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She shoved her roiling thoughts and confusion aside and gently placed Clara in his nervous hold. He watched intently, his expression tight with concentration, and she carefully withdrew her arms. His eyes widened when he realized that he was holding the gurgling baby without any help from her, and his grip instinctively tightened. Clara didn’t like that and immediately started crying.
The look of utter panic on his face when Clara let loose with her high, thin cries was quite comical.
“Shit! What do I do?” he asked desperately, instinctively rocking from side to side.
“Well, keep that rocking movement going, and maybe let up on the death grip a tiny bit. You wouldn’t like being held in a stranglehold either.” His arms loosened fractionally. “A little more, Greyson.”
“But what if I drop her?”
“You won’t. She’s not a slippery eel. You have her in a secure position; you just need to relax.” He loosened his hold, and Clara, seemingly comforted by the proximity of her mother’s calm voice and the more relaxed embrace, stopped crying. Her tear-drenched wide eyes searched the unfamiliar face above hers, and her forehead wrinkled in displeasure. Greyson’s forehead was wrinkled in an identical frown of confusion and misgiving. They so resembled each other that it brought a reluctant smile to Libby’s lips. Her fingers itched to dig out her phone and take a picture of them, but the device was still in her bag, and she didn’t want to be taking pictures of Greyson. No matter how damned adorable he looked holding his daughter for the first time.
She watched a tentative smile replace the frown on his face, a smile that widened to reveal even white teeth and deep grooves in his lean cheeks. He had eyes only for Clara, who still looked a bit doubtful about this large stranger who was holding her. Libby suspected that it was only because she was standing right beside Greyson that Clara wasn’t crying. Although the baby still looked undecided about whether or not to launch into fresh tears.
She was so beautiful. Greyson had never once imagined that it would feel this right to hold her. In the time since her birth, he’d pictured reconciling with Olivia, pictured Clara growing up, envisioned her playing with her toys, with the puppy he’d get for her, dressed in tutus, princess gowns, or perhaps something less traditionally girly. Maybe she’d want to be Buzz Lightyear. Who knew? He’d imagined her laughter, pictured her smile, her adorable curly hair springing wildly in every direction as she played and laughed and danced.
But he had lacked the imagination for this. He had never considered how it would feel to hold her. His parents hadn’t been very tactile people, and Greyson had always kept his more physically demonstrative brother at a distance.
But now that he held his daughter in his arms, close to his chest, now that he could feel her weight, her warmth, the sweet softness of her, he knew that he didn’t want to be the type of parent his own had been. He wanted to know this child, cuddle her and hug her as she grew up. He never wanted her to doubt that she was loved.
She was both heavier and lighter than he would have thought. And if he had ever given any consideration to what it would feel like to hold a baby, he would have expected less movement and more . . . limpness. But she was alive, moving, restless. He could tell she was tense and wary of him. And that surprised him too. She didn’t know him, so she didn’t trust him. He would never have believed a four-month-old baby capable of such instinctive intelligence.
Maybe it was just this one. Maybe she was a prodigy. Well, considering that her mother was a culinary genius, it wouldn’t surprise him.
His kid was a genius. He liked that.
He stared at Clara, his smile so wide it actually hurt his cheeks, and Clara stared at him. Her frown was back. And it reminded him of Harris. Only about a thousand times cuter.
“Do I look this pissed off when I frown?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to startle Clara.
“Well, she didn’t get that black look from me,” Olivia said. And Greyson wondered if she had deliberately phrased it in a way that would allow her to avoid actively acknowledging him as the father. He bit back a soft sigh. This visit hadn’t gone as planned. They hadn’t really resolved anything . . . but he didn’t care. At least he’d received this unexpected bonus. And he’d take this over almost everything else.
He very carefully lifted Clara close enough to drop a kiss onto a chubby, still-tear-wet cheek. One of her flailing little fists grabbed hold of his earlobe and tugged.
“Jesus. Ouch,” he muttered, cringing in pain but trying not to react because he didn’t want to startle Clara. Olivia made a muffled sound of amusement and reached over to loosen the baby’s death grip on his lobe. “How the hell is she so strong?”
