Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  “I can see that. Like an absolute pro.”

  “Oh, you’re a good girl,” Greyson crooned. Clara chuckled. She waved her arms again. And immediately lost her balance. They heard Greyson mutter an expletive as the baby began to topple. The phone went flying as he made a grab for her, and the video ended a few seconds later.

  Libby and Tina were both laughing at the abrupt ending to the clip, and Libby quickly forwarded the video to her parents, Harris, Chris, and just about every other person on her contacts list.

  She followed that up with a message to Greyson.

  OMG! I can’t believe she did that. Thanks for filming it.

  She’s been showing off all evening, keeps pulling herself up and sitting for a few seconds before losing her balance again.

  That’s because she’s after the praise and attention she knows she’ll get from you every time she succeeds.

  Well such amazing achievements deserve applause : )

  Naturally.

  Libby looked up from her texting to see Tina watching her quizzically, and she self-consciously tucked her phone back into her pocket.

  “What?” she asked when Tina continued her speculative staring.

  “Oh, nothing . . . I was just wondering if that soppy grin on your face was still because of the clip or because of the texts you were exchanging with Greyson.”

  Libby’s face heated, and her smile faded.

  “Stop distracting me in the middle of dinner service and go schmooze the guests or something,” she said without heat, changing the subject mostly because she had no idea at all who was responsible for her smile. The clip had made her laugh, but the banter with Greyson had kept the smile firmly in place. She told herself it was because they had been discussing Clara. But she wasn’t so sure.

  “Have you told Libby about the Harris thing yet?” Martine asked Greyson the following morning. They had fallen into the habit of having breakfast at her place every morning. Well, he had developed the habit of wandering over to her place for some food in the mornings, and she would feed him like the stray that he was. He couldn’t cook, and he didn’t do brunch, which was all that MJ’s offered, and he liked an early breakfast after gym. Which was about the time that Martine breakfasted.

  Even though she admitted to being “not the best cook,” she was still much better than Greyson. And they now had a standing breakfast date every morning.

  “What Harris thing?” Greyson asked. Martine never spoke to him about his marriage, and he had always appreciated that about her. This question—completely without context—confused him.

  “That you thought Harris was Clara’s father.”

  Appetite lost, Greyson set aside his fork and stared at his plate of scrambled eggs. He hated the question, hated the reminder of his crazy lapse in reason.

  “I don’t think it’s something she needs to know.”

  “Do you want her back?”

  He continued to glare at his plate resentfully. What the fuck was this? He never asked about her relationship with Harris. He didn’t think it was his business. So why did everyone seem to think it was okay for them to thrust their noses into his private affairs?

  “She’s my friend, Greyson,” Tina said gently, and his eyes darted up to hers. She looked compassionate, and it made him feel a little less defensive. “And I’d like to think that you’re my friend too.”

  Well. That was really sweet. And unexpected. And meant quite a lot, actually.

  “Yes. I want her back,” he admitted, his voice low and rough.

  “Then you should start from a place of complete honesty. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

  Greyson picked up his fork and prodded his eggs. His thoughts were roiling and his chest was tight, while his stomach did crazy, unfamiliar loop the loops. He vaguely recognized the sensation: the last time he had felt this unsettled had been before his final exams in high school.

  “I thought,” he began, then cleared his throat and dropped the fork onto the plate with a clatter. “I thought . . . if I showed her I was different, that I was trying, that she would . . .”

  He shook his head, not sure how to complete that thought.

  “Forgive you?” Martine finished for him.

  “Yes. Maybe.”

  “You haven’t even apologized, Greyson. I say—and you don’t have to do this, but let’s face it, what you’ve been doing isn’t working. But I say be honest and let the chips fall where they may. I spent a long time hiding my truth from the people I loved . . . and it got me nowhere. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  “Martine . . .”

  She swore beneath her breath and rolled her eyes. “And for God’s sake, stop calling me Martine. My friends call me Tina.”

