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“All right, sweetie,” she called, making her way back to the bedroom, where she lifted her crying baby into her arms. “Mummy’s here. I know you’re hungry.”
She sniffed and grimaced.
“And stinky. Let’s make you comfy first.”
She deftly changed Clara, keeping up a soothing stream of nonsensical chatter throughout the process. Her concentration drifted as she went through the now-familiar routine, her mind still caught up in the past.
She and Greyson had seen each other exclusively for two months after that first night together. In London on business, he had extended his stay as long as he could while he wined, dined, and bedded her every day without fail. She had gone on the pill, and he hadn’t used condoms again after that first night. They hadn’t explicitly spoken about birth control, but she’d assumed that he expected her to be on the pill, since he hadn’t bothered with condoms after their obligatory talk about sexual medical histories.
Now, of course, she knew the rat had simply assumed he couldn’t have children and hadn’t told her. No need for condoms when you thought you were shooting blanks. When she thought of how often he had spoken of marriage, pushing in that noncommittal way of his, she just about wanted to blow a gasket and punch something.
How could he in good conscience have gone into a marriage with her without disclosing something so vital about himself? She wasn’t sure how she had gotten pregnant while on the pill, but she surmised that she had conceived shortly after their rushed civil-ceremony wedding. It had been a chaotic period, with them traveling from London back to Cape Town; she must have missed a day.
Thinking Greyson could not have children probably wouldn’t have affected her decision to marry him. Career driven, Libby hadn’t been immediately concerned with having children. Sure, a few years down the line she would definitely have wanted a couple. But she would have been happy to adopt if he had proven infertile.
All that was moot now anyway. Clara was here, she was beautiful, she was loved and wanted. At least by her mother. It just astounded her that Greyson hadn’t immediately doubted his doctor’s diagnosis after she had announced her pregnancy.
Libby had foolishly allowed herself to become more and more infatuated with him during those two months. Falling in lust, then like, and then love with him.
In love. With a man who had never truly told her anything about himself. Now when she looked back on those first few weeks, she could so clearly see herself believing that infatuation and intrigue were something more. Something real.
She had known nothing about him. Sure, she knew him intimately, knew what he liked in bed . . . but again, that was just what he liked. She had never been certain if he loved it or was blown away by it. He was great in bed. She had never found his performance lacking, but she didn’t think he’d ever truly lost control of himself. Not even when he’d been buried inside her and at his most physically vulnerable.
If anything, that was when he was most guarded. As if he couldn’t bring himself to let go and truly trust her with his body, heart, and mind.
Their marriage had been so flawed. But she had fooled herself into thinking it was real.
She shook her head, rocking gently back and forth while she listened to the soothing sound of her baby suckling contentedly at her breast. Libby was finally getting her life back on track; there was simply no place in it for Greyson and the emotional upheaval he would create.
Greyson woke up just after dawn. His head was throbbing, and his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. His entire body ached, the bed was ridiculously lumpy, and the room smelled rank, like something had crawled into the walls and died. His first order of business was to find a better place to stay. If not the place next door—which he doubted was an improvement on this flat—then somewhere. Surely this hole-in-the-wall town would have more to offer in the way of accommodation. In Greyson’s experience, opportunities always presented themselves at the right price.
He sat up and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of his muscles. Maybe he’d go for a jog. Or to the gym. He had spotted one last night. Above the large sporting-goods store. He muttered a mild curse word beneath his breath when he remembered that he hadn’t packed any gym clothes. Maybe he’d just buy something at the same store.
He got up, and his toes curled on the sticky, cold linoleum floor. God. It felt disgusting beneath his bare feet. He had only packed dress shoes. Not exactly appropriate for wearing around the house. He picked his suitcase up and dropped it on the bed, scrounging around for a pair of socks. He was an organized packer and found a pair almost immediately in the left-hand, lower side of the suitcase, where he always kept his socks and underwear. He tugged them on and tested them on the floor. Still gross, since the fuzzy cotton stuck slightly to the floor with each step he took. Nevertheless, it was better than having his bare feet on the revolting surface.
