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“Which do you prefer?” Greyson asked, sounding wholly exasperated.
“Neither.”
“Well, pick one. And stop being so damned stubborn. This isn’t for you, it’s for Clara. Surely you want better for her? This place is unsafe. One of the heaters tripped the electricity earlier, and I’m concerned about potential fire hazards.”
“Of course I want better for her.”
“Then let me do this. You know that when it comes to custody hearings, any judge will rule in favor of the parent who can provide decent shelter, right? This isn’t decent shelter.”
Libby’s jaw dropped—she couldn’t believe he had just said that. That he had actually gone there.
“Is that a threat?” she asked furiously.
“No, it’s not. It’s a fact. I’m offering to help you. Because I want what’s best for her. For both of you.”
Libby watched him as she nervously screwed and unscrewed the bottle cap, trying to assess his sincerity.
If he was threatening her, if he wanted to use this place against her in order to gain full custody of Clara, she didn’t think he would be offering to fix it for her. It would work in his favor if he simply left it as it was. But he wanted to make improvements, and truthfully, the house had become an absolute money pit. She had fallen in love with the charm of its location, the gorgeous views, and the proximity to the beach, but so far it had been one problem after the next.
Libby looked at Clara again. Her baby was so tiny and helpless. She depended on her mother to know and do what was best.
“Okay,” she said, reluctantly setting her pride aside. She refused to allow this to feel like a failure. This was the best decision for Clara. “Thank you. That would be nice.”
“Ouch, that sounded like it hurt. I know it’s hard to believe, Olivia, but I can be nice sometimes,” he said with a slight grin, and she stared at him in wonder.
Was he teasing her?
That was new. She allowed her own lips to tilt upward.
“Okay, Mr. Nice Guy . . . please ensure that these renovations are only what’s needed. Nothing hugely extravagant.”
“I don’t consider working plumbing, a waterproof roof, and a safe electrical system extravagance. More your average, ordinary basic necessities. I’ll try not to inconvenience you too much and will ask the contractors to keep the work limited to the hours that you’re at MJ’s whenever possible.”
“Thank you.”
“Right, I should be off. I bathed Clara this evening, changed her nappy half an hour ago. And she was fed two hours ago. She still has the runny nose, but no fever.”
He picked up his messenger bag and made his way to the front door.
“Greyson,” she called impulsively. He stopped and turned to face her cautiously.
“Yes?”
“I just . . . I wanted to thank you. For everything you’ve done these last few weeks. It’s been invaluable.”
He nodded curtly. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s the truth. I-I’m happy Clara has you in her life.”
She was. He was turning into a devoted father. Not just a glorified babysitter. She regretted ever calling him that. It hadn’t been entirely fair. He was trying his best and had been since the moment he’d arrived in town. And she could see that he loved Clara; she just wished he would stop trying to turn them into some kind of family unit. He sometimes seemed completely unable to accept the reality of their situation.
She knew Greyson hated failure as much as she did. And for a success-driven man like Greyson, a failed marriage had to be a bitter pill to swallow. Well, if she could deal with it, so could he.
Besides, one of the reasons Libby wanted this divorce was because she couldn’t stand the idea of being in a one-sided marriage again. Where all the emotional investment came from her alone. Marriage to him had become a lonely and painful experience. And she couldn’t see enough change in him to imagine that continuing with their disastrous union would result in anything but more pain for her. And eventually for Clara. Libby had to protect her heart and—more importantly—secure Clara’s happiness.
“Good night, Olivia. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Greyson.” She watched him leave, biting back the impulse to ask him to stay. It was a weakness she fought—and overcame—every night. But she feared that one evening she’d succumb and they’d fall into bed again. She hated how much she still wanted him. Hated how little control she had over her attraction to him. He felt it, too; it was obvious in the way his eyes often trailed over her body, the way his voice deepened and his pupils dilated whenever he was in her proximity. But he never said or did anything to act on the desire she sensed simmering away beneath all that reticence.
The divorce papers were still unsigned. And she hadn’t asked him about them. Another weakness. She was afraid to ask him. Afraid that he would sign them . . . absolutely terrified of the moment when their marriage, such as it was, would end.
