Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  He moved to the kitchen, got the kettle on, and tried not to wince at the unfamiliar sensation of the rough denim against his sensitive male bits. It felt fucking weird. Maybe with a different fabric he could get into the no-underwear thing, but definitely not with denim.

  He scrounged around and found cooking implements. He got some scrambled eggs going and had bread in the toaster before she finally exited her bedroom again.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in horror.

  “Making breakfast. I figured you’d be too tired after last night. And, uh . . . maybe you eat at work . . . ,” he concluded awkwardly, suddenly comprehending that that was probably exactly what she did and feeling stupid for not thinking of it before. It was humbling being around her lately; he always felt wrong footed and like everything he said or did was dumb, inappropriate, or just plain insensitive. He felt like he was walking on a tightrope and a wrong move could send him tumbling into the void.

  “It’s Sunday. MJ’s is closed on Sundays.”

  Well, okay. He could work with that. He nodded and gestured toward the stove top. “Then you’re going to need to eat.”

  “I can prepare my own breakfast,” she said, and he nodded. Of course she could—she was a brilliant chef. But he remembered that she absolutely loathed cooking for just herself, and back in London—when they had been dating—they would often order takeout. Greyson had once attempted cooking for them . . . it had been a disaster. This breakfast was only his second attempt at cooking. How hard could it be to scramble eggs and put bread in a toaster?

  “I know, but I’ve already finished most of it, so why don’t you have a seat?”

  “Greyson, the last time you cooked for me, I nearly died of food poisoning.”

  “That’s an exaggeration,” he said, his brow lowering in consternation.

  “Well, I probably would have died of food poisoning if I had eaten that raw chicken.”

  “It wasn’t that raw,” he said defensively.

  “It was bleeding on my plate,” she reminded him. “It turned the lumpy mashed potatoes pink.”

  Back then they had both laughed at his failed attempt at cooking. She had kissed him and thanked him for trying. Then they had ordered Indian food and spent the rest of the night making love. That was the night she had finally said yes to his marriage proposal.

  “Eggs are easier,” he said confidently. “I was too ambitious that night. I guarantee a salmonella-free breakfast today.”

  She pursed her heart-shaped lips before shrugging. He kept sneaking glances at her as he worked. She looked absolutely stunning, as usual. She could wear a sackcloth and look gorgeous. Her figure still retained some of her pregnancy weight, but it suited her. Her breasts were fuller, her hips seemed rounder, and despite the innate athleticism of her willowy body, she looked lush. He ached to touch her, to explore those fuller curves, her plump breasts . . . she looked like an earth goddess, with the frayed silk of her wavy black hair billowing around her face and all of that golden, glowing skin that he knew would be satiny soft to touch.

  She was wearing a short, long-sleeved lacy white dress—the contrast against her skin was fantastic—combined with a faded denim jacket and heavy-duty combat boots. She loved those boots. She liked working in them and had once told Greyson that they were the comfiest shoes she owned and perfect for standing for long hours. He hid a grin at the sight of the frilly socks peeking over the tops of the boots.

  He had always enjoyed her quirky dress sense. The combination of hard and soft suited her to a T.

  “Something’s burning,” she said, her voice interrupting his mooning thoughts.

  “Shit,” he swore. He leaped for the toaster and pushed the button that would eject the slices. The bread popped from the appliance, and he managed to catch one piece, swearing when it burned the tips of his fingers. The other slice landed on the floor. And that was fine because it was burnt to a crisp.

  “What the fuck?” he couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming, raising his voice a notch. “I’m sure I had it on medium.” He checked the dial, and it was definitely on medium. “Did the toaster come with the house?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said, her voice tiny and almost contrite, and yet he was sure he detected amusement threaded through the regretful tone in that one word. “I do have one of my own.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he asked, a little exasperated.

  “Well, I didn’t know that one was broken,” she confessed. “I mean, I haven’t really made toast since living here.”

  “Where’s your toaster?” he asked, his voice a surly grumble. He bent to pick up the other slice of toast from the floor and chucked both in the dustbin.

  “Cabinet next to the oven. It’s still boxed. I don’t think it’s worth the effort. I could just have normal bread.”

  “I’ll decide if it’s worth the effort,” Greyson stated, then hid a wince at the imperiousness of both his words and tone of voice. She raised her eyebrows, looking seriously unimpressed with him, and folded her arms over her chest, nodding her pointed little chin at him.

  “Go for it,” she invited him, and fully committed now, Greyson turned to fish out the brand-new four-slice toaster. He removed the eggs from the stove top, not wanting to burn those as well, and shoved the skillet into the oven before focusing on the toaster once more.

  He had to use a knife to slice through the tape, and the first one he used was too blunt, so he exchanged it for a butcher knife, nearly cutting himself in the process. After that he had to deal with the weird soft bag thing wrapped around the device. It stuck to the metal of the toaster, and Greyson had a hard time extracting it from the bag. He then battled his way through seemingly endless plastic wraps and ties, as well as the weird tiny cardboard housing that seemed to have been jerry rigged around the plug, before finally exultantly holding the unboxed toaster aloft, curbing the instinct to throw back his head and utter a triumphant war cry. He felt like a conquering hero until he happened to glance at Olivia. She was sitting at the kitchen table with her cheek resting in the palm of her hand, watching him with an enigmatic curve to her lips.

