“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.
“Thank you, Greyson. For being there tonight.”
He looked inordinately pleased with her words. “Anytime,” he said with a beaming smile. “Thank you for trusting me.”
She nodded in response to those words, not sure what to say.
“Good night, Olivia.”
“Night, Greyson.”
He lingered, his eyes dropping to her mouth. It was obvious that he was thinking about kissing her . . . and Libby was thinking about letting him kiss her. For a long moment they both stood there, suspended in the moment, before Libby shook her head impatiently. She turned away abruptly and climbed into her car. He stepped back and watched her pull the door shut.
His own car was parked a few meters away from hers, and he walked over and climbed in. His headlights went on, but the car didn’t move. She sighed, recognizing that he would not leave until she did. He would probably follow her home to make sure she got there safely.
She buckled herself in and started up her car, and sure enough, as soon as she pulled away from the curb, he did too. He followed her all the way home and then stopped and waited until she and Clara were both safely inside. She went to her front window and waved at him to let him know they were okay, and he waved back before driving off.
It may have been a little overprotective, but oddly enough, Libby couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but a reluctant sort of affection toward him. She would have to have a heart of stone to remain unaffected by his quiet determination to prove himself capable and willing to be better.
“Clara, baby,” Libby sighed as she unbelted her still-sleeping daughter from her carrier. “What am I doing? Your daddy is a dangerous man. Mummy needs to stay far, far away from him.”
Greyson woke up tired but optimistic the following morning. Optimistic because he felt like he had made real progress with both Clara and Olivia last night. And tired because he had awoken to the sound of horrendous screams just after one a.m. For a disorienting second, he’d been confused and thought it was Clara crying. But after fully waking, he’d realized that the bloodcurdling sound was coming from next door. He’d jumped out of bed and rushed to the other house, afraid that Martine was being attacked.
Harris had opened Martine’s front door wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. His brother had been pale and looked like he’d seen a ghost, but he had reassured Greyson that Martine had just had a nightmare.
Judging from Harris’s state of near undress, things had been going pretty well between him and Martine before that nightmare.
Greyson got up and groaned. His mattress was lumpy, and it added to the aches he had already picked up on that damned sofa last night. It was just after six, and the winter sun hadn’t risen yet. He stretched, working the kinks out of his shoulders and back, and dragged on some sweats. A session at the gym would do him a world of good. When he left his roo
m, it was to find Harris already seated at the kitchen table, staring off into space, despite having his laptop open in front of him.
“Hey,” Greyson greeted him, and Harris jumped, his eyes leaping to Greyson’s.
“Morning,” Harris replied. “How was the babysitting last night?”
“It worked out in the end, no thanks to you,” Greyson grumbled, and Harris’s lips lifted in a small grin. “I’m guessing your date was with Martine?”
Harris actually blushed before nodding.
“It seemed to end well. Despite the nightmare,” Greyson ribbed, and Harris lifted his shoulders self-consciously.
“I’m not so sure it ended well,” Harris said after an awkward pause. “She refused to talk about the nightmare and then sent me home. So . . .” Another lift of his shoulders.
Greyson considered his brother’s words while eyeing the full coffeepot for a moment, longing for some caffeine but not sure he wanted to risk poisoning himself with that swill.
“It tastes like shit,” Harris said, correctly interpreting his longing glance.
Greyson grimaced before focusing his attention back on Harris. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure where I stand with her today. We had an amazing evening, but after the nightmare—she has the same nightmare regularly—she said . . .” He paused, and his throat worked as he seemed to struggle with his next words. “I’m a trigger. For the nightmares.”
Shit. That was bad. No wonder Harris looked so damned torn up about this.
“Do you want to . . . I don’t know . . . do something today?” Greyson asked, not sure his brother should be alone right now and wanting to be there for him. But this was new to him. Being supportive in a proactive way.
Harris looked somewhat diverted by his question. “Do something like what?” he asked.
“I don’t know, something. I’m off to the gym, if you want to join me, and maybe we can drive to Knysna afterward? Check out the sights.”
“That sounds tempting,” Harris said, looking genuinely interested, but then he shook his head. “But I want to stay for the sunrise . . .”
Greyson hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own concerns that he hadn’t noticed that Harris and Martine had shared a few sunrises together since their arrival. Comprehending that Harris was hoping it would offer him the chance to talk with Martine after last night, Greyson nodded. But he had actually looked forward to spending some time with Harris, no matter how impulsive the offer, and felt curiously let down by the other man’s refusal. “I understand.”
“Rain check?” Harris asked, and Greyson offered him a tentative smile.
“Of course.”
The gym was empty when he arrived. Spencer Carlisle was there, working on the weights. He lifted a hand in greeting when he saw Greyson. Greyson dipped his chin in acknowledgment and did a few stretches before picking up a jump rope. His warm-up was fast and vigorous, and when his heart rate was up and his muscles loose and limber, he moved on to the heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling, starting with basic punches and kicks before moving on to his more specialized training.
He lost himself in that for a while, enjoying the physical exertion and the outlet for his anger and frustration with himself over the last few months. He hadn’t trained enough since Clara’s birth. First sinking into a pit of despair, then nearly drowning in a seemingly endless well of alcohol, and then, after clawing his way free from that near disaster, burying himself in work and repairing the parts of his life that were more clearly salvageable.
