Unsure of the size needed, Greyson had bought all the sizes—sneakily ringing up only one on the receipt he had handed to Olivia. The rest he had paid for separately. He knew he was treading a fine line . . . any dishonesty, no matter how harmless it seemed, would be ill received by her right now. He knew that, but at the same time he tried to rationalize it to himself. She only needed one washer, and so she only had to pay for one. Not knowing the size had been on him, so it should be his expense.
Whatever—that was the least of his concerns right now. He had managed, with the help of several YouTube videos, to replace the washer and had even—after a lot of sweat, swearing, and even spilled blood, thanks to the fleshy part of his left palm getting scratched on some sharp edge or the other—gotten the tap screwed back on. But it wasn’t working. He had switched the water back on, and nothing. Not one drop.
There was a sharp rap on the bathroom door, which swung open without further warning. Olivia looked like she was about to say something, but her eyes narrowed when she saw his bare chest.
“Why are you always half-naked in my house, Greyson?” she asked, her voice peppered with annoyance and wobbling slightly. Her gaze seemed glued to his chest, and she swallowed heavily after asking the question.
“Sorry . . . I was hot in the hoodie and needed my T-shirt to mop up some water.”
“I have old towels you could have used. You didn’t have to ruin a brand-new shirt.”
“It was already ruined,” he admitted reluctantly, and she tilted her head in that damned appealing quizzical way of hers.
“What do you mean?”
He lifted his hand to show her the bloodied makeshift bandage wrapped around his palm, and she gasped before surging in from the doorway and coming to stand right in front of him, grabbing his hand in both of hers.
“You foolish man,” she muttered. “What did you do?”
Greyson didn’t reply, his eyes focused on the top of her downturned head as she unwrapped the bandage he had devised from a torn strip of his T-shirt. He hissed slightly when the cloth pulled against the dried blood on the edges of his cut.
“It’s bleeding again. Did you even rinse it?”
“Uh . . .” He forced himself to focus, his head swimming with both the scent of her and the pain in his hand. “No water.”
She lifted her face unexpectedly, nailing him with that whiskey-colored stare of hers, and he inhaled a shuddering breath at the beauty in those eyes.
“Which reminds me! Why is there no water, Greyson?”
He barely heard her question, his eyes lost in hers.
“God, you’re so damned beautiful,” he said beneath his breath. He lifted his free hand to trace the silky curve of her cheek with his knuckles.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, one of her hands releasing his injured one to halt the movement.
“Olivia. I’ve missed you so much.”
“No, I think you mean you’ve missed so much. So much, Greyson. That first kick, when I felt her and knew she was in there and alive. The first ultrasound, when I heard the incomparable rapid whooshing of her heartbeat. It was . . . it was so indescribable.”
“I know. I know, Olivia. And it kills me to have missed all of that.”
“You don’t understand what it did to me, Greyson. You don’t know . . .”
“Tell me,” he invited her, and she shuddered and closed her eyes, tears—which he had seen shimmering in that golden gaze—overflowing to streak down her cheeks. Greyson made a dismayed sound in the back of his throat and clumsily wiped at the moisture. The first tears he’d seen from her since that night in the hospital. Those tears still haunted his nightmares, and these would torment his waking hours. He hated making her cry. He fucking despised it.
She shook her head in response to his invitation and rested her forehead on his naked chest, just a few centimeters above his heart. He palmed the back of her head, his fingers entwining in the thick, soft curls of her hair. He kissed the top of that honeysuckle-scented head, and she lifted her tear-drenched face to look at him. His hand moved to cup the curve of her cheek, and before he could think of what he was doing, his lips dropped to hers, claiming her mouth in a hungry kiss. A kiss that offered comfort and asked for the same in return.
She made a soft sighing sound and hooked her arm around his neck while her mouth blossomed beneath his, opening up to his gently questing tongue. His other arm curved around her waist, and his fist clenched in the fabric of her dress, just above the swell of her behind. He dragged her close, until he could feel her every curve outlined against him.
His beautiful wife; he had missed her so much. Missed holding her, kissing her . . . loving her. He couldn’t seem to get her close enough, and she appeared to feel the same way. As the kiss intensified, she undulated against him, her pelvis grinding against his hardness.
He was suddenly grateful for his lack of underwear: it gave him room to grow, so to speak. His erection lengthened and thickened. With her thrusting against him and the rough denim rubbing his sensitive length, he already felt close to bursting. From just this kiss.
It was a sublime kiss, but he hadn’t ever come so close to losing control over his libido before, and certainly never over a kiss. But this was Olivia. His Olivia. His wife, the mother of his child, and he . . .
She planted her hands on his chest and forcefully shoved him away. His head jerked up, and he stared down at her in bewilderment. Her cheeks were flushed with pink, and she had her hands clamped over her breasts.
“I—” he began, wanting to apologize. Needing to apologize. That had been so way out of line. But she beat him to it.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said, and he frowned in confusion. What did she need to apologize for? This was all on Greyson.
“It just happened.” She was still talking, and she shook her head before uttering a miserable, “God.”
