Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

“You did.” She didn’t give him anything more than that.

  “I’m trying to fix it.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Olivia . . .” He tried hard to keep the misery he was feeling from seeping into his voice, but he wasn’t sure he was successful.

  “Greyson,” she began in an unemotional, perfectly reasonable tone of voice. “This was no small thing. You don’t get a do-over on something like this. And I’m not just talking about the night of her birth—I’m talking about the months and months of disinterest and absolute contempt before that. It was like being married to a ghost. You were never there. You couldn’t have made your lack of anything resembling affection or concern for me, or her, any clearer. I don’t want you in my life any longer, and if I could get away with it, I would prefer not to have you be a part of Clara’s life either.”

  “For years I believed . . . I thought . . .” He shook his head, feeling ridiculously inarticulate, as he tried to clear his mind and formulate his thoughts. So much rested on what he said here and on how he said it. “I didn’t think I would ever be a father, Olivia. I’d resigned myself to that, and . . . but here she is. So perfect. So absolutely, gut-wrenchingly beautiful, and against everything I’d ever thought possible, she’s mine.”

  “No. She’s mine,” Olivia corrected him, her voice steady and cold, and he flinched in response to her words.

  “I was okay with not having children. I’d had more than ten years to come to terms with that fact . . . but I’m not okay with it anymore. I have a daughter. I want to get to know her. To spend time with her.”

  “You have a daughter? How sure are you of that? What if you decide tomorrow that’s she’s not yours again?”

  He deserved that; he knew he did. He absorbed the blow and gritted his teeth as he fought back the resultant swell of pain. “I know she’s mine.”

  “How? You said you didn’t have tests done. Why are you suddenly so certain?”

  Did she know about the accusations he had aimed at Harris? Greyson couldn’t be sure. He peered at her closely, not certain how to respond to her questions. He felt like he’d been dumped in the middle of a minefield and a step in any direction could lead to catastrophic consequences.

  “I just am.”

  “That won’t cut it, Greyson. We might as well stop talking right now if you’re going to continue dissembling.”

  “Just . . . something Harris said,” he said, still hedging, but at least this answer was within the same realm as the truth.

  “What did he say?”

  “He, um . . .” Greyson lifted his fist to his mouth and cleared his hoarse throat before continuing. “He said she had the birthmark.”

  “And that was enough for you?” she asked in disbelief. “You couldn’t check that before coming into the room that day and blowing my life, and what was left of our marriage, to hell?”

  It wouldn’t have mattered, not when he’d thought his own brother was the father. But telling her that now would only make things worse. Greyson was staggered by the breadth of his stupidity. Everywhere he turned, he was confronted by yet another one of his dumb mistakes. So many missteps and bad decisions.

  “Let’s leave that for a moment and go even further back,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, and his stomach roiled, knowing where she was going next. Yet again, he had no excuse. Nothing but sheer selfishness and stupid masculine pride.

  “How could you marry me believing you were unable to have children? Don’t you think that was something I deserved to know before I made my decision?”

  Libby couldn’t tell what Greyson was feeling. His face remained completely expressionless. He was the most frustrating man, and it made her want to scream. How dare he come in here with his half truths and his prevarications? Did he think she was so stupid that she was incapable of seeing through his deceptions? He might have a killer poker face, but she knew when he wasn’t being honest. And she was getting sick of it.

  “I have no excuse, other than I wanted you too badly to risk losing you.”

  “Yeah, no. That’s definitely not gonna cut it,” she said with a disbelieving little laugh. “I have no idea what alternate universe you’re from, Greyson, but that’s not how relationships work. You should have given me the opportunity to make my own decision. Stripping me of that power was almost as bad as accusing me of cheating months later and rejecting your own child. You’re lucky I’m willing to talk to you at all, because quite frankly, you don’t deserve any face-to-face time with me. I should have let my lawyers deal with this, but I’m affording you more respect than you deserve and way more than you ever gave me.”