  Mona Lisa had nothing on the mysterious little smile gracing Olivia’s mouth. Was she laughing at him? Probably. He couldn’t even open a bloody box without fucking it up.

  “Toast coming right up,” he promised, hoping the eggs weren’t too cold by now.

  The toast was blond, so pale it was just warmed bread, really. It turned out Greyson, in his haste to get breakfast served, hadn’t checked the settings. Libby kept her amused grin hidden when he swore a blue streak at the sight of that underdone toast.

  Because Greyson so rarely swore, hearing all those f-bombs dropping from his lips was quite entertaining. He also never failed, and this breakfast was just one miserable fail after another. The eggs were cold—expected, what with him taking twenty minutes to open up that box—and congealed. She took a polite bite, then wrinkled her nose and lifted her napkin to her lips to discreetly spit out the mouthful she’d just chewed: it was sickeningly sweet.

  Greyson, who had been silently brooding on the other side of the tiny kitchen table, his festering glare flitting from eggs to toast and back again, took a forkful of eggs into his own mouth before spitting it back onto the plate.

  “What the fuck?” he exclaimed, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “What in the actual fuck?”

  Libby bit her lips to keep her laughter at bay.

  “I think,” she said in a distinctly wobbly voice, “maybe you used sugar? Instead of salt?”

  He glanced over at the stove, and the glare deepened even further.

  “Why the hell is your sugar next to the stove?”

  “If you look closely,” she said, an acerbic bite in her voice, “you’ll note that it’s placed next to the kettle, right between the tea and coffee. And if you squint, you may be able to make out the letters on the surface of the glass.”

  He scowled at the huge black letters on the glass,
prominently spelling out the word sugar as clear as day.

  He shook his head and shoved the plate aside.

  “At least the coffee is good,” she said, taking a cheerful sip from her mug, and he glowered at her.

  “You made the coffee,” he reminded her, and she sent him a grin over the top of her mug.

  “I know,” she said. He focused his scowl on the steaming black liquid in his own mug.

  “Grab a couple of bowls and some cornflakes from the cabinet behind you,” she offered him quietly, not because she felt sorry for him. Never that. She was just . . . hungry. And since he was here, she might as well share with him.

  His eyes lit up at her words, and he jumped up to do her bidding. She got up, too, heading to the refrigerator for milk and fruit.

  They didn’t speak again until both had a large bowl of cornflakes garnished with fresh berries and bananas placed in front of them.

  “Does she—uh, Clara—usually sleep this late?” he asked after swallowing down his first spoonful of cornflakes.

  “It varies. She was more restless than usual last night; I think it exhausted her.”

  “You’re really good at this,” he said, sounding almost shy.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, genuinely confused.

  “Mothering. It seems to come naturally to you.”

  “Thanks,” she said self-consciously, her cheeks heating at the compliment. “I’m a wreck most of the time. I call my mother every day for advice, and I’m always terrified I’m going to do something horribly wrong and mess her up for life.”

  “Nothing you do will ever compare to my colossal fuckup,” he muttered, crunching his way through another spoonful of cereal.

  Libby kept her focus on her bowl, reluctant to acknowledge his words. Right now, this situation with Greyson was one of those moments she was afraid would negatively impact Clara’s life. Her baby would grow up shuttling between two households, not knowing what it was like to live in a stable home with both her parents present. And maybe, because she would never know any better, that would be okay. But it was so, so far from what Libby had wanted for her child.

  And Libby felt like she was at the crossroads now. The decisions she made about Greyson during this messed-up period of her life would forge the framework for Clara’s childhood. It felt like a huge and terrible responsibility, and she resented Greyson for putting her in this dreadful position.

  A tiny whimper sounded over the baby monitor, and Libby tilted her head, waiting to see if it would lead to anything more. Another whimper, followed by a soft inhalation, and then a thin little cry.

  “Aaaand she’s awake,” she said. She got up immediately and made her way to the bedroom. Clara’s cute little face was screwed up, and Libby grinned at how truly tragic she looked. “Oh, sweetie. It’s okay, Mummy’s here. Are you hungry? Pee-ew! Maybe we should change that nappy first, you little stinker.”

  She heard dishes rattling in the sink and threw a quick glance over her shoulder through the open bedroom door to see Greyson clearing off the kitchen table.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she called while nimbly undressing Clara.

  “I made a mess; I should clean it up,” he said, barely raising his voice despite the fact that she was in a different room.

  “No, what you should do is leave. We’re fine now. Thanks for staying last night, but I’ll find someone to change the lock today.” She truly just wanted him gone from here. She recalled the disturbing sight of him nearly naked after his shower, bent over with that tiny towel doing nothing to cover his behind . . . or the rest of him. Seeing him like that, the firm, sculpted planes of his butt, the impressive heft of his penis swaying between his strongly muscled thighs . . . it had sent a shudder of awareness through her body.

