“Why the hell did you make that bet?” Greyson asked his brother, referring to the time when Harris, everybody’s favorite good guy, hadn’t been so damned good. When he had done something stupid and despicable and downright unforgivable.
It was a question he should have asked years ago. But Greyson had convinced himself it was none of his business, even while he watched Martine disappear from their lives and Harris retreat into himself for a long time after that incident.
A stupid fucking bet, designed to humiliate a vulnerable young woman who had never done anybody any harm. It had been reprehensible, and Greyson had been disappointed and disgusted after learning about it.
And yet . . . it had been so uncharacteristic of his brother, whom Greyson had sometimes caught staring at Martine like he thought the sun rose and set in her eyes.
“That’s just it . . . I didn’t,” Harris said, his voice filled with frustration. “I don’t recall making the bet. I remember dancing with her and kissing her . . . after that everything’s hazy. I know Jonah and his buddies said some fucked-up shit that I later discovered Tina had overheard. I think Jonah handed me a spiked drink just before my dance with Tina. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Greyson thought about Tina overhearing the details of the bet from a bunch of drunken assholes who wouldn’t have been very kind in their comments. It was much worse than he had ever imagined, and he winced at the thought of how much that must have hurt her. He and Harris discussed Jonah Spade, the main culprit behind the awful incident all those years ago. The guy had actually had the absolute gall to try and gloat about the bet to Greyson afterward. Which was how Greyson had learned about it. A few choice threats had seen to it that Jonah Spade never discussed the matter with anybody ever again. And Greyson had frozen him out of their circle of friends shortly after that.
He had never discussed the matter with Harris, but he should have, because when he listened to Harris, it became apparent that Jonah Spade and his cohorts had drugged his brother that night. Greyson should have done more than threaten that bastard. He had needed his ass kicked, and while Greyson didn’t believe in violence merely for the sake of it, he had been well into his Krav Maga training by that time and could have done some well-deserved damage to that bastard’s smug face.
Harris was telling him about the fact that Jonah Spade now had a comb-over. Which was hilarious because the guy had loved his hair.
“No shit?” Greyson said, smiling. “Remember he always carried that comb around with him?”
“The gold-plated thing? Yeah. He was so proud of that retro pompadour. Kept running that tacky comb through it.”
“Wonder if he still has it,” Greyson speculated.
“He would be getting some real use out of it now.” Harris’s voice wobbled. He made eye contact with Greyson, and they both started laughing. The moment of shared humor was so welcome and refreshing that Greyson felt a surge of hope that maybe he and Harris could repair their relationship. But he knew they could not do so without Greyson doing something that was long overdue.
His brother needed an apology. A proper apology.
Chapter Eleven
Libby’s morning had been both physically and emotionally draining, and she just wanted to put all of that out of her mind for a while. After picking Clara up from day care and doing some shopping, she went home for a change of clothes before heading to the community center. The kindergarten had been handing out pamphlets introducing a new mummy-and-baby-yoga afternoon class, and Libby was keen to check it out.
She needed to relax and wanted to keep her thoughts away from the Chapman brothers and Tina for a while.
The tiny community center was quite busy for a random Monday afternoon. Old ladies were seated in a circle, gossiping and crocheting. Sam Brand, Lia’s fiancé, was sitting and gossiping along with them. He was not crocheting but was happily chatting with the silver-haired women.
A group of teens was tucked away in the farthest corner, practicing some type of martial art. Every so often Sam Brand would look up and call out to them. He appeared to be their instructor.
“Hi, Mrs. C.,” Charlie Carlisle called from the midst of the group, waving enthusiastically. Libby smiled and waved back. The girl went back to rolling on the mat with a couple of bigger boys—and soundly trouncing them, from what Libby could tell.
“Hey, Libby,” a voice called from the stage, and Libby looked up to see Lia McGregor. “Are you and Clara here for the mummy-and-baby-yoga session?”
“Yes,” Libby called back, and Lia beckoned her over. Libby joined her on the stage. There were three other mothers with babies present. Lia hugged her enthusiastically, and Libby grinned. The other woman was so friendly and sweet.
“We’re the smallest group, so we got stuck with the stage,” Lia explained when Libby joined them. “I’m the instructor. I’m not an expert at the mummy-and-baby stuff. I usually just do yoga in the privacy of my own home. But Aisha, my boss, thought this would be a good idea for some of the new mums, and I volunteered to instruct it, with a doll as my substitute baby. So we’re all learning as we go along.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Libby said.
“Hello, Clara.” Lia tickled the wide-eyed baby under her chin, and Clara giggled. “Come on, let me introduce you guys to the rest of the group.”
Libby felt much better by the time the class ended. It had been fun, and while Lia claimed to not be an expert, she had been a great instructor. Everybody had had a wonderful time, and Clara had giggled her way through most of it, charming everybody in the community center in the process. And Libby had come out of the experience a few friends richer.
Lia had mentioned Daff’s baby shower coming up on Sunday, and she’d surprised Libby by saying that she had already invited Tina and urged Libby to come.
Libby arrived home feeling relaxed and ready for a shower, but tension immediately crept back into her body when she spotted the car outside her house.