It felt good to do something physical again. Beating and kicking the shit out of that bag was therapeutic and helped him get his thoughts back in order. He lost himself in the soothing, violent rhythm of what he was doing. When he finally ran out of steam and became aware of his surroundings again, he was hugging the bag, his breath heaving in and out of his lungs in huge gasps. His muscles were on fire, his legs and arms felt like jelly, and his still-bandaged injured hand hurt like a son of a bitch—but luckily wasn’t bleeding. Yet Greyson felt invigorated.
“That was some workout.” The quiet voice with its slow and measured cadence came from somewhere to his left, and he swung his head in that direction to see Spencer Carlisle putting away his weights.
“I needed to—to blow off some steam,” Greyson panted, fighting to get his breath back.
“It work?”
Taken aback by the man’s abbreviated question, Greyson blinked and nodded. “Enough.” Greyson liked that he could just throw the word at the guy. No unnecessary extra details required.
“Good.”
Greyson waited, but when nothing more seemed to be forthcoming from the big guy, he pushed himself away from the bag, happy that his legs seemed able to support him again. He made his way to his water bottle and took a thirsty gulp, then picked up his towel and mopped up the sweat on his face, across his shoulders, and under his arms. Harris always liked to joke that Greyson didn’t possess sweat glands. A jibe at how neat and controlled Greyson usually liked to keep all aspects of his life. He didn’t like messy, not in his surroundings, on his person, or in his personal life. But since everything else was fucked . . . a bit of good, healthy sweat thrown into the mix couldn’t do any harm. Besides, Harris had never seen him practice his Krav Maga. It required strength and discipline, which appealed to Greyson, but it always left him wrung out and sweaty. And usually sporting a fair number of bruises all over his body.
“What discipline?” Spencer asked. Greyson’s eyes lifted to his, and the man jerked his head toward the punching bag.
“Krav Maga. Black belt.” Greyson really liked this guy. He liked his lack of social graces; it encouraged Greyson to abandon all his hard-earned social and conversational cues and just shrug and grunt and gesture.
Spencer’s brows lifted, and he whistled appreciatively. “Need a sparring partner?”
“You offering?” Greyson asked, his voice colored with surprise. The guy was huge and looked strong, but he didn’t move like a fighter. A fact that was confirmed when Spencer snorted good naturedly and shook his head.
“Wife’s brother-in-law, Sam. Former special ops,” he clarified, and this time Greyson’s brow flew up.
“I’d be interested,” he said, starting his cooldown stretching routine.
Spencer left him alone while he did that, going back to setting the gym to rights. A few more people wandered in, all of them staring at Greyson curiously and greeting him with nods and waves. The reticent Spencer got warmer verbal greetings, which he returned with grunts and slight waves.
Greyson was ready to leave when Spencer approached him again.
“Football match Saturday night. After seven. We need players.”
“I’ll think about it,” Greyson said noncommittally. It really depended on whether Olivia needed him to babysit or not. “If your friend wants to spar, tell him I’ll be here in the morning.”
“Hmm.”
Greyson was at the kitchen table that afternoon, checking his correspondence, when Harris strode into the house. He slammed the door behind him and glared at Greyson, clearly in a mood.
“Your wife’s looking for you,” he said, sounding even more pissed off than he looked. Olivia hadn’t seemed too pleased with Harris after her chat with Martine yesterday, and that must have carried over to today. He couldn’t remember Olivia and Harris ever being at odds before, and it wasn’t as satisfying as he had once thought it would be.
Harris looked distressed, and Greyson didn’t like that. He knew that Olivia probably felt equally distressed, and that bothered him. A lot.
“Does she know about the bet?” Greyson asked.
“Not according to Tina.”
“Then why is she so upset?”
“I don’t know. She says I used Tina, but she should know me better than that. I think they’re hiding something from me. Something that gives Tina nightmares and makes Libby look at me like I’m some fucking monster.”
; “What do you think it is?”
Harris shook his head, looking lost. “Your guess is as good as mine at this point.” His voice was heavy with misery.
“I’m sorry, Harris,” Greyson said.
“Yeah, well, maybe I deserve this.”
“You don’t,” Greyson said matter of factly. “You were as blameless as Tina that first night, and you’ve been trying to make things right since then. You don’t deserve this at all.”
Harris blinked rapidly and cleared his hoarse throat before ducking his head self-consciously. “Thank you.” He lifted his head again and met Greyson’s gaze unflinchingly. “Seriously, Greyson. Thanks for that. I . . . it means a lot.”
Greyson cleared his throat, too, and flushed at the sincerity he could see gleaming in his brother’s bright eyes. “Anytime, Harris.”
There was an awkward pause before both men looked away abruptly.
“Uh . . . so you said Olivia’s looking for me?” Greyson changed the subject, and Harris looked relieved.
“I assume so,” Harris said. “She asked me if I’d seen you today.”
Greyson frowned and dug his phone out of his jeans pocket. “Shit, the battery died,” he said. He put the device on charge.
“I’m going to make a few phone calls and do some work in my room,” Harris said. Greyson nodded absently, waiting for the phone to charge. He hoped Olivia didn’t have an emergency. It had been careless of him not to check his phone. What if Clara was ill or Olivia wanted to talk? What if he’d blown an opportunity to spend time with them today?
Harris retreated to his room, and Greyson barely noticed. When the phone finally had enough battery power to make a call, he contacted Olivia, not bothering to check his messages.
She answered almost immediately, and she sounded fine, thank God. And not at all upset.
“Olivia, Harris said you were looking for me.”
“Greyson, hey. Thanks for calling. You didn’t have to—I would have been okay with just a reply to my message.”
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