Greyson glanced down to where her hands were still covering her breasts, and he felt his own cheeks go red.
Shit.
“No. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have . . . uh . . .” He wasn’t sure what exactly could have caused the spreading damp patches beneath her hands. Possibly arousal. But he couldn’t apologize for turning her on. Not when he felt as horny as a fucking teenager himself. He didn’t even care. He wanted to kiss her again, touch her, do so much more. And if that was evidence of her arousal, then fucking bring it on.
He was ready to reach for her again when his eyes fell to her dress, and he froze. Her beautiful, unspoiled lacy white dress. All that innocent perfection . . . covered in blood. His blood.
Just another example of Greyson destroying every perfect thing that he touched.
“Your dress,” he said, his voice weighted with misery, and she looked down. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of all that red on the previously perfect white of her dress.
“Greyson, that cut is really bad,” she said, her voice urgent and seemingly unconcerned with the state of her pretty dress. “Give me a minute to change, but rewrap your hand. I’ll be right back.”
She turned and exited the room, leaving him feeling a little forlorn and a lot lost. He wanted her back—having her close made him feel anchored. Without her, everything was a confusing mess, and all he could see was the bright red on that pristine white. He felt sick to his stomach and fought the urge to retch.
He had ruined it. He had ruined her. His perfect, beautiful Olivia.
Fifteen months ago
Blood.
Why was there blood? Greyson stared down at the patch of blood on the snow-white sheets in complete confusion. Olivia had just gone to the bathroom, and he had sat up to watch her leave. His eyes had remained glued to the perfection of her naked ass until she had shut the door between them. That was when his gaze had dropped and he had seen the blood on the sheets of his king-size penthouse-suite bed.
They had just slept together. Her body had responded to his every practiced move with predictable ardor, and Greyson h
ad . . . well, he had loved it. She had made him feel more, experience more, than any other woman before her, and he had reveled in it. There was something powerful, so damned powerful, about finally bedding a woman he knew had wanted him for years. A woman he had wanted for almost the same amount of time. A woman whom he had considered off limits for way too damned long. It had really gotten his rocks off, and he couldn’t wait to have more of her. To try more with her.
She had been so damned receptive to his every touch—Greyson was already borderline addicted to her. The smell of her. Taste of her. Touch of her. Her softness, her heat, her tightness. God, her tightness.
His gaze remained fixated on the red splotch. Trying to make sense of it. It didn’t belong there . . . he couldn’t figure it out.
He looked down at himself, and then he saw it . . . more blood. Down there. On his still-erect shaft. It caused a shudder of primitive alarm to jolt down his spine until he realized that it wasn’t his blood. It was hers.
Olivia’s.
She exited the bathroom. Her smile was radiant. Perfect.
So fucking innocent.
God! Damn it!
She crawled back into bed with him and snuggled up to his chest. His arms closed around her automatically. This perfect woman. This beautiful woman. He should have left her alone. He wasn’t deserving of the gift she had given him.
Maybe she didn’t even consider it a gift. Maybe he was making too much of it. But damn it! He’d known her for too long to not think of it as such.
Present day
Greyson was still lost in the past when she joined him in the bathroom again. She had changed her dress, exchanging one pretty frilly thing for another. This was another long-sleeved lacy dress, a little longer than the previous one. In a light buttery yellow. She had tied up her hair and had a first aid kit under her arm.
“Sit down,” she commanded as she entered the small room. Greyson, seeing the familiar stubborn glint in her eyes, knew better than to argue and sank down on the side of the bath.
She tenderly lifted his hand and unwrapped the bloodied scrap of gray fabric. She glowered down at the ragged gash on his palm, while he took one queasy look before diverting his gaze. His palm was a mess, and he couldn’t really stand to look at it.
“How did you do this?” she asked, sounding completely grumpy.
“Not sure,” he confessed, keeping his gaze fixed on one of the tiny pearly-white buttons on the bodice of her dress.
“You’ll need a tetanus shot. It doesn’t look deep enough for stitches, but you may need some antibiotics. It would be nice if we could give it a proper clean, but without water . . .” She shrugged eloquently, and he grimaced.
“I’ll have it back on soon,” he promised. “I couldn’t work on the tap without turning off the water.”
Only he didn’t know why the water wasn’t back on.
“You can’t go back to messing around with the pipes after I bandage your hand,” she said sternly. So bossy. She’d been bossy even as a child. His mother had often called her impertinent, complaining that “the girl” probably believed she was a Chapman, she was so demanding.
His mother, while always so aware of appearances, had harbored a genuine fondness for Olivia. But that hadn’t stopped the older woman from resisting the prospect of Greyson’s marriage to Olivia. Citing their upbringing and backgrounds as prohibitively different.
But appearances had rarely mattered to Greyson when it came to Olivia. He had always wanted her, but once he’d finally had her, he hadn’t cherished her. He had allowed distrust and jealousy to cloud his relationship with her. And his relationship with his brother.
“My hand’s fine,” he said. He could be as stubborn as Olivia when he wanted. And he wasn’t about to fail at the first obstacle. He was going to prove to her that he could do this. That he could be useful to her. To Clara.