Greyson.
Libby parked her car in the driveway, cautiously stepped out of the vehicle, and turned to face Greyson, who had come up to the driver’s side of the car. He was back in jeans and a hoodie. An ensemble that she was starting to get used to.
“I just wanted to give you the keys,” he hastened to explain. “To the house. I fixed the lock.”
“Oh . . . well . . . thank you,” she said quietly. He dropped the keys in her hand.
“I’ll see you later, then,” he said.
“Do you want to say hi to Clara?” she asked, and his eyes lit up.
“May I?”
“Of course,” she said, and he rounded the car and opened the door, leaning in to unclip Clara’s car seat belt. The baby gurgled and cooed at him.
“Hey, Clara. Hey there. Come here and give your daddy a kiss.” He lifted her out of the seat, looking a lot more comfortable holding her than he had just two nights ago. He planted a kiss on her chubby cheek and held her close for a quick hug. He smiled at Libby, another of those increasingly common wide and generous smiles.
“I think she recognizes me,” he said proudly.
“Seems that way,” Libby said noncommittally, not wanting to tell him that Clara had been in a singularly good mood all afternoon, dimpling at any random stranger who had paid her any attention.
Libby lifted Clara’s baby bag from the back seat, and Greyson walked them to the front door before giving Clara another squeeze and kiss.
“Daddy loves you, baby girl,” he murmured into Clara’s ear while Libby unlocked the front door. “I’ll see you later. We’re going to have so much fun.”
He handed Clara over carefully and thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. His shoulders were hunched against the strong, cold wind that had kicked up earlier in the day.
“You’d better get her in out of the cold,” he said, stepping away from them. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes. Thank you for fixing the door.”
“With a little
help from the internet,” he said with an ironic smile, and she found herself smiling in return.
He looked like he wanted to add something more, prolong their contact somehow, but she nodded and turned away from him. She shut the door so she wouldn’t find herself inviting him in.
Allowing him to spend time with Clara was one thing, but letting him creep beneath her defenses was another matter entirely. She had to be careful.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Clara wouldn’t stop crying, and Greyson was desperate for solutions. He had tried her bottle, of course, and that swooping thing she liked. Tickling and tummy raspberries only made the crying worse. She refused to be appeased in any way, and Greyson felt like a complete failure as a father. She had started crying about fifteen minutes after he’d arrived at the restaurant for babysitting duty, and it was now nearly half an hour later, and she hadn’t let up at all.
He had queasily checked her nappy—clean—rocked her, sang to her, played with her, laid her down, picked her back up . . . nothing helped. He was starting to worry that maybe she was sick. Especially after she’d spit up the small amount of milk he had managed to get her to drink.
He was wearing jeans and a dress shirt, trying to mix his old wardrobe with his new. And he now had baby puke on the shoulder of his white Armani shirt. Not that he cared about that—he just wanted Clara to be okay. To stop crying. He was pacing up and down and bouncing her awkwardly in his arms.
“It’s okay, darling,” he said, sounding frazzled even to his own ears. “It’s all right. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Daddy’s here.”
“Greyson.”
Greyson lifted his gaze, startled to hear his name coming from the doorway. His eyes met Harris’s. His brother was watching him, concern and shock evident on his face. Greyson had never been happier to see another human being in his life before.
“Harris! Oh, thank God you’re here,” Greyson said, desperate for help, not even wondering why his brother was there in the first place. “She won’t stop crying. I think she’s sick. Do you think she’s sick?”
Harris took Clara from him, easily cradling her in the crook of his arm. He tested Clara’s temperature with the back of his hand while Greyson hovered anxiously, waiting to hear the verdict.
“She doesn’t feel feverish.” Clara stopped screeching at the sound of his voice and started sucking on her fist, her pretty blue eyes fixed on her uncle’s face. Harris looked at her and smiled, and Greyson’s heart sank to the floor.
“Oh my God, she hates me.” Of course she did. Everybody else seemed to hate him these days—hell, Greyson even hated himself—so why should Clara be any different?
“She doesn’t hate you,” Harris said, his voice low and soothing. Okay, so maybe Harris didn’t hate him. Not anymore. Not since their talk this afternoon, when he had finally accepted Greyson’s apology and plea for understanding. “You were tense and panicking. She probably picked up on that.”
“I can’t do this,” Greyson said urgently. “You have to help me.”
Harris laughed at him. “No way. You seemed confident you could handle this. So handle it. Libby is literally a stone’s throw away if you need her. You’ll manage.”
“No. Damn it. She’ll never let me near Clara again if she thinks I can’t cope.” Why couldn’t his brother see how dire Greyson’s situation was? Harris looked way too relaxed and amused for Greyson’s liking.
“Greyson, you’re able to run a multimillion-dollar organization without blinking an eyelid; you can handle one tiny female.”
Was Harris being serious right now? Did he even know Olivia?
“No, I can’t! You know I can’t,” Greyson protested. “She fucking up and left me before I had a chance to even recognize what an idiot I was. She defies handling.”
“I . . . uh . . . I meant the baby.”
