Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“She’s not sick or anything?” he asked, and Libby shook her head.

“Just hungry and hating what’s on the menu. My baby is clearly a food critic.”

He smiled at her words. “Okay, well, then you should probably get back to work. I can handle this.”

“Greyson . . . ,” she began, not doing anything to disguise her doubt.

“You’re going to continue attempting to get her to accept the bottle, right?”

“Yes.”

“I can do that.”

“She’s going to keep crying,” Libby warned.

“And I’m going to keep trying. I guess we’ll see which of us is more stubborn.”

Libby grinned at his statement. She was almost certain that the clash of wills would be a draw.

“Are you sure?” she asked, and he nodded decisively.

“Now that I know she’s not sick, just hungry and stubborn, I feel more confident.”

Libby shrugged and got up, handing the writhing and crying baby over into her father’s semicapable arms. She had a moment’s hesitation, feeling a little nervous about leaving them like this, but she really needed to get back to work . . . the restaurant actually had a decent crowd tonight.

She dropped a kiss on Clara’s head and impulsively reached over to squeeze Greyson’s forearm reassuringly. “You’re doing really well. I’m glad you contacted me when you weren’t sure what was going on with her.”

He smiled and looked relieved. “We’ll be fine,” he assured her, and Libby nodded before exiting the room. Hoping she was doing the right thing.

Greyson didn’t message her again, and not wanting him to think she didn’t trust him, Libby didn’t send him any messages either. But she could not wait for dinner service to end—she was dying of curiosity. She and Agnes were the last ones out of the kitchen as usual, and she waved the other woman and her husband off before locking up behind them and finally heading to the office. There were no sounds coming from behind the closed door, and she opened it tentatively before popping her head around and peeking in. Her hand flew to her chest, and her breath escaped on a soft whoosh at the picture that met her eyes.

Greyson was sprawled on the tiny sofa, one long leg flung over the armrest while the other was bent at the knee, with his large foot planted firmly on the floor. Clara was asleep on his chest, and he had a hand lightly resting on her back, holding her securely in place. His other arm was flung to the side, his knuckles grazing the carpeted floor. An empty baby bottle was standing upright beside his hand. His head was resting at an awkward angle on the other arm of the sofa.

His eyes met hers when she walked in, and he gave her a lazy smile of greeting.

“Looks like you won,” Libby whispered, and he grimaced dramatically.

“Barely,” he rumbled quietly. “I think in the end hunger and exhaustion got the best of her. She drank the formula, but she made it clear that she hated every drop of it.”

“I think I’ll reward her with some mashed banana tomorrow morning. Adding solids into her diet may aid the transition.”

He nodded. He looked so exhausted he was practically cross-eyed. She pointed at him before noting, “That can’t be comfortable.”

“It’s not, but I’m too terrified to move in case it sets her off again.”

“She looks out for the count,” Libby said, before moving forward and gently lifting the limp baby from his hold.

Greyson gave a relieved groan and sat up slowly. “God, my body is one huge ache. You guys need a comfier sofa in this office.”

“How long were you in that position?”

“About an hour,” he muttered, his hand going up to massage his nape.

“Next time make yourself more comfortable. Once she’s fed, she’s usually sleepy and super cooperative.”

“Noted,” he said. “You all done?”

“Yes, we’re the last ones here.”

He pushed to his feet and stretched with a huge yawn. He picked up his laptop case—which looked like it had remained unopened for the evening—and waited while she strapped the sleeping baby into her infant-carrier car seat. Then he took hold of the handle.

“I can do it,” she said, and he shrugged.

“I’m already doing it,” he pointed out. She rolled her eyes before grabbing the baby bag and her purse. She switched off the light, and he led the way to the front of the dimly lit, empty restaurant.

“This is kind of eerie,” he said, his quiet voice sounding unusually loud in the silent space. “If I weren’t here tonight, would you be here alone?”

“Tina and I usually leave together.”

“Tina’s not here.”

“She usually is.”

“But she’s not here now,” he emphasized.

“But you’re here now,” she said logically, and he made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat.

He followed her to her car, which was parked beneath a lamppost directly across from the restaurant, and handed her the car seat. He watched closely while she clipped it in. She moved to the driver’s side and opened the door before turning around to face him.