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“Thank you, Greyson. For being there tonight.”
He looked inordinately pleased with her words. “Anytime,” he said with a beaming smile. “Thank you for trusting me.”
She nodded in response to those words, not sure what to say.
“Good night, Olivia.”
“Night, Greyson.”
He lingered, his eyes dropping to her mouth. It was obvious that he was thinking about kissing her . . . and Libby was thinking about letting him kiss her. For a long moment they both stood there, suspended in the moment, before Libby shook her head impatiently. She turned away abruptly and climbed into her car. He stepped back and watched her pull the door shut.
His own car was parked a few meters away from hers, and he walked over and climbed in. His headlights went on, but the car didn’t move. She sighed, recognizing that he would not leave until she did. He would probably follow her home to make sure she got there safely.
She buckled herself in and started up her car, and sure enough, as soon as she pulled away from the curb, he did too. He followed her all the way home and then stopped and waited until she and Clara were both safely inside. She went to her front window and waved at him to let him know they were okay, and he waved back before driving off.
It may have been a little overprotective, but oddly enough, Libby couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but a reluctant sort of affection toward him. She would have to have a heart of stone to remain unaffected by his quiet determination to prove himself capable and willing to be better.
“Clara, baby,” Libby sighed as she unbelted her still-sleeping daughter from her carrier. “What am I doing? Your daddy is a dangerous man. Mummy needs to stay far, far away from him.”
Greyson woke up tired but optimistic the following morning. Optimistic because he felt like he had made real progress with both Clara and Olivia last night. And tired because he had awoken to the sound of horrendous screams just after one a.m. For a disorienting second, he’d been confused and thought it was Clara crying. But after fully waking, he’d realized that the bloodcurdling sound was coming from next door. He’d jumped out of bed and rushed to the other house, afraid that Martine was being attacked.
Harris had opened Martine’s front door wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. His brother had been pale and looked like he’d seen a ghost, but he had reassured Greyson that Martine had just had a nightmare.
Judging from Harris’s state of near undress, things had been going pretty well between him and Martine before that nightmare.
Greyson got up and groaned. His mattress was lumpy, and it added to the aches he had already picked up on that damned sofa last night. It was just after six, and the winter sun hadn’t risen yet. He stretched, working the kinks out of his shoulders and back, and dragged on some sweats. A session at the gym would do him a world of good. When he left his room, it was to find Harris already seated at the kitchen table, staring off into space, despite having his laptop open in front of him.
“Hey,” Greyson greeted him, and Harris jumped, his eyes leaping to Greyson’s.
“Morning,” Harris replied. “How was the babysitting last night?”
“It worked out in the end, no thanks to you,” Greyson grumbled, and Harris’s lips lifted in a small grin. “I’m guessing your date was with Martine?”
Harris actually blushed before nodding.
“It seemed to end well. Despite the nightmare,” Greyson ribbed, and Harris lifted his shoulders self-consciously.
“I’m not so sure it ended well,” Harris said after an awkward pause. “She refused to talk about the nightmare and then sent me home. So . . .” Another lift of his shoulders.
Greyson considered his brother’s words while eyeing the full coffeepot for a moment, longing for some caffeine but not sure he wanted to risk poisoning himself with that swill.
“It tastes like shit,” Harris said, correctly interpreting his longing glance.
Greyson grimaced before focusing his attention back on Harris. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure where I stand with her today. We had an amazing evening, but after the nightmare—she has the same nightmare regularly—she said . . .” He paused, and his throat worked as he seemed to struggle with his next words. “I’m a trigger. For the nightmares.”
Shit. That was bad. No wonder Harris looked so damned torn up about this.
“Do you want to . . . I don’t know . . . do something today?” Greyson asked, not sure his brother should be alone right now and wanting to be there for him. But this was new to him. Being supportive in a proactive way.
Harris looked somewhat diverted by his question. “Do something like what?” he asked.