“Oh.” Of course he meant the baby. Greyson felt foolish for leaping to the wrong conclusion, an emotion exacerbated by the laughter he could see in his brother’s eyes.
“Now take your daughter. I have a date to get back to. Call Libby if you run into trouble—she won’t think less of you. It’ll show that you’re more concerned for Clara than you are about your ego.”
A date? Momentarily diverted by that revelation, Greyson was about to ask Harris about that date, but the other man kissed Clara, gently transferred her back into Greyson’s arms, and walked away. Clara immediately started crying again, sending Greyson spiraling into panic.
“Harris!” Greyson called, needing the other man to come back and help him handle this situation, but Harris laughed at him and callously shut the door.
“Okay, Greyson,” he muttered to himself. “Okay, you can do this.”
He forced himself to relax his hold on Clara. He sat down on the sofa and held one of her rattling toys up in front of her eyes, hoping to distract her from her tears. She blinked at the rattle for a moment, sucking in a breath and quieting down for a few precious seconds. But the respite was all too brief, and her face scrunched up before she released her breath on another angry screech. Her tiny fists balled and flailed in frustration.
“I don’t know what to do for you, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He kissed her wet cheek, heartbroken that he couldn’t make this better for her and terrified that she was ill and his stubbornness in not asking for Olivia’s help could be wasting precious time. Finally he conceded defeat, his concern for Clara outweighing his pride and his fear that Olivia would lose trust in his ability to take care of the baby.
He dug his phone out of his pocket and sent a message to Olivia.
I’m sorry. Clara won’t stop crying. Not sure what to do.
The “read” notice came up a few moments later, and she started typing her response.
Be there in a sec.
Greyson’s eyes and face registered relief and fear when Libby walked into the office two minutes after receiving his text. Clara was screaming her head off, and Greyson was pacing up and down the tiny confines of the office, awkwardly rocking her.
“I’ve tried everything,” he said as soon as he saw Libby. He sounded on the verge of tears himself. “She refuses the bottle, and she doesn’t need to be changed. I’m sorry.”
Once again apologizing for the wrong thing. Libby shook her head but didn’t say the words out loud this time.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, hoping the reassurance in her voice would convince him of that truth. It didn’t seem to help; he still looked sick with guilt. “I mixed some formula in with the breast milk. Maybe she doesn’t like the taste of it.”
She took Clara from him, and the baby’s screeching diminished somewhat as she recognized her mother’s hold and immediately started rooting around for a nipple. She gave a frustrated scream when she was thwarted by the barrier of her mother’s clothing.
“Okay, sweetie. I know what you want, but you’re going to have to drink that botty,” Libby murmured and held out an open hand to Greyson, silently demanding the bottle. Greyson leaped to get it to her. Clara turned her face away from the rubber nipple, clearly adamant in her refusal to drink it.
“Maybe you should breastfeed her,” Greyson suggested. And Libby sighed.
“I don’t think she’ll get much joy there. I pumped before coming to work tonight. And since I’m not producing as much as I did before, there’s not much in there . . .” She tried the bottle again, and Clara refused, her entire body arching in Libby’s hold. “One of the reasons I mixed in so much formula was because I had so little milk for her tonight.”
“And that just happens?” Greyson asked. “It just dries up?”
“I think because I haven’t been breastfeeding her as regularly as before, my body has started producing less milk.” She heaved a huge sigh as she stared down into Clara’s desperately unhappy face before shaking her head and setting aside the bottle. She unbuttoned her smock with one hand, then slid the tank top she wore beneath it down one shoulder and unzipped h
er soft nursing bra. Greyson’s eyes widened, and he turned away, giving her privacy.
“You don’t have to do that,” Libby said quietly. “It’s not like my boobs are a mystery to you.”
“I didn’t think you’d want me to watch.”
“I didn’t at first. But breastfeeding is the most natural process in the world; you might as well see how it’s done,” Libby said, and he turned around just as Clara latched on to her nipple. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. He sank down onto the wobbly desk chair Tina kept for visitors, his eyes glued on Clara’s face as she fed.
“Does it hurt?” he asked after a moment of silence.
“She has started biting down a bit lately. I think she’s on the verge of teething. She’s been drooling a lot more, and everything goes into her mouth.” Libby stroked a hand over Clara’s silky hair. The baby was making soft, contented sounds . . . but it wasn’t long before she started to fret again. Libby transferred her to the other breast.
“You’re both so beautiful.” Greyson’s unsolicited compliment brimmed with reverence, and Libby lifted her gaze to his. He looked sincerely appreciative, his eyes soft and warm. “I should never have let you go.”
“You didn’t let me go,” Libby corrected him. “I left.”
“It was my fault you left.”
She didn’t respond to that statement of fact, and after a short awkward silence, Clara made a frustrated sound and started crying again. She turned her face away from Libby’s breast.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Libby murmured against her wet cheek.
“What happened?” Greyson asked while Libby set her clothes to rights.
“No milk. She’s going to have to take the bottle.” She reached for the bottle again, but Greyson leaped from his seat and beat her to it. He looked determined, as if he had made his mind up about something. She tilted her head as she tried to figure out what that might be.
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