  “I know.” That was it. Just two words, emerging on the quietest of voices. It suddenly occurred to her that he hadn’t uttered one word of apology for his actions four months ago, and she wondered about that. Was he too proud to apologize?

  “Why did you want to marry me?” she asked suddenly, remembering the way he had pushed for marriage. He’d asked her often; it had been flattering how eager he had seemed to marry her. “I know it wasn’t because you loved me. But I thought you—” She stopped speaking abruptly, not about to embarrass herself by admitting she’d hoped that he would eventually come to care for her in a more romantic sense. She shook her head and continued with something a little less revealing, “At first I believed it was because of that broken condom, that you thought I was pregnant. But then two months passed without any sign of pregnancy, and you were still asking, and I wondered if it was out of some sense of misguided duty.”

  “Why did you marry me, if you didn’t think I loved you?” he retorted, bringing the focus squarely back to where she would prefer it not to be. For the first time she heard a hint of defensiveness in his voice. How interesting. Why would he be defensive about this, when there were so many other, more serious issues on the table? She raised her eyebrows at him in disbelief.

  “Are you seriously answering a question with a question right now?”

  “I’m interested in hearing your response,” he said, and she snorted in confounded amusement.

  “I don’t care. I asked you first.”

  “Will you answer my question if I answer yours?”

  “Why are you hedging?” She was completely exasperated with this frustrating topic and couldn’t keep the scowl off her face.

  “It was time to get married and settle down,” he said. “And I figured you were someone I’d known for years, we got along, and we were great in bed together. I thought it was a good fit.”

  A good fit. Such a Greyson thing to say. So damned logical and emotionless. She said nothing in response to that, and he held her gaze.

  “Well?” he prompted her, and she lifted her brows.

  “Well, what?”

  “Why did you marry me?”

  “Since it’s not relevant to this conversation, it’s not something I care to discuss right now.” Especially since the truth was humiliating. She had stupidly allowed her infatuation to flourish into deeper and more real feelings for him. Then she had convinced herself that he would eventually come to love her.

  They’d had two months of something resembling a real marriage, and even then, he had rarely been around during the first month. With him working such long hours, she had seen him only late at night, when he’d stumbled into bed to make love with her. The second month had been better; he’d been around more, and just when things had seemed to be settling into a pleasant routine, she had told him about her pregnancy. And that had been the end of that.

  It had hurt so much when he had distanced himself. When he had moved in to another bedroom with only the flimsiest of explanations. His lack of interest in her pregnancy, his absence and coldness. All of that had hurt like hell, and she would be damned if she allowed him to see that now.

  “I can fix that faucet in the morning,” he said, changing the subject unexpectedly. Libby couldn’t help it: she snorted at the thought of Greyson properly fixing something. He looked affron
ted by her amused response.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked softly, and Libby shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. But you don’t have to do anything; I’ll have the plumber come in tomorrow and have it fixed.”

  “On a Sunday? That’s going to cost the earth.”

  “That’s my concern, not yours.”

  “Let me take care of the problem, Olivia,” he demanded, sounding way too much like his old bossy self.

  “How do you propose to do that, Greyson? By throwing money at it? That’s how you fix all your problems, isn’t it?”

  His lips thinned seconds before he ducked his head, frustratingly hiding his reaction from her. He was always so good at disguising his visceral reactions, and back during those first couple of months of their marriage, Libby would have done anything to get a rise from him. Now, while it irritated her, she couldn’t afford to care much anymore. What was the point in trying to figure him out anyway? Their marriage was over. She would leave it to the next woman to try and read Greyson. Someone else could attempt to get under his skin, provoke him into honest responses, coax him into sharing himself. Libby had a child to raise.

  Alone.

  She swallowed painfully at the near-constant fear that resurfaced whenever she found herself faced with that reality. She wasn’t sure she could do this alone. Not while trying to simultaneously restart her career and keep a restaurant afloat with very little help from the best friend who was supposed to be her partner.

