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She stared at him for a while before finally shaking herself and getting up.
“It’s freezing out here. I’m heading inside.”
He opened his mouth to thank her, once again, for the coffee, but she was inside with the front door shut before he could get a word out.
He sat on the swing a short while longer, gazing out at the relentless rain, before heaving a deep, despondent sigh and levering himself up. He turned to look at her front door, every cell in his body desperate to knock on that door, invite himself in, and spend more time with her. But he knew he wouldn’t be welcome.
He bit back a frustrated groan and trudged back into his miserable excuse for a house. It looked worse than ever in the gloomy daylight. Greyson had bought groceries yesterday: a random assortment of food and cleaning products. He had placed the perishables in the refrigerator and had left everything else—still bagged—on the kitchen counters, probably expecting the nonexistent household staff to put everything away.
Harris had left it alone yesterday, hoping his brother would take the hint and unpack the bags, but then Greyson had disappeared overnight without bothering to set the kitchen to rights. Harris shook his head, shucked his windbreaker, and rolled up his sleeves, ready to tackle the unappealing job.
Unlike Greyson, Harris didn’t keep a permanent household staff; instead he employed a twice-weekly cleaning service and was quite comfortable cleaning up after himself when he had to. He didn’t enjoy it; he merely considered it a necessary evil.
The task served to keep his body and mind mostly occupied for the next few hours. He was contentedly scrubbing down kitchen cabinets when Greyson walked in. The other man stopped dead just inside the front door and gaped at Harris, who was staring back at Greyson with what, he was sure, was an identical gobsmacked expression on his face.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Harris exclaimed, stunned by Greyson’s uncharacteristic appearance.
“Is that an apron?” Greyson asked simultaneously, referring to the old pinafore apron Harris had donned before starting the cleanup. He had found it in one of the kitchen drawers. It was a ridiculously frilly, disgustingly stained thing, and it had made his skin crawl to put it on. But the alternative—getting years of grime and gross all over his clothing—had been much worse. He was aware that he probably looked ridiculous.
But Greyson had him beat when it came to surprising wardrobe choices. He was wearing jeans. Jeans, for God’s sake! With sneakers and a long-sleeved light-gray hoodie. He looked quite unlike himself. If not for the conservatively cut, side-parted, slicked-back hair, he could have passed for Harris.
“Were you trying to fool Libby into thinking you were me?” The suspicious—ridiculous—question was out before Harris knew it, and Greyson gave him the mocking laugh he deserved.
“Libby didn’t fall for that when we were kids, and she for damned sure wouldn’t fall for it now,” Greyson stated unnecessarily. “I’m not here to play games, Harris.”
“I’m sorry. It was a dumb question.” His apology hung between them, both men acutely aware of how easily he had uttered the words, when Greyson—who had committed a far greater sin against Harris—still hadn’t articulated a single word of contrition.
They stood staring at each other uneasily for a moment before Harris pointed the sponge he was holding at Greyson’s brand-spanking-new pair of blue jeans.
Distressed blue jeans. His usually conservatively styled, ultrastaid, clean-cut brother was wearing faded blue jeans with rips at the knees and a shallower tear on one of his thighs.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked, and Greyson actually flushed before lifting his shoulders in an awkward gesture that was completely unfamiliar to Harris. Greyson was never awkward.
“I bought new clothes yesterday. I thought I’d help Libby fix some stuff in her house.”
“Fix some stuff?” Harris repeated. “What stuff?”
“There are plumbing issues . . . things that need painting. General handyman stuff.”
“Greyson, you’re a lot of things, but last time I checked, handyman wasn’t one of them. Did Libby agree to this?”
“Kind of. She has her hands full with the restaurant and the—the baby . . .” A fleeting look of longing crossed Greyson’s face before it was tamped down and replaced by the familiar stoic facade he normally wore.
“Greyson, you can’t just insert yourself into her life. It won’t end well.” Harris was well aware of the irony in his statement, since it was exactly what he was doing with Tina. He would do well to follow his own advice.
“Libby . . .” Greyson’s voice went husky, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “She let me hold Clara last night, Harris.”
To Harris’s knowledge, it was the first time Greyson had ever held his daughter, and if the awed expression on the man’s face was anything to go by, it had been life altering and game changing for his brother.
