Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  “That you can depend on me.”

  “I don’t want to have to depend on you. I don’t need you, Greyson. I can do this on my own.”

  “I know you can,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

  “No, I shouldn’t. But I’m going to.”

  “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.

  His jeans rode low on his narrow hips, exposing his sexy Adonis belt. He looked positively drool worthy, and both Clara and Libby froze when he entered the living room. They stared at him, one with a baby’s avid curiosity and the other with a woman’s sincere appreciation of a fine male form.

  Libby blinked self-consciously, willing herself to look away and back to the baby, who was still dangling in front of her. Libby lowered Clara into her lap, turning her to face Greyson, at whom the infant was still staring in wide-eyed fascination.

  Greyson’s eyes dropped to the curious baby, and a wide, genuine grin parted his lips for a few seconds. The expression was gone all too soon when he refocused his gaze on Libby.

  “Water’s working.”

  “Is it?” Libby asked in frank disbelief. She couldn’t help it: she got up, Clara in her arms, and went to the kitchen to check. After a few sputters, the water flowed without any problem at all.

  “Wow, Greyson, that’s”—unexpected—“great. Thank you.”

  “It’s a temporary fix. I did what I could.”

  “It’s more than I was expecting,” she replied honestly, feeling terrible for underestimating him. While also feeling annoyed that this was yet another thing Greyson the Great could do.

  He winced, ducking his head and avoiding her eyes while rubbing the back of his neck as if to relieve tension or muscular strain. Libby tilted her head, trying to assess his body language. He lifted his eyes to hers again, and she couldn’t quite read the expression in them.

  “I didn’t quite do it alone,” he admitted softly, looking embarrassed. Her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t say anything, silently inviting him to say more. “I looked for some solutions on Google.”

  Libby huffed a quiet laugh. How like Greyson to consider that a failing.

  “Everybody uses the internet to seek answers sometimes, Greyson,” she said, feeling magnanimous now that he had admitted to needing help. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Momentarily diverted by the movement of his throat, Libby’s gaze snagged on that strong, tanned expanse of flesh, and she was seized by the almost uncontrollable urge to kiss him there, then lick him to taste the salt and musk of his skin.

  She was so distracted by that unwelcome compulsion that she missed the first part of his next statement.

  “. . . didn’t work.”

  “Uh. What? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” she said self-consciously, and he cleared his throat.

  “None of the so-called answers I found worked.”

  “But . . . the water’s running.”

  “No . . . before this. The original fix I found on the internet was the reason the water stopped working.”

  “I see,” she said. When she didn’t see much of anything at all. What was he getting at?

  “Nothing I googled could help me fix what I b
roke . . . so I had to call an expert.”

  Oh.

  “I see,” she said again. Leaning back against the kitchen sink and absently tugging a strand of her hair out of Clara’s grasp.

  “A twenty-four-hour plumber. She talked me through what I needed to do to get the water running again. But like I said, it’s a temporary fix. You’ll need to get someone in to look at the plumbing.”

  “A professional, you mean?” she asked pointedly, and he grimaced and nodded in reply.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly. His second I’m sorry in under two hours. That had to be a record for him. “I thought I could fix it.”

  “Once again apologizing for the wrong things,” she said beneath her breath, and he looked taken aback by that response. She cleared her throat before asking another question. “Is the problem worse than it was before?”

  “No. I just got the water back on. But the underlying problem remains the same. I can’t tell you what that is because . . .” He shrugged. “Well . . . I mean, I’m not a plumber, am I?”

  The question was almost defensive, and Libby bit her lip to stop herself from laughing.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying all along,” she reminded him.

  “I’m paying for the plumber I called, since it was my mistake that needed resolving.”

  “Yes, you are,” she agreed, pushing herself away from the sink and walking back to the sofa. He remained standing in the kitchen but turned to face her.

  “No arguments?” he asked, sounding relieved, and she rolled her eyes before sitting down and tickling Clara, who dissolved into chuckles.

  “Why would I argue? I’m a firm believer in the whole ‘if you broke it, fix it’ philosophy.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he said, his voice thickening, and she lifted her eyes from the laughing baby to the man still standing in her kitchen. “I’m trying to fix what I broke, Olivia. I’m trying to fix us.”

  “Greyson,” she said, her voice laden with regret. “We were broken from the start.”

  “I don’t believe that. I refuse to believe that,” he said fiercely.

  “Believe what you want, but you know it’s true,” she said with equal ferocity. Clara stopped babbling and stared up at her mother uncertainly, and Libby gentled her tone. “Thank you for being honest. About the plumber.”

  She knew how much that must have cost his pride, and it did mean a lot that he had been truthful over something he could easily have hedged about.

  “I’m trying to be different. Worthy. A good father and husband.”

  “Greyson, please . . . stop,” she said on a broken whisper. “You still have the chance to be a good father.”

  “But not a good husband?” he elaborated, and she sucked her lower lip into her mouth, her gaze not faltering from his intent stare. His shoulders sagged, and he cleared his throat before turning away quickly.

  “I’ll get that dead bolt on the front door,” he said over his shoulder.

  “You don’t have to,” she said, and he stopped, his back to her. He just stood there, not saying a word. The defeated droop of his shoulders and head got to her. She screwed her eyes shut, biting the inside of her cheek hard, before continuing, “Not now. Why don’t we have some lunch or something? You can give your hand a break and spend some time with Clara.”

  He turned, the movement so swift it nearly unbalanced him. “Really?” he asked, the expression on his face boyishly keen and hard to resist.

  “Greyson, this isn’t easy for me. You hurt me. You hurt us,” she said, dipping her chin toward Clara. “I don’t know how to . . . to move forward. How to forgive you. I don’t think I ever can. But Clara, she’s innocent in this, and I don’t want her hurt. You have to promise me. Promise me you won’t hurt her. You won’t make her love you and then abandon her.”