  The plumbing was finally working! The last two weeks had been rough on Libby. The house had been in constant upheaval, and at one point the water had been off for two days. Libby had been forced to shower at Tina’s flat. Greyson had prepared Clara’s bottles at his place and had bathed her there as well.

  But finally, the plumbing and the electricity were up to code. And it had only taken two weeks to get it done. Greyson had wisely brought in top-notch professionals from out of town, thankfully not attempting to do any of the work himself. He had even hired a gardener to get the weeds and overgrown plants under control.

  The roof was still leaking because the near-constant wind and rain had made working on it impossible. Which meant that there were still buckets and pots placed under the leaks that seemed to be springing up everywhere.

  The night after the plumbing was fixed, Libby wearily let herself into her house. It was late, and the place was dimly lit and quiet. She went to the bedroom and found Greyson sprawled out on her bed. He was fast asleep. Clara was asleep in her crib; the baby had started teething and was constantly crying and miserable. It was exhausting. And Libby could tell that Greyson must have had a rough night of it. He had kicked his shoes off, and his socked feet hung over the edge of the bed. He was wearing track pants and a pale-blue T-shirt. His hair, which hadn’t been cut since his arrival in Riversend nearly six weeks ago, was longer than Libby could ever recall seeing it before. It flopped over his forehead and ears.

  He sighed heavily and opened his eyes. He stared up at her sleepily before smiling.

  “Olivia.” His voice was quieter than usual.

  “You look done in,” Libby said, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to him.

  “She wouldn’t stop crying. I felt terrible for her. I iced a few of her favorite teething toys, and that worked for a while, but not for long. I gave her some of that teething powder as a last resort. She fell asleep at about twelve.”

  “She’s only been asleep about half an hour, then,” Libby said, and he grimaced.

  “I put her in the crib and thought I’d sit here for a while, just in case she needed me; next thing I know you’re waking me up.” He sighed again and sat up. “I’ll head home. Try to get some sleep. You’re going to need it. I don’t doubt she’ll be awake again soon.”

  “Greyson, you don’t look fit to drive right now,” Libby said. “You’re so exhausted you’re practically cross-eyed. Go back to sleep. You can leave in the morning.”

  The words were out before she could properly think them through, but when he lay back down and wearily covered his eyes with his forearm, she couldn’t regret the invitation. It would be unforgivable of her to allow him to drive in his current condition.

  “Just a quick nap,” he muttered, his voice slurring. “I’ll leave soon.”

  Libby watched him for a second before grabbing a tank top and shorts from her dresser. She was desperate for a shower.

  She was back in the bedroom less than ten minutes later. Both Clara and Greyson were still sound asleep. And before she could overthink it, Libby climbed onto the bed beside Greyson, crawled under the covers, and switched off the bedside lamp.

  It felt like she’d only been sleeping for thirty seconds when Clara’s cries a
woke her. Libby sat up and was confused to find the light on.

  “I’ll be right there, Cla—” The words died abruptly when she looked up and saw Greyson with Clara in his arms. He was rocking the baby, his knuckle in her mouth as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

  “Sorry,” he said when he saw she was awake. “I tried to stop her crying before she woke you. I changed her nappy, but she remains inconsolable, as you can see.”

  “She’s probably hungry.” Libby held out her arms, and Greyson crossed the short, cramped distance and transferred Clara to her. “Do you have any bottles prepared? I don’t think I have much milk tonight.”

  “Yes, I’ll get one.” He left, and Libby shifted her tank top to give Clara access to her breast. The baby suckled greedily for a couple of minutes before spitting out the nipple and starting to cry.

  “I know, it’s okay. Daddy’s getting some more for you,” Libby comforted her, trying the other breast, but that one had even less to offer.

  Greyson returned just as Libby was covering herself up again and handed her the warm bottle.

