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They were both asleep. Clara was on her tummy on Greyson’s broad chest, her cheek resting between his pecs, a tiny fist curled up next to her face. Greyson had a hand on the baby’s back to keep her in place, and his head was turned to the side, facing the kitchen, and Libby wondered if he had been watching her work before falling asleep.
Libby swallowed convulsively a couple of times before clearing her throat. She had never been more confused in her life. She didn’t know what to do and wasn’t sure who to talk to about this. Her parents would listen but offer little advice. They had always encouraged her to make her own decisions and rarely argued against them. Even when she had married Greyson, and she had known they didn’t approve. And then when she had left, they had wanted her to stay with them but hadn’t pushed hard when she had refused.
There was always Harris. But Harris was already caught between a rock and a hard place with this situation; she didn’t want to make it any worse for him. And then there was Tina . . .
Thinking of Tina made her eyes automatically seek out her phone, which she hadn’t looked at all morning. She picked it up, and sure enough, there were a couple of messages from Tina. Feeling a swell of relief, Libby opened them up.
I’m so sorry about yesterday. I want to tell you about it. I want to explain. I do love Clara so much. But it’s really hard for me to talk about.
The message made her frown. It was becoming imperative to have a proper talk with Tina. She had to figure out if there was a way to help Tina get through whatever this was. Not just for the business’s sake, not even for their friendship, but because Tina appeared to be floundering and clearly needed help.
I hope you’re making him unclog drains and plunge toilets. I love you. Chat later.
That was more like the irreverent friend she knew and loved. It made her chest ache, the thought of how much she could lose if she and the other woman didn’t talk about whatever was going on with Tina. She wanted her best friend back.
Libby sighed and ran a tired hand over her face. She looked over at Greyson and Clara again and walked over to the comforter, where the man she had once loved so fiercely was sleeping with their daughter securely tucked against his bare chest. She lifted her phone and couldn’t resist taking a few photos. Satisfied, she put the phone on her improvised coffee table before sinking down to her haunches and tucking her dress modestly beneath her thighs.
“Greyson,” she whispered. He was sleeping soundly, his mouth slack and slightly open, with soft little snores escaping on every third breath. His jaw was black with a two-day growth of beard. The look was unfamiliar but attractive on him, making him look a bit piratical. Especially with the narrow planes of his face.
She allowed her eyes to run over the rest of him. He was still toned, taut, and beautiful, but his weight loss was a lot more evident now that she wasn’t distracted by his piercing eyes or the overwhelming force of his personality. It was easy to miss it because he was a big man, but he had definitely lost a significant amount of weight.
She wondered about that, wondered about those months without contact. What had he been doing? Clearly not eating properly.
“Greyson.” She added more volume to her voice, and he started, which woke Clara. And Clara was grouchy when she didn’t wake naturally. She immediately started crying. She lifted her head and saw Greyson instead of her mother, and her cries escalated into shrieks. The man who had been her best buddy just half an hour ago was now a terrifying stranger to her.
She kicked, and Greyson’s hold slipped. Clara slid slightly to the side before Libby reached out and plucked the baby to her chest. She sent Greyson, who looked devastated at Clara’s reaction, a quick smile.
“She’s cranky when she wakes up. Don’t take it personally,” she said. “And she’s hungry and”—she took a delicate sniff and wrinkled her nose—“oh my . . . a little stinky.” She directed her next comments to Clara. “Time for another nappy change, you noisy little stinker.”
She straightened, and Greyson got up, too, immediately towering above Libby. He was hovering anxiously.
“What can I do?” he asked, and she gave him a speculative look.
“You really want to help?” she asked, and he nodded a little desperately. “Well, get your hoodie on—enough with the soft-core exhibitionism—and join me in the room.”
He eagerly did as he was told and was in the room behind her seconds later. Libby already had a towel spread out on the bed, and Clara was on her back, her face red and angry, while she waved her fists and legs in futile rage, shrieking all the while.
