Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  He slipped his hands around her torso, his big palms folding around her back, and lifted her until he had her dangling at eye level in front of him. Clara kicked happily, her arms waving as she blew spit bubbles and charmed her father with her smile. He grinned back and dropped an affectionate peck on her wet mouth before blowing raspberries into her cheek and neck. Clara rewarded him with a squeal and high-pitched giggles, prompting him to do it again and again.

  Satisfied that they were okay for now, Libby left them to it and bustled around the kitchen getting their lunch ready.

  When she looked up again, Greyson was flat on his back with Clara held straight above his face. The baby squealed and tried to grab his hair, but he lifted her until she couldn’t reach, and she kicked and squealed even louder. Until he lowered her again, and she made another grab for him. That continued for a while, and Libby was openly smiling at their antics. She didn’t once fear for Clara; the baby was absolutely safe in those large, strong hands.

  Libby started on the salad and vegetables, and by the time lunch was done, she realized that it had gone quiet. She looked up, and her heart stuttered in her chest.

  They were both asleep. Clara was on her tummy on Greyson’s broad chest, her cheek resting between his pecs, a tiny fist curled up next to her face. Greyson had a hand on the baby’s back to keep her in place, and his head was turned to the side, facing the kitchen, and Libby wondered if he had been watching her work before falling asleep.

  Libby swallowed convulsively a couple of times before clearing her throat. She had never been more confused in her life. She didn’t know what to do and wasn’t sure who to talk to about this. Her parents would listen but offer little advice. They had always encouraged her to make her own decisions and rarely argued against them. Even when she had married Greyson, and she had known they didn’t approve. And then when she had left, they had wanted her to stay with them but hadn’t pushed hard when she had refused.

  There was always Harris. But Harris was already caught between a rock and a hard place with this situation; she didn’t want to make it any worse for him. And then there was Tina . . .

  Thinking of Tina made her eyes automatically seek out her phone, which she hadn’t looked at all morning. She picked it up, and sure enough, there were a couple of messages from Tina. Feeling a swell of relief, Libby opened them up.

  I’m so sorry about yesterday. I want to tell you about it. I want to explain. I do love Clara so much. But it’s really hard for me to talk about.

  The message made her frown. It was becoming imperative to have a proper talk with Tina. She had to figure out if there was a way to help Tina get through whatever this was. Not just for the business’s sake, not even for their friendship, but because Tina appeared to be floundering and clearly needed help.

  I hope you’re making him unclog drains and plunge toilets. I love you. Chat later.

  That was more like the irreverent friend she knew and loved. It made her chest ache, the thought of how much she could lose if she and the other woman didn’t talk about whatever was going on with Tina. She wanted her best friend back.

  Libby sighed and ran a tired hand over her face. She looked over at Greyson and Clara again and walked over to the comforter, where the man she had once loved so fiercely was sleeping with their daughter securely tucked against his bare chest. She lifted her phone and couldn’t resist taking a few photos. Satisfied, she put the phone on her improvised coffee table before sinking down to her haunches and tucking her dress modestly beneath her thighs.

  “Greyson,” she whispered. He was sleeping soundly, his mouth slack and slightly open, with soft little snores escaping on every third breath. His jaw was black with a two-day growth of beard. The look was unfamiliar but attractive on him, making him look a bit piratical. Especially with the narrow planes of his face.

  She allowed her eyes to run over the rest of him. He was still toned, taut, and beautiful, but his weight loss was a lot more evident now that she wasn’t distracted by his piercing eyes or the overwhelming force of his personality. It was easy to miss it because he was a big man, but he had definitely lost a significant amount of weight.

  She wondered about that, wondered about those months without contact. What had he been doing? Clearly not eating properly.

  “Greyson.” She added more volume to her voice, and he started, which woke Clara. And Clara was grouchy when she didn’t wake naturally. She immediately started crying. She lifted her head and saw Greyson instead of her mother, and her cries escalated into shrieks. The man who had been her best buddy just half an hour ago was now a terrifying stranger to her.

