Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  “Night, Ms. Jenson,” Charlie called as she bounded from the room.

  “Libby, please.” Tina’s soft, imploring voice halted Libby’s movement for a moment.

  “I’m exhausted, Tina,” she admitted quietly. “It’s been a hell of a day. I need to get Charlie home. And then I just have to switch off from all of this for a little while.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Libby sighed, her shoulders drooping. There was no mistaking the remorse in Tina’s voice. But she honestly did not know what to do about that now, and part of her resented Tina for making what should have been a positive experience for both of them so damned stressful.

  “I know that, Tina.”

  “Can we—” Clara’s fretful little cry interrupted whatever Tina had been about to say, and she paled at the sound.

  Again that extreme negative reaction to Clara’s presence.

  “I have to go. Good night.” This time Libby turned and walked away without a backward glance.

  The house was freezing. Clara was fretting; she needed a change and a feed, but Libby had to take care of the heating first.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” she murmured after putting Clara’s baby seat down on the makeshift coffee table. She looked around for the air conditioner’s remote, figuring the fastest way to warm up the place would be by blasting heat from the air-conditioning unit. The place had no central heating, and the old radiator heater, which had been left behind by the previous owner, had died last night.

  She found the remote with a triumphant whoop, and when she turned the heat on, the air conditioner sputtered for a moment before running with a sickly whir. But at least it was working. Thank God for small miracles.

  “Okay, bath time for you, munchkin,” she told Clara, keeping her voice cheerful even though she felt like bawling her eyes out. Her day didn’t look like it was going to improve much now that she was home.

  For the first time, she looked around the shabby place and worried that she had bitten off way more than she could chew. The plumber still hadn’t come to fix the pipes. The hot water worked . . . until it didn’t, and—she sighed as she walked into the kitchen and stared at the wet floor in dismay—it was now apparent that the roof leaked.

  Awesome.

  “Just awesome,” she repeated out loud, opening and closing cupboards to look for a bucket. She knew she had one. She had bought it just last week. She finally found it in the bathroom and carried it to the kitchen to place beneath the leak.

  Clara was screeching by now, and abruptly overwhelmed, Libby stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the water dripping into the bucket. She covered her face with her hands and inhaled deeply, trying to keep it together.

  “I’m coming, baby,” she called soothingly, heading to the bathroom to fill the baby bath with warm water. She placed the pink-and-white plastic bath into the ancient claw-foot tub beneath the tap. The faucet sputtered when she opened it, and the water that emerged was a little brown with rust at first, before running clear. She held her hand beneath the stream, and thankfully, the water warmed after a moment.

  “Thank God,” she muttered before heading back to the living room for Clara, who was not a happy little camper right now. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Libby could hear the despair in her own voice as she lifted her baby into her arms. She carried Clara into the bedroom to remove her clothing.

  The air conditioner was starting to heat the small house quite comfortably, which Libby was grateful for. She wrapped her plump, naked baby in a fluffy towel before heading back to the bathroom. The adorable, comfortable baby bath—a gift from Clara’s paternal grandparents—was nearly full, and Libby tugged it away from the stream of water before reaching over to close the faucet.

  Nothing happened.

  “No, no, no,” Libby moaned. “Please, come on!”

  The spigot just kept turning without tightening, and the water continued to run. Clara’s cries were escalating now, and feeling increasingly frazzled, Libby wasn’t sure what to do. She glared at the relentless flow of water resentfully, attempting to rock Clara while not at all sure how to deal with this latest in a seemingly endless list of problems.

  A loud knock sounded on the front door at that moment, and Libby bit back a juicy curse word at the intrusion. She knew exactly who that was. Seeing him again was inevitable, but of course he had to choose the absolute worst moment to show up. She’d been expecting him all day, and he came knocking after eleven at night. Closer to twelve, actually—it was way too late to be bathing Clara, she knew. But Clara was overdue for a bath, and Libby hadn’t had much time to do it that afternoon, not after dealing with various crises at the restaurant.

