Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  “How often do you feed her?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  “About six times a day. I’ll be adding solids to her diet soon. Possibly this week. She’s drinking expressed breast milk at day care, but I want to start supplementing that with formula.” She paused before grimacing. “Sorry . . . that’s more information than you asked for.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s stuff I want to know. Stuff I should know.”

  Clara’s mouth went slack, and Libby, with practiced ease, slid her bra and top back into place beneath the towel before lifting Clara to her shoulder and gently patting her back.

  Greyson was watching the circular motion of her hand intently. “Why do you do that?” he asked.

  “Burping her. When she gets a little more active, sitting up by herself and moving around more, I won’t have to do this for her anymore. I feel like we’re nearly at that point. She’s constantly trying to roll over, and she lifts her head like a champ. She’s growing so fast.”

  His eyes flickered with something resembling sadness or regret before his lids swooped down and he ducked his head to hide his reaction from her.

  “I should get back to Harris’s. For my tools,” he said a moment later, bringing his carefully blank eyes back up to hers.

  “Tools?”

  “I, um, bought some tools yesterday because I thought you may need some help fixing things around here.”

  Well, wasn’t that overconfident of him?

  “That seems a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

  “Not really, I just like to be prepared.”

  “Of course you do,” she said, finding it hard not to sound caustic. But at the same time not really caring if she did. He cleared his throat, and his eyes roamed around the room as he seemed to search for something to say.

  “Did you know that Harris rented the house next to Martine’s?” he asked abruptly, and Libby felt her eyebrows shoot straight to her hairline at that bit of information. Tina hadn’t mentioned that at all.

  Then again, she thought bitterly, Tina hasn’t exactly been a font of information lately.

  But Harris hadn’t mentioned it either. Maybe the subject had just not come up? But it seemed like an odd detail not to mention.

  “That’s weird,” she said. “Were there really no other places available?” She couldn’t imagine Tina being too thrilled about it.

  “I’m starting to wonder if he didn’t do it deliberately,” Greyson said, and Libby blinked.

  “Why would he do that? They hate each other.”

  “I think the hate is one sided. Harris has never felt any animosity toward Martine.”

  “How do you know that? You and Harris don’t exactly confide in each other.”

  “I just do,” he said cryptically, and Libby was tempted to question him further but didn’t want to have a cozy gossip with him. She didn’t want to encourage such familiarity.

  Greyson couldn’t stop watching Olivia with Clara. Her gentle stroking of the baby’s back mesmerized him. Despite her modest claims to the contrary, there was a naturalness to her mothering that was beautiful to see. And Greyson wanted to watch and encourage and assist and hold them both close and never let them go again.

  But he didn’t have that right. It killed him not to follow his instinctive inclination to claim them and protect them. He wanted to be a father . . . something he’d never dreamed possible. He wanted to be a husband—something he’d been horrendous at for the most part.

  He wanted a second chance.

  But he didn’t deserve one, so he had to settle for second best. He just didn’t know what second best entailed yet.

  “I’ll go. I’ll be back in about an hour. I think the hardware store is open until eleven on a Sunday; I’ll pop around there for some stuff.”

  “I’m paying for whatever you’re buying,” she stated, her voice brooking no argument. That didn’t stop him from trying to argue.

  “That’s not necessary; it’ll just be a few things.”

  “You pay for anything, and you can forget about the handyman routine,” she warned.

  Check. And mate. There was no arguing with that. He hadn’t made any secret of the fact that he was desperate to make himself useful. But she could take that away in a second.

  He shut his mouth but couldn’t stop himself from glaring at her.

  “If you call in a professional behind my back, so help me God, Greyson . . . there will be hell to pay.”

  Not keen to find out how much more hell she could dish out, Greyson dipped his head in surly acquiescence. He was a reasonably intelligent guy—a renowned problem-solver and troubleshooter. He could do this.