  She kicked, and Greyson’s hold slipped. Clara slid slightly to the side before Libby reached out and plucked the baby to her chest. She sent Greyson, who looked devastated at Clara’s reaction, a quick smile.

  “She’s cranky when she wakes up. Don’t take it personally,” she said. “And she’s hungry and”—she took a delicate sniff and wrinkled her nose—“oh my . . . a little stinky.” She directed her next comments to Clara. “Time for another nappy change, you noisy little stinker.”

  She straightened, and Greyson got up, too, immediately towering above Libby. He was hovering anxiously.

  “What can I do?” he asked, and she gave him a speculative look.

  “You really want to help?” she asked, and he nodded a little desperately. “Well, get your hoodie on—enough with the soft-core exhibitionism—and join me in the room.”

  He eagerly did as he was told and was in the room behind her seconds later. Libby already had a towel spread out on the bed, and Clara was on her back, her face red and angry, while she waved her fists and legs in futile rage, shrieking all the while.

  “I’m going to stick the food back in the oven. You get her out of the onesie and take the dirty nappy off. I’ll show you how to put a fresh one on when I get back.”

  “Wait. What?” He looked horrified by her demand, and Libby savored that look for a moment before grinning—she knew there was probably a hint of evil in her expression—and leaving him to it.

  Maybe it was cruel, but she’d had to learn a lot of this stuff on her own. It would do him good to at least try.

  “But she’s crying.” His voice floated from the room behind her, and she bit back a chuckle.

  “Babies do that. Parents don’t get to hand them over when they start crying,” she tossed back at him over her shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, but will she?” he called back, his voice escalating. He sounded terrified. It was the first time in all the years she’d known Greyson that he’d ever raised his voice above normal speaking range.

  “You won’t break her, Greyson.” God, she hoped not.

  She kept a close ear on proceedings as she deliberately lingered over putting the food in the oven. She heard him frantically trying to shush Clara, then utter a swift, heartfelt prayer. She waited a few moments, and then . . .

  “Oh my God. Oh fuck. Sweet Jesus, what the fuck did you eat, baby girl?”

  Libby heard him retch, and she covered her mouth with her hand as she fought back her laughter.

  “Olivia! I think she’s sick. Christ, this can’t be normal.”

  Libby took a deep breath, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as she strove to keep her laughter under control. Another deep breath, and she threw back her shoulders and walked into the room, where Greyson was still gagging and holding a soiled nappy at arm’s length. Clara was no longer crying; she was staring up at Greyson—her toes in her hands—chortling at his antics.

  Compressing her lips and biting back her giggles, Libby reached for a disposal bag and held it open for him.

  “Put it in here,” she instructed him. He dropped it as if it were toxic waste, and Libby knotted the bag quickly before handing him the wipes. He took them from her, then looked down at Clara, back at the wipes, and at Libby. He did that a few times before shaking his head.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do wit
h these,” he said, sounding confused and a little helpless.

  “You can’t just put a new nappy on that stinky butt. You need to clean it.”

  He blanched. His eyes dropped to Clara’s naked tush and then back up to Libby’s gaze.

  “Oh man, that’s not right.” He looked like he was about to retch again. “Don’t I get gloves or something for this job?”

  He was so unintentionally entertaining that Libby wished she were filming this.

  “Stop being such a drama queen, it’s just poop.”

  “She’s not even on solid foods yet. How could this come from just milk? Maybe it’s something you ate? Are you sure she’s not sick?”

  “You’re stalling, Greyson. That bum’s not going to wipe itself.” She probably shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she was, but seriously, it was cute and hilarious.

  He swallowed, and looking like a man approaching the guillotine, he pulled a fistful of baby wipes from the packet and approached Clara cautiously. His arm was outstretched as if he were wielding a crucifix instead of mere wipes.