  She shook her head and swore softly beneath her breath. Then, still clutching a snugly wrapped Clara to her chest, she made her way to the front door. A quick glance through the peephole confirmed the identity of her unwelcome visitor, and for a brief moment she considered ignoring him, before bowing to the inevitable. Might as well just rip the Band-Aid off the wound.

  She unlocked the door and swung it open to glare at her soon-to-be ex-husband furiously.

  Chapter Six

  “It’s late, Greyson,” she stated unnecessarily, and he nodded.

  “I know,” he said in his usual quiet way. “I’m sorry. But I figured you’d be busy earlier.”

  “I’m busy now,” she said pointedly, still rocking Clara, who absolutely refused to be soothed. Greyson’s gaze dropped to Clara before shooting back up to Libby’s face. The look had been almost furtive and reminiscent of the way Tina avoided looking at Clara.

  He kept his eyes pointedly fixed on Libby’s face after that one swift look down, and she frowned.

  “We need to talk,” he said softly. Libby had always found the quiet way he spoke appealing. The cadence of that deep, mellifluous voice was always gentle. He rarely raised his voice. Even at the hospital, she recalled now, when he’d been accusing her of the most horrid crimes against their marriage, his voice had remained soft and controlled.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, feeling more and more ruffled. This was not how she had wanted their first real discussion about their failed marriage to go. She was supposed to have the upper hand, she was supposed to be in her comfort zone . . . instead he looked calm, unruffled, and she felt like she was splintering into a million different pieces.

  “I’m aware of that, but you know we have to.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip before stepping aside to allow him in, only then seeing that it was still raining and that his head and shoulders were damp. She closed and automatically locked the door behind him. He brought with him the smell of rain, wind, and brine, combined with the delicious, familiar scent of the expensive aftershave he wore.

  He moved into her living room, and the place immediately shrank around him. He had that effect on every room he entered. In the past it had made her feel safe; now she just felt claustrophobic. Her gaze raked over his body in confusion.

  He looked different.

  “You’re wearing jeans,” she said, knowing she sounded as shocked as she felt. She had never believed she would see the day Greyson donned jeans. Yet here he was, wearing ripped jeans, trainers, and a fleecy gray hoodie. He still looked like Greyson, with that perfect carriage and flawless hair, but also fundamentally different. Aside from the uncharacteristic clothes, his jaw was blue with stubble, and he had dark shadows beneath his eyes.

  “It seemed appropriate. No point wearing suits here.”

  “I didn’t think you owned jeans,” she said and then felt stupid for harping on about this. There were rather more pressing concerns at hand.

  “I didn’t until this afternoon. This is my first pair,” he muttered. “My first hoodie too. Uh . . . why is . . . why is she crying?”

  He kept his gaze glued on Libby’s face when he asked the question, and for a second Libby had no idea to whom he was referring, since he never looked down at the wailing infant. Why wo
uldn’t he look at her?

  “She’s hungry. And uncomfortable.”

  “Why uncomfortable? Is she . . . ,” he asked, and Libby’s eyes were drawn to the movement of his Adam’s apple as he literally swallowed down whatever he’d been about to ask.

  “Is she what?” Libby prompted him.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Why won’t you look at her?” Libby asked curiously, fascinated by his seeming inability to look at the baby.

  “I wasn’t sure . . .” He halted again before blinking rapidly. An expression of shocking vulnerability fleetingly crossed his handsome face before he asked, his voice even quieter than usual, “Can I? May I?”

  Libby’s head tilted to the left as she tried to figure that out. “Can you what?”

  “Look at her?” His voice shook, and her brows met.

  “I think you should,” she said, keeping her own voice quiet. She watched as—after receiving her go-ahead—his gaze dipped to the baby’s wet face before darting away again. His eyes tracked back to the angry, sad little visage as if irresistibly drawn to it and lingered a little longer. This time the blue gaze lifted to Libby, and his face took on an expression of bemused wonder before he looked at Clara again, this time taking in his fill.

