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Libby’s face heated, and her smile faded.
“Stop distracting me in the middle of dinner service and go schmooze the guests or something,” she said without heat, changing the subject mostly because she had no idea at all who was responsible for her smile. The clip had made her laugh, but the banter with Greyson had kept the smile firmly in place. She told herself it was because they had been discussing Clara. But she wasn’t so sure.
“Have you told Libby about the Harris thing yet?” Martine asked Greyson the following morning. They had fallen into the habit of having breakfast at her place every morning. Well, he had developed the habit of wandering over to her place for some food in the mornings, and she would feed him like the stray that he was. He couldn’t cook, and he didn’t do brunch, which was all that MJ’s offered, and he liked an early breakfast after gym. Which was about the time that Martine breakfasted.
Even though she admitted to being “not the best cook,” she was still much better than Greyson. And they now had a standing breakfast date every morning.
“What Harris thing?” Greyson asked. Martine never spoke to him about his marriage, and he had always appreciated that about her. This question—completely without context—confused him.
“That you thought Harris was Clara’s father.”
Appetite lost, Greyson set aside his fork and stared at his plate of scrambled eggs. He hated the question, hated the reminder of his crazy lapse in reason.
“I don’t think it’s something she needs to know.”
“Do you want her back?”
He continued to glare at his plate resentfully. What the fuck was this? He never asked about her relationship with Harris. He didn’t think it was his business. So why did everyone seem to think it was okay for them to thrust their noses into his private affairs?
“She’s my friend, Greyson,” Tina said gently, and his eyes darted up to hers. She looked compassionate, and it made him feel a little less defensive. “And I’d like to think that you’re my friend too.”
Well. That was really sweet. And unexpected. And meant quite a lot, actually.
“Yes. I want her back,” he admitted, his voice low and rough.
“Then you should start from a place of complete honesty. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
Greyson picked up his fork and prodded his eggs. His thoughts were roiling and his chest was tight, while his stomach did crazy, unfamiliar loop the loops. He vaguely recognized the sensation: the last time he had felt this unsettled had been before his final exams in high school.
“I thought,” he began, then cleared his throat and dropped the fork onto the plate with a clatter. “I thought . . . if I showed her I was different, that I was trying, that she would . . .”
He shook his head, not sure how to complete that thought.
“Forgive you?” Martine finished for him.
“Yes. Maybe.”
“You haven’t even apologized, Greyson. I say—and you don’t have to do this, but let’s face it, what you’ve been doing isn’t working. But I say be honest and let the chips fall where they may. I spent a long time hiding my truth from the people I loved . . . and it got me nowhere. Don’t make the same mistake.”
“Martine . . .”
She swore beneath her breath and rolled her eyes. “And for God’s sake, stop calling me Martine. My friends call me Tina.”
The plumbing was finally working! The last two weeks had been rough on Libby. The house had been in constant upheaval, and at one point the water had been off for two days. Libby had been forced to shower at Tina’s flat. Greyson had prepared Clara’s bottles at his place and had bathed her there as well.
But finally, the plumbing and the electricity were up to code. And it had only taken two weeks to get it done. Greyson had wisely brought in top-notch professionals from out of town, thankfully not attempting to do any of the work himself. He had even hired a gardener to get the weeds and overgrown plants under control.
The roof was still leaking because the near-constant wind and rain had made working on it impossible. Which meant that there were still buckets and pots placed under the leaks that seemed to be springing up everywhere.
The night after the plumbing was fixed, Libby wearily let herself into her house. It was late, and the place was dimly lit and quiet. She went to the bedroom and found Greyson sprawled out on her bed. He was fast asleep. Clara was asleep in her crib; the baby had started teething and was constantly crying and miserable. It was exhausting. And Libby could tell that Greyson must have had a rough night of it. He had kicked his shoes off, and his socked feet hung over the edge of the bed. He was wearing track pants and a pale-blue T-shirt. His hair, which hadn’t been cut since his arrival in Riversend nearly six weeks ago, was longer than Libby could ever recall seeing it before. It flopped over his forehead and ears.
