martine,” Greyson said, taking a sip of water. She had offered him wine, but he was still abstaining and would probably continue to do so long into the foreseeable future.

“It’s exciting, but I’m not sure how invested Tina is in the venture. She seems to be half assing it,” Olivia said, her eyes downcast. She was twirling her fork restlessly.

“What do you mean?” Greyson prompted her, and she lifted her shoulders before spearing a perfectly golden potato almost aggressively.

“I don’t know, she’s making silly and unnecessary mistakes. We had an ad announcing the relaunch, but it never got emailed to the newspaper. It somehow got stuck in her outbox and didn’t send. She also mixed up the banner delivery dates. We designed this awesome relaunch banner to hang in the window, along with flyers to put under windscreen wipers and distribute to local businesses . . . and she gave them the wrong dates. How do you get something like that wrong? Sometimes, I feel like she’s her own worst enemy. But I’ve put a lot into this as well, and I don’t want to fail. It means too much to me. But what’s the point in me working my butt off if . . .” She stopped talking abruptly, her cheeks reddening. Her shoulders sagged, and she sighed.

“I sound like such a bitch. Slagging off my best friend,” she said softly. “Things have been a little tense between Tina and me lately.”

“How so?” Greyson asked, hating how miserable she looked.

“It’s nothing,” Olivia said, clamming up. Which frustrated Greyson. He wanted to know what was bothering her, wanted to be her confidant and offer advice on how to make things better. He hated feeling like a voyeur, his nose pressed up against the glass and his breath steaming up the window as he stared in on her life. Forced to remain outside in the freezing cold while it was happy and cozy and safe inside with Olivia and Clara.

He wanted to be someone to whom she could entrust her innermost thoughts. He had never been that person, had never wanted to be that person . . . but now he looked at her and wanted to know everything about her.

“You can tell me,” he urged, and she laughed, the sound a little bitter.

“I’d rather not,” she replied, lifting the fork to her lips and biting the potato in half.

“Would you tell Harris?” he impulsively asked, then immediately wished he could retract the question. Her head whipped up, and she stared at him curiously, chewing slowly while she pondered that question.

“Harris is easy to confide in,” she finally said.

“And I’m not?” Hell, where were these questions coming from? It felt like he had zero filter between his brain and his mouth, and that was terrifying for someone like Greyson. He usually had control over every syllable he uttered and every movement he made. But today . . . he barely recognized himself. He had never in his life—not even when he had been a kid—rolled around on the floor before. And yet today, with Clara, it had felt completely natural. And he had loved every second of it.

“No,” she replied, after taking a moment to consider his question. “You’re not. Not easy to confide in or talk to or be with.”

Jesus, that was more elaboration than he needed. Whatever asshole said not to ask questions if you weren’t prepared to hear the answers was a smug, know-it-all bastard.

“I can change,” he said, hating the edge of desperation in his voice.

“I don’t think you should,” she said with a shake of her head. “Not for me. When you attempt to change something so fundamental about yourself, it should be for you or someone you love.”