  Like you did with me. Libby blinked fiercely, forcing her tears to remain at bay as she determinedly bit back the revealing words. They remained unspoken, and she hoped he wouldn’t find them lurking between the lines. She had never told him she loved him. Had never really known if she did. But she knew now. His betrayal had hurt as much as it did because she loved him.

  “I’m so sorry you think I’d do that.”

  She sighed impatiently, and he halted. “Another apology for the wrong thing,” she pointed out, and he made a soft sound of distress in the back of his throat.

  “I promise you, Olivia,” he continued quietly. “On my life. On her life, which is more precious to me than you would ever know . . . I will never again intentionally hurt her. Or you.”

  “I don’t matter,” she said, and he shook his head.

  “You do.”

  “No. I don’t. Clara is all that matters. You don’t hurt her, Greyson. You love her and protect her.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Of course I will, Olivia. How could I not?”

  Greyson stared at them, his daughter and the wife who no longer wanted to be his wife, and once again felt the urge to wrap them both in his arms and never let them go. Olivia, so fierce and beautiful and proud, didn’t want to need him, didn’t want to want him . . . and he couldn’t blame her for that.

  But he still had one small glimmer of hope. Fifteen months ago, sex had been the driving force behind their relationship. It had brought them together and kept them together. For a time.

  In the end it hadn’t been enough to build a foundation strong enough to support a marriage. They had needed more than just great sex. They had needed commitment, respect, understanding, trust. Mutual admiration—what some would call love. Those fundamental building blocks had been missing, and their marriage had crumbled at the first real test. But the sex . . . it had allowed them the opportunity to try.

  And it could again.

  Greyson wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice, but after that kiss he knew she still desired him. He saw how her eyes lingered on his body. Yes, she still wanted him. And if that was all he had to work with, he would damned well use it again. But this time, he’d make sure they added the other essential ingredients into their relationship. He’d make their bond so damned unbreakable even an earthquake would not be able to shatter it.

  They had great, almost irresistible chemistry, and they had Clara.

  He could make this work. He had to make it work.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’ll get lunch started. You’re definitely not staying for dinner, so I think we can put those steaks to use now,” Olivia said after a long, fraught moment of silence.

  “Wait, I thought you said I should prepare the steaks.”

  She laughed at that and shook her head. “I’m starving, and after what you did with breakfast, I’d rather you didn’t set foot in my kitchen again,” she said.

  Jesus, he couldn’t seem to get anything right today. She got up and padded toward him. Before Greyson knew what she intended, she deposited Clara into his unprepared arms. He clutched at the baby, terrified of dropping her, and Clara immediately began to fret in his tight hold.

  “What are you doing?” he asked on an urgent whisper. “She’s going to cry again.”

  “I’ll be busy in the kitchen, and it’s your job to entertain her. She likes peekaboo, tickles, and tummy raspberries. And she always likes being swooped.”

  “Swooped?” he asked, forcing the word past his suddenly dry and closed-up throat.

  “You know? When you lift her above your head and then kind of lower her a bit faster?” She demonstrated with an up-and-down motion of her hands, accompanying the gesture with a whooshing sound. Clara stopped fretting and chuckled at her mother’s actions. Olivia grinned and, wrapping her hands around Greyson’s forearm, leaned in to kiss the baby’s adorable nose.

  “You like that, don’t you, Clara girl?” Olivia looked up at Greyson, still touching his bare arm. He was excruciatingly aware of her soft hands on his skin, but she didn’t seem as affected. Instead she was smiling at him. A sweet, unforced, genuinely warm smile,
filled with all the love and affection she felt for Clara.

  God, she could move mountains with that smile.

  “Just play with her, Greyson. You’ll both be fine.”

  “What if I drop her?” he asked, panicking when she removed her hands from his arm and turned away. He felt abandoned, even though she was still in the same room.

  She looked at him over her shoulder, responding to the frantic question with just one word. “Don’t.”

  Greyson’s eyes dropped to Clara, who was staring at him with wide blue eyes. Her rosebud mouth puckered into a pout, and her eyes filled.

  Shit.

  He loosened his tight hold on her and forced a smile. The movement of his lips temporarily stopped the onslaught of tears, and her head tilted in the same quizzical way her mother’s often did. The familiar gesture in this brand-new little person delighted him, and his smile widened.

  Her arms thrashed, her legs kicked, and she cooed. Returning his smile with a gorgeous one of her own. Gummy and drooly and perfect.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “Okay,” he whispered, his words for her ears only. “Okay, honey. We’ve got this, right? You’re going to be a good girl for your daddy, right?”

  More cooing and smiling.

  “God, you’re so perfect,” he said, still keeping his voice down. An emotional lump formed in his throat. His eyes burned as he gazed down into the face of the child he had so carelessly and callously tossed aside. He had nearly lost her. Could still lose her . . . but he had this moment. So generously gifted to him by a woman who had every right to hate him.

  “I love you, Clara,” he whispered and kissed her soft cheek, his nose nuzzling the powder-scented silky black curls at her temple. “I love you so much. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. Daddy’s so sorry.”

  Libby watched him covertly, not wanting him to feel like he was under scrutiny. She wanted his interaction with Clara to be as natural as possible. After a few moments of just holding the baby and cuddling her close—whispering words meant only for her uncomprehending ears—he gingerly made his way to the comforter on the floor. He kicked off his trainers before padding to the center of the comforter and sinking into a cross-legged sitting position. They made quite a picture, the big, bare-chested man, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and socks, holding the tiny, curly-haired little girl so protectively close to his chest.