  “Temp’s fine,” he assured her, sitting down on the bed next to her. Clara latched on to the teat eagerly, but after only a few sips she started chewing on the rubber instead. She turned her head away to cry again.

  Greyson got up without a word and left the room. He returned moments later with a cold, damp washcloth and a teething ring. Libby smiled gratefully, took the cloth from him, and wiped the baby’s wet, hot little face and neck before Greyson offered Clara the teething ring.

  “I’m so fucking knackered,” Greyson groaned, curling up on his side to face them. Clara was fretfully chewing on the cold rubber ring. “I had an early-morning teleconference with Harris and a few other executives in Australia this morning.”

  “Have the bad guys all been caught?” Libby asked.

  “Looks that way,” Greyson said on a yawn. “Harris is just tying up some loose ends and will probably be jetting back to Cape Town shortly.”

  “That’s good,” Libby said. She scooted down and lay on her side as well, Clara on her back between them, still gnawing frantically. Greyson’s eyes drifted to the baby, and he smiled sleepily.

  “She’s such a little beauty,” he said, his voice filled with wonder.

  “She is, isn’t she?” Libby said dreamily, lifting a finger to play with one of the baby’s silky, soft curls.

  “Absolutely.”

  “At least we got this one thing right.” Her words were starting to slur.

  Greyson switched off the bedside lamp before draping his arm over her waist and enfolding their baby within a protective cage. He was asleep in seconds, and Clara drifted off soon after.

  Libby lay there for a long time, listening to the comforting, familiar sound of him lightly snoring next to her. She had missed having him in her bed. She had missed the warmth of his body, the wonderful woodsy scent of his aftershave combined with the crisp pine of his shampoo. She had missed all of that and more. And in the forgiving dark of night, she found herself wishing she could curl up in his arms and allow him to soothe all the pain and despair and anger of the last few months away.

  It had once been so easy to love him. To permit herself to be vulnerable with him . . . but he had taken that vulnerability and stomped all over it.

  She had vowed never to let him close enough to do that again.

  But in that moment, in the warm, soft darkness, with her baby’s snuffling breaths lightly peppered in between Greyson’s heavier exhalations, Libby remembered how wonderful it had been to simply trust that he would never hurt her.

  She allowed that false sense of comfort and security to wash over her before finally falling asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The first thing Libby saw when she opened her eyes the following morning was the flower. A pretty, freshly bloomed purple African daisy. Its petals glistened with raindrops, and it could only have come from her garden.

  She sat up and stared at the simple, lovely blossom. It lay on the pillow that still held the impression of Greyson’s head.

  “Damn it, Greyson,” she whispered, hating the sweet unexpectedness of the gesture. But hating herself even more for being so oddly affected by it. It felt like her brain had turned to mush over a silly, tiny romantic gesture that only a teenage girl should have gone so giddy over.

  Exhaling on a shuddery gasp, she picked up the hardy early-spring flower.

  “Good morning.”

  She turned her head to look at Greyson. He stood in her bedroom doorway, Clara in the crook of one arm and a bottle in his other hand.

  It had been a rough night for all of them. Clara had woken them several times more, and they had groggily taken turns soothing the baby and taking care of her needs. Libby hadn’t even considered the appropriateness of having him stay over until now. It was unsettling how seamlessly he had integrated into her and Clara’s routine.

  “What’s this for?” she asked, lifting the flower.

  “Happy birthday,” he said, his voice rough with sincerity. “I would have made breakfast in bed, but I’m sure you know how that would have turned out.”

  The statement surprised a laugh out of Libby. With everything that had happened recently, she hadn’t given her birthday any thought at all. And she was shocked Greyson had remembered it.

  “Thank you,” she said, offering him a small smile. She felt a little shy and not at all sure why that was. “How’s young miss today?”

  “Still uncomfortable, but I’ve been giving her a steady supply of iced teething toys. She’s had some mashed banana and pear for breakfast, but she was more interested in chewing her spoon.”