  And she had felt a disturbing awakening of senses that had been dormant for too many months. She didn’t want to feel that way around him, didn’t want to be sexually aware of him. Not again . . . not anymore. This marriage was ending; all that was left to decide on was the formalities.

  “I can change the lock,” he said confidently, snapping her out of her disturbing thoughts, and she shot him a derisive look over her shoulder. She thought of his incompetence in the kitchen. He had sounded confident then too. The man really had no sense of his own shortcomings. He needed a serious reality check. And yes, it was petty, but Libby wanted to be around when he tumbled from that lofty perch of self-assurance.

  “Okay.” It was hard to stay focused with the stink Clara had created wafting up to Libby’s nostrils, but she managed to get the word out almost cheerfully.

  She had her eyes on Clara’s cute tush as she ran a baby wipe over it and so didn’t know Greyson was in the room until his voice had drifted to her ear from just over her left shoulder. “What did you say?”

  She jumped and then glared at the man standing just behind her. And why was he standing so damned close? And in such an awkward spot? “Move over there so that I can see you without getting a crick in my neck, would you?” she instructed him, pointing to the head of the bed, the soiled nappy still in her hand. Greyson reared back comically before doing as she had instructed, giving her a wide berth. He had a pristine, neatly folded white handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth as he stared at Clara in abject horror. The baby had stopped crying and was now happily gurgling, her fat, dimpled little legs kicking as she tried to catch her toes. She was naked and completely oblivious to the foul stench she had created.

  “How the hell can something so small produce a smell that huge?”

  “This isn’t too bad. It can get much, much worse,” Libby said.

  “Seriously?” he asked, sounding truly appalled, and Libby tried hard not to grin. He was staring down at Clara with something close to fear in his eyes, and it was hilarious.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, grabbing a nappy-disposal bag from the changing table on the other side of the bed. The small room was very cramped with Libby’s double bed, Clara’s white crib, and the matching changing table all squeezed into the tiny space. She had managed to get only one bedside table in. The other one was stowed in the living room and serving as a coffee table for now.

  “Did you mean it? About me changing the lock?”

  “You might as well make yourself useful,” she said with a shrug, then gave him an assessing look. “In fact, since you’re just hovering there, doing nothing much, can you open that faucet again and run her another bath? Not too hot—just lukewarm is fine. I’ll feed her while you’re doing that. I don’t usually feed her before bath time, but our routine is shot to hell with my working hours being the way they are, and then she didn’t get her bath last night as planned, and . . .” She stopped talking, feeling like a failure and not wanting to reveal much more of the hopelessness she felt. Fearing he’d use it against her if they ever got into some kind of custody dispute. She didn’t trust him at all. She knew he wanted Clara, and after witnessing his reluctance to let go of the baby last night, she wouldn’t put it past him to fight dirty.

  And maybe it wasn’t wise to have him constantly around, but aside from wanting to see him fail, she also felt she should begin to subscribe to the “keep your enemies closer” school of thought. But she had the very real fear that while she was waiting for him to fail, he might be around to see her fail. Fail at her job, at her friendships, or as a mother. She would hate for Greyson—of all people—to witness any of that. The terrifying possibility was nearly enough to change her mind about allowing him to “fix” things around the house.

  Nearly.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, in response to her earlier statement. His words succeeded in drawing her from her dark thoughts, and she tilted her head, curiously waiting for him to continue. “You’re doing an amazing job, despite the shitty hand you’ve been dealt.”

  “The hand you dealt me, you mean?” she asked, and his eyes shut for an instant before he nodded.

  “Yes.” He thrust his han
ds into the back pockets of his jeans and swayed restlessly back and forth on his heels for a couple of moments. “I’ll get the bath organized.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded in response and left the room abruptly.

  Libby sighed and shut the door behind him, picking Clara up for her morning feed. The baby would be transitioning to solids soon, and Libby planned to have her fully weaned by six months old. She treasured this wonderful closeness with her serenely suckling daughter. Libby would miss it, but because of her work and the fact that Clara spent half of every weekday in day care, it would be best to get her onto formula. Libby found that she was producing less milk than during the first three months as well, and she wasn’t sure if that was because she’d mentally resigned herself to transitioning Clara to formula sooner rather than later, or if it was because she was already breastfeeding less. Perhaps it was the stress of going back to work. She knew pregnancy and breastfeeding were different for every woman.

  The duration of Clara’s feedings had shortened over the last couple of weeks, and she now seemed content with a quick suckle on each breast. Dr. Ngozi had told Libby it wasn’t anything to worry about because Clara was growing and gaining weight.

  She had just shifted Clara to her left breast when a soft knock sounded on the door. She reached for a towel and used it to cover herself and her feeding baby before calling for him to enter.

  The door opened tentatively, and Greyson’s head appeared first. He assessed her state of undress before stepping farther into the room.

  “The water has been ready for about ten minutes. I was wondering if I should add some more warm water to it, since it was pretty lukewarm to start off with.”

  “Yes, please, she’s nearly done,” she said, and his eyes dropped to the mounded towel. The soft snuffling noises Clara made when she suckled were the only sounds in the room, and Greyson’s gaze never moved from the gently shifting towel.