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She shook her head and swore softly beneath her breath. Then, still clutching a snugly wrapped Clara to her chest, she made her way to the front door. A quick glance through the peephole confirmed the identity of her unwelcome visitor, and for a brief moment she considered ignoring him, before bowing to the inevitable. Might as well just rip the Band-Aid off the wound.
She unlocked the door and swung it open to glare at her soon-to-be ex-husband furiously.
Chapter Six
“It’s late, Greyson,” she stated unnecessarily, and he nodded.
“I know,” he said in his usual quiet way. “I’m sorry. But I figured you’d be busy earlier.”
“I’m busy now,” she said pointedly, still rocking Clara, who absolutely refused to be soothed. Greyson’s gaze dropped to Clara before shooting back up to Libby’s face. The look had been almost furtive and reminiscent of the way Tina avoided looking at Clara.
He kept his eyes pointedly fixed on Libby’s face after that one swift look down, and she frowned.
“We need to talk,” he said softly. Libby had always found the quiet way he spoke appealing. The cadence of that deep, mellifluous voice was always gentle. He rarely raised his voice. Even at the hospital, she recalled now, when he’d been accusing her of the most horrid crimes against their marriage, his voice had remained soft and controlled.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, feeling more and more ruffled. This was not how she had wanted their first real discussion about their failed marriage to go. She was supposed to have the upper hand, she was supposed to be in her comfort zone . . . instead he looked calm, unruffled, and she felt like she was splintering into a million different pieces.
“I’m aware of that, but you know we have to.”
She chewed on her bottom lip before stepping aside to allow him in, only then seeing that it was still raining and that his head and shoulders were damp. She closed and automatically locked the door behind him. He brought with him the smell of rain, wind, and brine, combined with the delicious, familiar scent of the expensive aftershave he wore.
He moved into her living room, and the place immediately shrank around him. He had that effect on every room he entered. In the past it had made her feel safe; now she just felt claustrophobic. Her gaze raked over his body in confusion.
He looked different.
“You’re wearing jeans,” she said, knowing she sounded as shocked as she felt. She had never believed she would see the day Greyson donned jeans. Yet here he was, wearing ripped jeans, trainers, and a fleecy gray hoodie. He still looked like Greyson, with that perfect carriage and flawless hair, but also fundamentally different. Aside from the uncharacteristic clothes, his jaw was blue with stubble, and he had dark shadows beneath his eyes.
“It seemed appropriate. No point wearing suits here.”
“I didn’t think you owned jeans,” she said and then felt stupid for harping on about this. There were rather more pressing concerns at hand.
“I didn’t until this afternoon. This is my first pair,” he muttered. “My first hoodie too. Uh . . . why is . . . why is she crying?”
He kept his gaze glued on Libby’s face when he asked the question, and for a second Libby had no idea to whom he was referring, since he never looked down at the wailing infant. Why wouldn’t he look at her?
“She’s hungry. And uncomfortable.”
“Why uncomfortable? Is she . . . ,” he asked, and Libby’s eyes were drawn to the movement of his Adam’s apple as he literally swallowed down whatever he’d been about to ask.
“Is she what?” Libby prompted him.
“Is she okay?”
“Why won’t you look at her?” Libby asked curiously, fascinated by his seeming inability to look at the baby.
“I wasn’t sure . . .” He halted again before blinking rapidly. An expression of shocking vulnerability fleetingly crossed his handsome face before he asked, his voice even quieter than usual, “Can I? May I?”
Libby’s head tilted to the left as she tried to figure that out. “Can you what?”
“Look at her?” His voice shook, and her brows met.
“I think you should,” she said, keeping her own voice quiet. She watched as—after receiving her go-ahead—his gaze dipped to the baby’s wet face before darting away again. His eyes tracked back to the angry, sad little visage as if irresistibly drawn to it and lingered a little longer. This time the blue gaze lifted to Libby, and his face took on an expression of bemused wonder before he looked at Clara again, this time taking in his fill.
“She looks like you,” he said, his voice dusted with the same wonder she had seen on his face.
“So I’ve been told,” Libby said curtly, not wanting to be moved by his reaction to the baby. “I have to bathe her, but—”