  Abruptly overwhelmed and feeling more than a little terrified, Libby pushed herself to her feet and walked toward her sleepily gurgling baby, ostensibly to check on Clara but really just to take a moment to compose herself.

  “I meant I could attempt to fix the plumbing myself.” Greyson’s stiff voice spoke from behind her left shoulder, and she screwed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm her nerves while formulating her response.

  “I’m pretty sure you have no clue how to fix the plumbing, Greyson,” she said, giving his suggestion the curt, scathing dismissal it deserved.

  “I solved the faucet problem earlier, didn’t I?” he pointed out, seeming frustrated with her.

  “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how to turn off a faulty tap.” Okay, so maybe she was being bitchy, but she wasn’t feeling very generous right now. Having him so close made her feel like her skin was wrapped too tightly around her body. “I would have done it if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with Clara.”

  “There are other problems with this place, Olivia. Like the leaking roof,” he said. His doggedness was starting to seriously annoy her.

  “You should leave,” she said, injecting a fair amount of additional frost into her voice.

  “But . . .”

  “Greyson, I don’t need you for anything. Not anymore. I was curious about what you had to say, but I can’t say it’s blown my socks off.”

  “What about Clara?” His eyes, which had often flitted toward the baby during their conversation, drifted back to Clara and for an instant revealed such naked yearning it almost had the power to soften Libby toward him.

  Almost. But not quite.

  “Truthfully? I’d rather she never knows you. But I know you’ll come in with your money and your lawyers and take what you want anyway. So I’m willing to discuss the matter with you.”

  “Now?”

  “No. I’m exhausted. Clara and I should be getting to bed.”

  “Of course,” he said, huffing a resigned little sigh. He pushed himself to his feet and joined her at the coffee table, his gaze fixed on Clara, who shifted her big blue eyes to the stranger standing beside the familiar figure of her mother. She stared at him fixedly, her mouth forming a pout and her forehead wrinkling. It was the face she made when she was deciding if she should cry or not.

  “She has my eyes,” he whispered, his voice filled with reverence. Libby didn’t say anything in response to that. Clara kicked vigorously at the sound of his voice, the pout fading from her lips as she decided to reward the dark, pleasing timbre of his voice with a gummy smile instead.

  Greyson’s mouth widened as he responded with a delighted grin of his own. The smile was very similar to—if more toothy than—his daughter’s. Greyson didn’t smile like this often—usually they were pale, close-mouthed imitations of this gorgeous grin—and it completely transformed his face, taking it from austere and coldly handsome to breathtakingly beautiful in an instant. He looked approachable, warm, and eminently likable.

  It was probably a good thing he didn’t smile like this often. Because people would too easily be deceived into thinking he was a nice guy. Cold and austere suited him. It accurately reflected the man beneath the handsome face and perfect body. Libby, who had been graced with a few of these rare smiles during their first two months of “courtship,” had allowed herself to believe in its warmth rather than the more usual sternness of his features. She had been convinced there was something more there.

  More fool her.

  Watching him now, Libby tried hard to maintain a neutral expression, but she would have to have a heart of stone not to be affected by the sight of father and daughter meeting for the first time. And it looked like love at first sight. It made Libby feel like punching something when she thought of the time that had been wasted because of Greyson’s stupidity. They could have been a family; father and daughter could have properly bonded even before birth. Greyson had robbed them of that opportunity, and it was lost forever.

  “Would you like to hold her?” she found herself offering, surprising even herself with the question. His eyes jerked up to meet hers. They were wide with panic, hope, and what looked like longing.

  “I-I’m not sure. What if . . . I mean . . . I’ve never held a baby before.” His voice, usually so confident, was halting and unfamiliar in its timidity.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said, bending to unclip the seat’s safety harness. She picked up her happily cooing baby and held the active, wriggling bundle close.