  “Thank you for all your help last night,” Libby said, idly running her fingers over the daisy’s soft petals.

  “Least I could do after you so kindly offered to let me stay.”

  “I should get ready for work.”

  “Of course.” He nodded and started to leave before pausing. “I was wondering if we could have dinner on Sunday. We need to talk.”

  “Greyson,” she said with an impatient sigh. “Our talks never achieve anything.”

  “It’s important, Olivia.”

  “Fine. But no more ridiculously romantic, highly inappropriate restaurants. I’ll cook, and you can come here. That way I won’t need a sitter for Clara.”

  He looked hesitant. “I was hoping for neutral territory,” he said, the words emerging slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

  “Why? Are you expecting our conversation to get volatile?”

  “Possibly,” he admitted, and her eyebrows flew up in surprise at his honesty.

  Extremely curious now, she tilted her head and eyed him speculatively. “We could go to Chris’s café. But for lunch. I don’t want to do dinner.” It was too intimate.

  “Your friend? The model? The one you worked for when you first came here?”

  Libby wondered if it was possible for one’s eyebrows to ascend all the way to the top of one’s head. Because that was how high she felt hers had risen.

  “Ex-model. And how did you know all of that? Did Harris tell you?”

  “No. Nobody spoke to me much after you left.” He sounded so morose admitting it that Libby very nearly felt sorry for him. Very nearly. Until she remembered why everybody had been pissed off with him.

  “So how did you know I’d worked for Chris? How did you know I was here in the first place?” Why had it never occurred to her to ask him that before? Harris and Tina wouldn’t have told him. His parents hadn’t known. They had sent care packages for Clara to her parents, who in turn had forwarded them to Libby.

  “That’s part of what I want to talk to you about on Sunday.”

  “I think this is something you can tell me now. Since I’ve asked, and it’s a simple question requiring a simple answer.”

  “Maybe the answer isn’t that simple,” he retorted. He looked at Clara, and his expression softened.
His shoulders sagged in defeat, and he continued speaking without diverting his gaze from his daughter’s face. As if he didn’t want to see Libby’s reaction to his words. “I hired an investigator. Immediately after you left the hospital. It was my last lucid act for a while . . . but I had to be sure you and Clara were okay.”

  Libby blinked. There were so many conflicting emotions churning around inside of her that she couldn’t entirely figure out how she felt about that confession.

  “An investigator? Like a private detective? Why? Did you think Clara and I had gone off to live with her baby daddy? Oh my God, did you think Chris was her father?”

  Outrage. That was the feeling currently fighting for dominance over confusion, uncertainty, and—weirdly—hope.

  He winced and lifted his haunted gaze to hers. “No. Of course not. I never once thought that.”

  “There’s no of course not here, Greyson. When I left, you fully believed that Clara was somebody else’s child. So why wouldn’t you think it was Chris? Did you have someone else in mind?”

  “By the time you left the hospital, I already knew Clara was mine.”

  “What?” The fuck? “That was the very next day.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to talk to you about this, but we don’t have the time to get into it right now. I’m happy to go to your friend’s restaurant for lunch on Sunday. We can discuss it further then.”

  Frustrated, because he was right—there wasn’t enough time to talk about this now—Libby nodded abruptly and got up.

  “Fine. Whatever you want, Greyson.” She didn’t do much to keep the acid from her voice. If his pained expression was anything to go by, her sarcasm was more than evident. He stepped out of the doorway, and she sank down onto the bed, finding it hard to process the information he had given her.

  An investigator. Some stranger watching her every move. And she hadn’t once sensed she was being observed. The thought gave her chills, and she wondered if Greyson was even aware of how far out of line that was.

  And if he was being truthful about knowing he was Clara’s father practically since day one, why hadn’t he approached her sooner? Why wait four months? Nothing about this made sense.