  “Whatever you want, Olivia,” he agreed softly. “I’ll add that warm water to her bath. Then I’ll head out.”

  She didn’t say anything in response to his words, just kept her focus on Clara. Greyson waited for a moment, but she had already dismissed him.

  So now he knew how that felt. It was a move he had used on so many others; perhaps it was poetic justice to have the old freeze-out practiced on him for a change.

  He turned away and left.

  Clara was bathed, changed, and on her back swatting at the little safari animals dangling from the mobile above her playpen.

  It was still pouring outside, and Libby had emptied the bucket beneath the leak twice in the thirty minutes since Greyson had left. Her only solace was that no other leaks had sprung up overnight.

  The air conditioner sounded even worse than it had last night, and Libby feared the thing was on its last legs. No surprise, really—everything in the house seemed to be on its last legs.

  Her phone chimed, and she reached for it, swiping at the screen to check her messages. It was from Greyson.

  I’m buying a new handle for the front door, also adding two dead bolts.

  She grimaced, thinking of the cost.

  One is fine, she typed back quickly.

  Two is better.

  I want one, Greyson!

  FINE!

  She shook her head, swiping to check the rest of her messages. Her shoulders fell when she realized that Tina hadn’t messaged her. Then again, Libby wasn’t sure if she would have responded if she had messaged.

  But at the same time, after the way they’d left things last night, Libby had expected more from the woman who was supposed to be her best friend. An explanation, more of an apology . . .

  Something.

  She sighed, tempted to send a message and find out if Tina was okay. She couldn’t help recalling the misery in her friend’s eyes, along with the dejection in her voice, just before Libby had left last night.

  Tina was profoundly unhappy, and Libby recognized that it was an unhappiness that had been building over the years. The other woman rarely made the effort to go out and only ever went to family events, which meant she wasn’t meeting new people. It was frustrating to watch. Libby had always been the more gregarious of the two, but she couldn’t recall Tina being this bad when they were kids.

  After Libby had returned from London last year, she had been keen to spend more time with Tina. But Libby was honest enough to admit that during her first two months of marriage, she had been wholly preoccupied with Greyson. And then, when she had discovered her pregnancy, which had been swiftly followed by Greyson’s emotional abandonment, it had been all about Libby. But Tina had been there, to hold Libby’s hair back when she puked, to hold her hand during doctors’ appointments, and then to simply hold her up after Greyson had flipped her world upside down.

  Libby knew that Tina deserved more than the cursory and dismissive discussion they had had yesterday. But she needed to curtail her mother-bear instincts the next time she and Tina spoke. Libby knew she tended to be selfish . . . but she would have to curb that inclination, because something was fundamentally wrong in Tina’s life. It had taken Libby way too long to recognize that fact.

  Decision made, she was lifting her phone to send Tina a message when it chimed again.r />
  The back door needs a dead bolt as well.

  “God!” This again.

  It doesn’t. It has a perfectly serviceable lock.

  It’s flimsy.

  GREYSON!

  FINE!!!

  Greyson had always been so calm and emotionless—she couldn’t remember ever finding him aggravating before. But he was like a dog with a bone about this handyman stuff. He was taking it so seriously, when Libby knew he didn’t have a gnat’s chance in hell of fixing anything in this place.

  His persistence was annoying. But kind of endearing too. And she wasn’t sure how the hell something could be annoying and endearing at the same time. It was bizarre how Greyson, the most logical man in the world, completely defied logic right now.

  Her phone chimed again. Irritated, she lifted it, ready to blast him for his crap.

  The grocery store is still open. Do you need anything while I’m out?

  Oh. That was kind of sweet and considerate. She did a quick inventory of her kitchen.

  I’m out of milk. Full cream. And Clara needs nappies. Hold on I’ll send you a pic. She went to her room and took a picture of the nearly empty bag of disposable nappies, then sent it to him.

  Anything else?

  No. Thanks.

  Coolio.