  “She looks like you,” he said, his voice dusted with the same wonder she had seen on his face.

  “So I’ve been told,” Libby said curtly, not wanting to be moved by his reaction to the baby. “I have to bathe her, but—”

  Crap! She had completely forgotten about the running faucet and dashed into the bathroom, vaguely aware of Greyson following her. She swore furiously when she saw that the tap was still merrily flowing into the unplugged bathtub. Clara’s bath was waiting, and Libby was tempted to just wash the baby despite the broken tap. But it would be too messy.

  “Why’s the water running?” Greyson asked from the bathroom doorway, and Libby swore again, immediately feeling crowded by his larger-than-life presence.

  “The faucet’s broken. Fix it, will you?” She very much doubted Greyson, who wasn’t any kind of handyman at all, could repair the problem. Still, she took a perverse pleasure in saddling him with a dilemma she knew he couldn’t resolve.

  “Meantime, I think I’ll feed Clara and give her a wipe down. I’ll bathe her in the morning instead.” Libby liked to list things. Sometimes verbally, usually on paper or on her phone . . . it helped her remain goal oriented. Whether with long-term or immediate goals, a list kept her on track.

  She took Clara into her bedroom and pointedly shut the door behind her, leaving him to sink or swim. She didn’t particularly care which.

  Greyson stood beside the bathtub in the cramped bathroom and stared at the doorway through which Olivia had just exited. He heard another door shut, and the sound of the baby’s wailing became more muffled behind the barrier of the closed door.

  They were both so beautiful. With her golden-brown skin that seemed to glow from within and her silky black curls, Clara definitely looked like her mother. But Greyson couldn’t deny those dark-blue eyes.

  His eyes.

  His throat closed up, and he sat down on the side of the bath as he struggled to regulate his breathing. His fist clenched, and he thumped his thigh with leashed violence. He despised himself for what he had done, and everybody else did too . . . rightfully so. But he wanted to be a part of that baby’s life. And he wanted Olivia back.

  And Greyson, usually the man with a plan . . . had no idea how to get what he so desperately wanted.

  He turned his attention to the gushing faucet and stared at it for a long, blank moment.

  How the hell was he supposed to fix this? He didn’t have a clue. He dug his phone out of his pocket, wincing a bit at the unfamiliar snugness of the jeans. He should probably have gone for something a little roomier. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he felt in this unfamiliar garb, but he had wanted to seem more amiable. More like Harris, who appeared to be everyone’s buddy.

  Greyson knew he wasn’t the most approachable of men. Especially not in the three-piece suits he enjoyed wearing. And yes, sometimes the suits felt like armor—a well-made suit was a formidable weapon in any successful man’s arsenal. It inured one to the petty shit.

  At least that was how Greyson always felt.

  He felt naked in these clothes.

  He shook his head, dispelling the foolish thoughts. Clara’s heartbreaking cries had finally died down, and he could hear the faint, comforting hum of Olivia’s voice as she spoke to the baby. He longed to go into that room and sit with them. Watch the baby feed. Watch his wife soothe and cuddle their child.

  But he wouldn’t be welcome. He had this task, and he was grateful for it, because while he didn’t have a single damned clue how to solve this problem, at least she hadn’t kicked him out.

  Besides, he had a secret weapon: his phone and the world’s most powerful internet search engine at his fingertips. He found a temporary solution in no time, but he needed a wrench, and because he had stupidly left the brand-new toolbox that he had bought for just such an eventuality back in his crappy room, that meant disturbing Olivia.

  He left the bathroom and stood uncertainly outside her bedroom door, slicking back his still-rain-damp hair nervously before lifting his fist to rap on the door.

  Her voice went silent, and there was a long pause before she responded to his knock.

  “What?” she called, and he stared at the scarred wood of the barrier between them.

  “I need a wrench,” he said.