  “Cradle her the way you would a rugby ball,” she instructed him.

  “I’ve never held a rugby ball in my life,” he said coolly, back to his usual arrogant and aloof self in an instant. Well, almost. His eyes were still trained on Clara, and his hands curled and uncurled restlessly as if he itched to reach for her.

  “Seriously?” she asked in surprise, a little taken aback by his statement. “Not even at school?”

  “I played lacrosse and tennis. And dabbled in cricket a bit,” he said, and she cleared her throat. She remembered that. She used to watch him play. He had been a fantastic athlete, of course. He’d been fantastic at everything, studies and sport. Greyson had seemed incapable of doing anything less than perfectly.

  “Well, just do what I’m doing. It’s pretty instinctive. You’ll manage.” Because Greyson always did. Aside from their marriage, Libby was pretty sure he had never failed at anything. Which explained his staggering arrogance. She wished that, just once, he’d be bad at something. Just to take his ego down a notch or two.

  Well, he didn’t look arrogant now, just nervous and a little terrified. It was an expression she had never seen on his face before, and Libby found that she liked it. And that made her feel like even more of a bitch. Clearly the anger and resentment she harbored toward him ran much deeper than even she knew.

  She shoved her roiling thoughts and confusion aside and gently placed Clara in his nervous hold. He watched intently, his expression tight with concentration, and she carefully withdrew her arms. His eyes widened when he realized that he was holding the gurgling baby without any help from her, and his grip instinctively tightened. Clara didn’t like that and immediately started crying.

  The look of utter panic on his face when Clara let loose with her high, thin cries was quite comical.

  “Shit! What do I do?” he asked desperately, instinctively rocking from side to side.

  “Well, keep that rocking movement going, and maybe let up o
n the death grip a tiny bit. You wouldn’t like being held in a stranglehold either.” His arms loosened fractionally. “A little more, Greyson.”

  “But what if I drop her?”

  “You won’t. She’s not a slippery eel. You have her in a secure position; you just need to relax.” He loosened his hold, and Clara, seemingly comforted by the proximity of her mother’s calm voice and the more relaxed embrace, stopped crying. Her tear-drenched wide eyes searched the unfamiliar face above hers, and her forehead wrinkled in displeasure. Greyson’s forehead was wrinkled in an identical frown of confusion and misgiving. They so resembled each other that it brought a reluctant smile to Libby’s lips. Her fingers itched to dig out her phone and take a picture of them, but the device was still in her bag, and she didn’t want to be taking pictures of Greyson. No matter how damned adorable he looked holding his daughter for the first time.

  She watched a tentative smile replace the frown on his face, a smile that widened to reveal even white teeth and deep grooves in his lean cheeks. He had eyes only for Clara, who still looked a bit doubtful about this large stranger who was holding her. Libby suspected that it was only because she was standing right beside Greyson that Clara wasn’t crying. Although the baby still looked undecided about whether or not to launch into fresh tears.

  She was so beautiful. Greyson had never once imagined that it would feel this right to hold her. In the time since her birth, he’d pictured reconciling with Olivia, pictured Clara growing up, envisioned her playing with her toys, with the puppy he’d get for her, dressed in tutus, princess gowns, or perhaps something less traditionally girly. Maybe she’d want to be Buzz Lightyear. Who knew? He’d imagined her laughter, pictured her smile, her adorable curly hair springing wildly in every direction as she played and laughed and danced.

  But he had lacked the imagination for this. He had never considered how it would feel to hold her. His parents hadn’t been very tactile people, and Greyson had always kept his more physically demonstrative brother at a distance.

  But now that he held his daughter in his arms, close to his chest, now that he could feel her weight, her warmth, the sweet softness of her, he knew that he didn’t want to be the type of parent his own had been. He wanted to know this child, cuddle her and hug her as she grew up. He never wanted her to doubt that she was loved.