  Coolio? That was weird and uncharacteristic. But that seemed to be the new normal for Greyson lately.

  Libby decided to rearrange her kitchen to her liking, hoping it would feel more familiar when she was done with it. It wasn’t a great kitchen, small, with very few surfaces to work on. Not her dream chef’s kitchen by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hers, and it was better than nothing.

  Clara was starting to squeal, high-pitched happy sounds, and Libby glanced over at the baby. Clara was clumsily reaching for one of the soft toys Libby had scattered in the playpen. She kept missing it, and her squeals were starting to take on a frustrated edge. Abandoning the kitchen for the moment, Libby walked over for a closer look—always very interested in Clara’s every move. The baby’s head lifted at Libby’s approach, and she blinked up at her mother before gifting Libby with one of her wide, dimpled smiles.

  “Hey, sweetheart, you wanna play peekaboo with Mummy?” Libby asked in a deliberately excited voice. One that Clara usually responded to. It made Libby recall the ridiculous voice Greyson had used while talking to Clara the night before, and she found herself involuntarily grinning—and then chuckling—at the memory.

  Clara slapped her plump starfish hands on the floor of the playpen, kicking her legs in reaction to the voice, and Libby picked her up. She carried Clara over to where she already had a play area set up—a thick, clean comforter spread on the carpeted floor, strewn with more soft toys. She placed Clara in the secure, padded floor seat that helped sit her upright. The cute, bright seat had been yet another gift from Clara’s paternal grandparents, one that Libby was finding more and more useful. Clara seemed to love it, her hands constantly grabbing and exploring the attached toys. And because it allowed her to sit upright, she could watch the world around her with increasing fascination. Libby found it especially great for peekaboo.

  She knelt in front of the seat and smiled at the baby, who watched her animatedly. Using one of the clean spit-up towels she kept close by for emergencies, Libby started a rousing game of peekaboo with Clara.

  “Wheeeere’s Mummy?” she asked in a gradually rising voice, hiding behind the little towel. Then she dropped it with a high-pitched “Here I am!”

  It never failed to elicit the most jubilant sound imaginable from her gorgeous daughter. A contagious, chortling laugh that lit up her beautiful face and shook her round little body.

  The game never got old . . . for Clara. But Libby was starting to flag after her tenth miraculous reappearance from behind the towel.

  The front door opened in midreveal, and Greyson walked in to the sound of Clara’s burbling laughter. He stopped dead on the threshold and simply stared, the expression on his face revealing shock, pleasure, and pain. So much pain. Much more than such a joyful sound should ever be responsible for.

  Chapter Eight

  “I didn’t know she could laugh,” he said, his voice low and gruff with emotion. Libby swallowed with difficulty, reacting to the shocking vulnerability in his eyes more strongly than she’d thought possible. Part of her felt she should be happy to see him hurting like this . . . but she couldn’t find it within herself to revel in his misery.

  “Close the door, will you? It’s cold,” she said softly, and he seemed to come out of whatever daze he was in and stepped farther into the house, his hands filled with grocery bags, which he put down before shutting the door. Clara was groping for the towel in Libby’s hand, and she let the baby have it. She absently lowered her eyes to Clara and gasped when the baby clumsily lifted the towel to her own eyes and then squealed with laughter, creating her own adorably awkward version of peekaboo.

  “Did you see that?” she asked Greyson, her voice hushed. He knelt on the floor next to Libby and made a sound of affirmation, still looking dazed. They both watched Clara fixedly, waiting for her to repeat the action. Libby’s breath caught when the towel went up again, and then she exhaled on a shuddering sigh when it went straight into Clara’s drooling mouth and the baby proceeded to gum the flannel fabric contentedly.

  “She’s been giggling and laughing for the last month or so. She gets really into peekaboo,” Libby explained huskily, and Greyson cleared his throat.

  “I see. She seems really smart.”