  “Under the kitchen sink,” she replied without hesitation. He nodded, then felt foolish because she couldn’t see him.

  “Thanks.”

  He moved to the kitchen, not seeing the bucket in the middle of the floor until the very last second. He swore and swerved to avoid it. The roof was leaking. This place was a bloody disaster. He hated the thought of Olivia and Clara living like this but knew that his stubborn wife would never consider allowing him to buy her a better place.

  He found the wrench amid a mishmash of other mysterious tools. He wouldn’t be able to explain the function of most of those under threat of death and dismemberment. He made fast work of closing the faucet after that and was inordinately proud of his accomplishment as well as the fact that he’d barely made any mess at all.

  He heard the bedroom door open and sensed Olivia’s presence at the bathroom entryway before she spoke.

  “You fixed it,” she said, her voice flat. He turned to face her, noticing that she had changed from jeans and a sweater into a pair of black yoga pants and a comfortable-looking slouchy white top that slid off one shoulder. Her soft, wavy black hair was swept away from her face in a high, sloppy bun.

  He swallowed audibly at the sight of her. He remembered the first time he’d recognized her beauty. She’d been sixteen, and he’d been home from college for Christmas. Before that he’d never seen her as anything more than a pesky kid, but that year, he’d finally seen the exquisiteness in that delicately boned, heart-shaped face with its rounded, high cheekbones and wide, whiskey-colored eyes, framed by long, thick black lashes and accentuated with sweeping, perfectly arched brows. She had the prettiest button nose, almost too cute for the rest of the beauty in that face, but it matched the adorable dimples, which gave her smile an impish quality. Then there was her mouth, that full, luscious mouth that tasted like honey and kissed like heaven. He forced back a shudder as he recalled those gorgeous lips closing over his length and . . .

  Jesus . . . this was not the time or place for these thoughts. But seeing her again stirred up so many memories. She was a contradiction in so many ways. Tall but delicate, she had the rangy athleticism of a long-distance runner but moved with the grace of a ballerina. Back when she’d been sixteen, he’d taken one look at her, still a schoolgirl, before turning around and walking out of his parents’ home. He’d spent more time away from the house that vacation than at home with his family.

  After that he had gone to grea
t lengths to avoid her. Even after she’d reached adulthood, it hadn’t felt appropriate to want the daughter of family employees. It wouldn’t have been an equal partnership. He would have felt like that guy. The one who took advantage of his family’s wealth and power to coerce the girl he wanted into sleeping with him.

  But when he had seen her again last year, knowing that her parents had retired and she was an independent, career-oriented woman capable of making an informed decision about sleeping with him, all bets had been off. He had wanted her, he had known she wanted him, and that was it. He’d gone after her, he’d gotten her, and then he’d wanted to keep her.

  He cleared his throat, aware of her staring at him in puzzlement when he didn’t respond to her statement.

  “I didn’t fix it,” he denied. “I merely closed it. It needs to be replaced.”

  She shut her eyes and shook her head tiredly. “Add that to the growing list of repairs, then.” Her voice was heavy with exhaustion.

  “Where’s, aah . . . where’s the baby?” he asked.

  “Clara is in her baby seat, in the living room,” she said, emphasizing the name pointedly. “She’s been fed and changed and will probably doze off soon. Now’s the time for you to say your piece and get it over with.”

  She turned and headed back to the living room, where she curled up in an easy chair and watched him as he followed and tentatively perched on the edge of the sofa. His eyes were drawn to the cooing baby, whose seat was on a small table, as she clumsily swept her chubby hands at the bright mobile dangling above her. She was making happy little sounds, gurgling and bubbling like a cheerful brook.

  “What do you want, Greyson?” Olivia asked pointedly, and he looked at her, stunned by the directness of her question.

  “You. Clara.” Perhaps not the most appropriate of responses, considering the frigidity of her expression.

  “You can’t have us, so what’s next?”

  “Olivia, I know I fucked up,” he said, and she nodded.