  He was thwarted by Clara’s flailing little legs.

  “Grab her feet with your free hand and hold them up and out of the way.”

  He did as he was told and closed his eyes before wiping in the general vicinity of the mess.

  “You’re not watching what you’re doing.”

  “It’s seriously gross,” he said, his voice back to its usual quiet tones but filled with revulsion.

  “Uh-huh,” Libby agreed unsympathetically. Clara, not happy with being restrained, was starting to pout, her lower lip trembling and her eyes filling.

  Greyson sighed, his face softening as he stared down into Clara’s sad face.

  “Okay, stinky butt, no need to cry,” he murmured gently. “I’ll get you cleaned up in no time.”

  He was still tentative about it, but faced with the threat of tears, he did a pretty decent job. By the time he had put on the fresh nappy, after several failed attempts, he was flushed and grinning like an all-powerful conquering hero.

  “That’s not bad for my first attempt, right?” he asked, seeking praise.

  “Fourth attempt,” Libby corrected him, pointing to the pile of discarded nappies.

  “Third,” he bargained. “That second-to-last try doesn’t count, since she peed while I was putting it on.”

  “Hungry?” Libby asked him, and he wrinkled his nose.

  “I don’t know, I still have that awful stench stuck up my nostrils. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to eat again,” he said. They both looked down at their freshly powdered, primped, and preened daughter. She was watching them in that serious, thoughtful baby way and sucking at her fist.

  “Well, Clara’s hungry,” Libby said. “I should feed her. Do you mind getting the plates out of the oven? The food’s probably gone a bit dry by now. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Lunch was nice. Greyson could think of no other word to describe it. The meal itself was spectacular. Then again, even though it had sat in the oven for a while, it had still been prepared by an exceedingly talented chef. Perfectly cooked medium-rare steak with roasted sweet potatoes and cilantro pesto—it was mouthwateringly delicious. No surprise there.

  What was surprising was how comfortably companionable the meal was. In the past, before her pregnancy, their meals had always been fraught with sexual tension, the food just fuel to replenish lost energy and prepare them for their next athletic bout of sex. They hadn’t talked much, and on the occasions he had spoken, it was invariably about work. His or hers. It didn’t matter; it had been filler. The real talking had been done with their eyes and their seemingly careless touches. Promises and intentions made clear through long, speaking glances, with the occasional brush of her hand over his or his arm against hers.

  Today felt different.

  “This restaurant is quite a big undertaking for both you and Martine,” Greyson said, taking a sip of water. She had offered him wine, but he was still abstaining and would probably continue to do so long into the foreseeable future.

  “It’s exciting, but I’m not sure how invested Tina is in the venture. She seems to be half assing it,” Olivia said, her eyes downcast. She was twirling her fork restlessly.

  “What do you mean?” Greyson prompted her, and she lifted her shoulders before spearing a perfectly golden potato almost aggressively.

  “I don’t know, she’s making silly and unnecessary mistakes. We had an ad announcing the relaunch, but it never got emailed to the newspaper. It somehow got stuck in her outbox and didn’t send. She also mixed up the banner delivery dates. We designed this awesome relaunch banner to hang in the window, along with flyers to put under windscreen wipers and distribute to local businesses . . . and she gave them the wrong dates. How do you get something like that wrong? Sometimes, I feel like she’s her own worst enemy. But I’ve put a lot into this as well, and I don’t want to fail. It means too much to me. But what’s the point in me working my butt off if . . .” She stopped talking abruptly, her cheeks reddening. Her shoulders sagged, and she sighed.

  “I sound like such a bitch. Slagging off my best friend,” she said softly. “Things have been a little tense between Tina and me lately.”

  “How so?” Greyson asked, hating how miserable she looked.