  “I think she is. Very precocious. I wish she’d slow down a bit. I want to enjoy this part a bit longer.”

  Greyson’s eyes were stormy as he nodded his agreement. He had missed out on so many milestones already. And she knew he was thinking of those. These firsts were so precious, and Libby knew that if she were to miss out on any of them, the loss would be immense.

  Clara’s eyelids were starting to droop, and they both watched as she drifted off. Libby reached out and supported her lolling head while unhooking her from the seat. She picked the baby up and gently deposited her on her back in the middle of the thick comforter. She covered the baby with a light blanket and scattered a few light cushions in a wide protective circle around her.

  “Is that safe?” Greyson asked gruffly, and she looked at him with a quick, involuntary smile.

  “Safe as houses,” she replied in a hushed voice.

  “Is the floor warm enough? Is the carpet clean?” Fastidious Greyson couldn’t disguise the wrinkle of his nose at the last question, and she knew he found the carpet less than acceptable. Which, she had to admit, was a fair assessment.

  “There are two thick blankets underneath the comforter. She’s fine.”

  He nodded curtly, still looking skeptical, his gaze not shifting from the contentedly sleeping baby.

  “How did we make something so damned perfect?” he asked softly, the awed words barely loud enough for Libby to hear. But she did hear them, and they made her irrationally angry at how easily he was able to claim Clara now. After four months of zero contact following that first vehement denial.

  So easy for him. While she still had no idea what had triggered this change in him. The huge chasm between the way he had been that last night in hospital versus his behavior now was completely unbelievable to her. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak to him just then, and headed for the kitchen to continue her reorganization of the room.

  She knew he was watching her, but he wisely refrained from saying yet another dumb thing. He picked up the grocery bags and brought them to the kitchen. She eyed them askance before glaring at him.

  “That doesn’t look like just milk and nappies.”

  “I brought a couple of steaks, for dinner.”

  “Dinner? You assume you’re staying for dinner?” she asked flatly. It wasn’t even close to lunchtime yet, and he was thinking about dinner?

  He had the grace to look embarrassed by the question. “I ma
y be here awhile, what with the door and the plumbing and the roof . . .”

  “Greyson, I’m not letting you anywhere near the roof.”

  “But . . .”

  “Look, I may be pissed off with you, but I don’t want you dead. And in this weather, if you fall off that roof—and let’s face it, you’ll fall off the damned roof—you’ll kill yourself!” Besides, he couldn’t suffer if he was dead! And Libby bloody well wanted him to suffer. Ugh, she was turning into a monster . . . but she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t want to punish him for the pain and confusion and loneliness he had inflicted on her for so long.

  She didn’t want him dead! Greyson could barely contain his jubilant grin at that. Still, why was everybody assuming he was so damned useless at physical labor? When he had picked up his toolbox earlier, his brother had been equally disparaging of his handyman abilities. And of course the other man couldn’t resist adding a few more dire warnings about not forcing himself into Libby’s life.

  But maybe she was right about the roof. At the best of times, Greyson had a thing about heights. He couldn’t imagine being up there in slippery conditions, with the howling wind . . . he shuddered at the thought.

  “Fine, I won’t attempt the roof. Today.”

  “Ever.”

  “We can discuss it later.”

  “It’s not up for discussion.”

  “I think I’ll fix the bathroom faucet first. I don’t want to make any loud noises in case it wakes Clara.”

  She nodded, and he turned to the front door, intending to go back to his car to pick up his toolbox. Her voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Greyson?”

  “Yes?” He turned to face her. She looked so damned gorgeous with her hands planted on her hips as she glared at him.

  “You’re cooking your own damned steaks.”

  “Damn it!” Not even the internet could save Greyson from this disaster. He had no idea what the hell he was doing. He had managed to find and turn off the water mains and removed the hot-water tap from the bath. The guy at the hardware store had said that it was probably a bad washer that needed replacing and had given Greyson a quick explanation on how to replace said washer.