“I like the name, by the way,” he suddenly admitted, and she lifted her eyes to his and tilted her head. He loved how she could ask a question with just that head tilt. He elaborated in answer, “Clara.”
Her eyes shuttered. “I don’t care. You didn’t have any interest in helping me choose a name for her, so I picked one I liked.”
“You chose it as a dig at me,” he said, keeping his voice light. Once he had seen that first picture of the baby, the name hadn’t mattered.
No. It had mattered. It had mattered because it had been so damned right.
“But it suits her,” he continued. “It’s pretty and sweet and perfect, just like her.”
She shrugged, a quick, birdlike rise and fall of her narrow shoulders. “Like I said before, I don’t care. Your feelings on the matter are completely moot.”
Well, hell. That stung.
He cleared his throat. There was silence while she dug around in her medical kit for whatever it was she needed. She muttered bad temperedly beneath her breath while she worked, words and half sentences that just eluded comprehension. She had had the habit for as long as he’d known her—her entire life. She grumbled to herself all the time. Happy, sad, angry, or just concentrating. Sometimes it was a list of things she needed to do. Other times it was like this . . . irritated little words and sounds that made no sense to anyone but Olivia.
He had always found the habit endearing. Even now, when he knew she was probably cursing him beneath her breath, it was cute as hell.
She gently wiped away the blood with some wet wipes, pausing for a long moment when the cleanup revealed the white gold of his wedding band. She stared but didn’t comment on it. Greyson had noticed that she no longer wore her ring, a feminine version of his.
They had had a rushed civil ceremony, nothing traditional, wanting to present family and friends with a fait accompli rather than having everyone weigh in on the subject of their nuptials. The only bit of tradition to the ceremony had been the exchange of rings, which they had chosen together.
Greyson hated that she no longer wore hers. But he couldn’t blame her for removing it. He had abandoned her at the time when a woman needed her husband most.
He hissed in shock and pain when something cold, wet, and really bloody astringent came into contact with the wound. It served as an effective distraction from his roiling thoughts, and he yanked his injured limb out of her grasp. “God. What the hell was that?”
“Don’t shout. You’ll wake Clara,” she warned, grabbing his hand again and dabbing at it some more with a wet cotton swab. Whatever was on the swab smelled sharp and surgical and burned like a son of a bitch!
He cringed when she daubed it all over his cut, his eyes watering at the vicious sting of it.
“Satan uses that shit to torture lost souls in hell,” he ground out from between tightly clenched teeth.
Olivia shot him a narrow-eyed look. “It’s antiseptic, you big baby,” she said. “Clara fussed less when she got her first shots at a mere two months.”
“Why does an infant need shots at such a young age?” he asked in horror, momentarily diverted from his own discomfort. He hated needles and couldn’t imagine his tiny daughter being stuck with one.
“Her first vaccinations,” Olivia replied, her head down again as she thankfully set the bottle of antiseptic aside to pick up the gauze. “She’s due for her second dose next week.”
Greyson didn’t say anything but wondered how she would take it if he asked to accompany them on that doctor’s visit. He filed the information away for later. She had allowed him a lot of leeway today, and he knew asking for anything more would be pushing it. He would save that particular request for a different day.
She placed a square cotton pad on his palm over the wound and wrapped it securely in gauze. Her movements were sure and efficient.
“Something tells me you’ve done this before,” he said.
“Lots of little accidents happen in restaurant kitchens. I’m certified to perform first aid and CPR,” she said, and he nodded a bit dazedly. He knew her very well, better than she realized, but she
was right—there was so much they didn’t know about each other.
He tended to withhold himself from others. He hadn’t believed that she needed to know more than he wanted her to. But hearing about her first aid certification, he wondered how much more he didn’t know about her, and he was greedy—desperate—to know everything.
For the first time he understood how frustratingly elusive he must have seemed to her. He kept people at a distance, deliberately parceled out only the most basic information about himself. And he hadn’t seen the need to be any different with Olivia. He’d reasoned that she’d known him her entire life, and that was more information than most other women had ever had about him. He’d thought it would be enough.
It wasn’t.
And he now recognized that even if he hadn’t fucked everything up with his stupidity, if he had continued keeping the most important pieces of himself from her, their marriage probably would have failed anyway.
Because he had expected so much more than he had been willing to give.
“Done,” she said, releasing his hand. He immediately missed her soft, gentle touch on his skin and swallowed painfully, trying to alleviate the dryness in his throat.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, lifting his hand to inspect her neat dressing. He folded his fingers, forming a loose fist, wincing at the painful pull of his skin. “I’ll fix the water and then, when Clara’s awake, fit the bolts on the door. I’ll change the lock tomorrow. I don’t think I can do it today.”
“I don’t think you can do any of those other things today. Not with that hand,” she argued.
“I’m fine.”
“Greyson, don’t be . . .”
“I can do it, Olivia,” he said softly, and the rest of her argument petered out into a soft sigh.
“What are you trying to prove?” she asked, her voice tired.
Nothing But This Page 17