  “It’s nothing,” Olivia said, clamming up. Which frustrated Greyson. He wanted to know what was bothering her, wanted to be her confidant and offer advice on how to make things better. He hated feeling like a voyeur, his nose pressed up against the glass and his breath steaming up the window as he stared in on her life. Forced to remain outside in the freezing cold while it was happy and cozy and safe inside with Olivia and Clara.

  He wanted to be someone to whom she could entrust her innermost thoughts. He had never been that person, had never wanted to be that person . . . but now he looked at her and wanted to know everything about her.

  “You can tell me,” he urged, and she laughed, the sound a little bitter.

  “I’d rather not,” she replied, lifting the fork to her lips and biting the potato in half.

  “Would you tell Harris?” he impulsively asked, then immediately wished he could retract the question. Her head whipped up, and she stared at him curiously, chewing slowly while she pondered that question.

  “Harris is easy to confide in,” she finally said.

  “And I’m not?” Hell, where were these questions coming from? It felt like he had zero filter between his brain and his mouth, and that was terrifying for someone like Greyson. He usually had control over every syllable he uttered and every movement he made. But today . . . he barely recognized himself. He had never in his life—not even when he had been a kid—rolled around on the floor before. And yet today, with Clara, it had felt completely natural. And he had loved every second of it.

  “No,” she replied, after taking a moment to consider his question. “You’re not. Not easy to confide in or talk to or be with.”

  Jesus, that was more elaboration than he needed. Whatever asshole said not to ask questions if you weren’t prepared to hear the answers was a smug, know-it-all bastard.

  “I can change,” he said, hating the edge of desperation in his voice.

  “I don’t think you should,” she said with a shake of her head. “Not for me. When you attempt to change something so fundamental about yourself, it should be for you or someone you love.”

  He blinked, having no real response to that.

  “You’re my wife,” he reminded her faintly, and her small smile was bittersweet.

  “Not for much longer, Greyson,” she said gently.

  He swallowed. A few minutes ago, he had been marveling about how nice this fucking meal was, and suddenly it felt like he was swallowing razor blades and breaking bread with an adversary.

  And he hated it.

  Clara, who had been napping in her playpen, thankfully chose that moment to wake up and cry. Greyson cleared his throat and pushed his ha
lf-eaten meal aside.

  “I’ll get that dead bolt on,” he said. “I’ll change the lock tomorrow.”

  She nodded, getting up to tend to Clara.

  After a few stops and starts with the unfamiliar drill, the dead bolt was fairly easy to install. And half an hour later, he stood back and surveyed his accomplishment with pride. It was on straight—who knew how awesome levels could be?—and it was working. And when Olivia came over to look—Clara was snoozing in her playpen again—Greyson felt like he had conquered the world.

  He wanted to beat his chest and roar.

  “Not bad,” Olivia said, sliding the bolt in place. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t even have to use Google for this one,” he boasted, his eyes on her profile, and her lips twitched and hiked up at the corner.

  “Progress,” she said lightly.

  “Damned straight.”

  “Greyson . . .”

  He turned toward her, and she did the same; they were standing chest to chest. So close he could feel the heat coming off her, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and honeysuckle. He went rock hard, a visceral reaction to the scent, the closeness . . . the husky sound of his name on her tongue. His breath caught as he saw her eyes flare and spark as the awareness hit her. The answering heat in that gaze was all he needed.

  “Olivia,” he moaned and was embarrassed by the uncontrollable huskiness of his voice. He stepped closer; she did the same, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she met him halfway.

  His hand found the curve of her neck, his mouth welcomed her tongue, and his pelvis rocked against the inviting cradle of hers. He turned them until her back was to the door and he was plastered against her front, one hand still caressing her throat, the other braced flat against the wood of the door above her head. He rocked his hardness against her softness and moaned at the unbearable friction. He felt out of control. An unfamiliar, heady sensation. He never lost control, but he felt like he was about to come, hot, hard, and ready for her. Too damned ready.