Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 131345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Crap! She had completely forgotten about the running faucet and dashed into the bathroom, vaguely aware of Greyson following her. She swore furiously when she saw that the tap was still merrily flowing into the unplugged bathtub. Clara’s bath was waiting, and Libby was tempted to just wash the baby despite the broken tap. But it would be too messy.
“Why’s the water running?” Greyson asked from the bathroom doorway, and Libby swore again, immediately feeling crowded by his larger-than-life presence.
“The faucet’s broken. Fix it, will you?” She very much doubted Greyson, who wasn’t any kind of handyman at all, could repair the problem. Still, she took a perverse pleasure in saddling him with a dilemma she knew he couldn’t resolve.
“Meantime, I think I’ll feed Clara and give her a wipe down. I’ll bathe her in the morning instead.” Libby liked to list things. Sometimes verbally, usually on paper or on her phone . . . it helped her remain goal oriented. Whether with long-term or immediate goals, a list kept her on track.
She took Clara into her bedroom and pointedly shut the door behind her, leaving him to sink or swim. She didn’t particularly care which.
Greyson stood beside the bathtub in the cramped bathroom and stared at the doorway through which Olivia had just exited. He heard another door shut, and the sound of the baby’s wailing became more muffled behind the barrier of the closed door.
They were both so beautiful. With her golden-brown skin that seemed to glow from within and her silky black curls, Clara definitely looked like her mother. But Greyson couldn’t deny those dark-blue eyes.
His eyes.
His throat closed up, and he sat down on the side of the bath as he struggled to regulate his breathing. His fist clenched, and he thumped his thigh with leashed violence. He despised himself for what he had done, and everybody else did too . . . rightfully so. But he wanted to be a part of that baby’s life. And he wanted Olivia back.
And Greyson, usually the man with a plan . . . had no idea how to get what he so desperately wanted.
He turned his attention to the gushing faucet and stared at it for a long, blank moment.
How the hell was he supposed to fix this? He didn’t have a clue. He dug his phone out of his pocket, wincing a bit at the unfamiliar snugness of the jeans. He should probably have gone for something a little roomier. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he felt in this unfamiliar garb, but he had wanted to seem more amiable. More like Harris, who appeared to be everyone’s buddy.
Greyson knew he wasn’t the most approachable of men. Especially not in the three-piece suits he enjoyed wearing. And yes, sometimes the suits felt like armor—a well-made suit was a formidable weapon in any successful man’s arsenal. It inured one to the petty shit.
At least that was how Greyson always felt.
He felt naked in these clothes.
He shook his head, dispelling the foolish thoughts. Clara’s heartbreaking cries had finally died down, and he could hear the faint, comforting hum of Olivia’s voice as she spoke to the baby. He longed to go into that room and sit with them. Watch the baby feed. Watch his wife soothe and cuddle their child.
But he wouldn’t be welcome. He had this task, and he was grateful for it, because while he didn’t have a single damned clue how to solve this problem, at least she hadn’t kicked him out.
Besides, he had a secret weapon: his phone and the world’s most powerful internet search engine at his fingertips. He found a temporary solution in no time, but he needed a wrench, and because he had stupidly left the brand-new toolbox that he had bought for just such an eventuality back in his crappy room, that meant disturbing Olivia.
He left the bathroom and stood uncertainly outside her bedroom door, slicking back his still-rain-damp hair nervously before lifting his fist to rap on the door.
Her voice went silent, and there was a long pause before she responded to his knock.
“What?” she called, and he stared at the scarred wood of the barrier between them.
“I need a wrench,” he said.
“Under the kitchen sink,” she replied without hesitation. He nodded, then felt foolish because she couldn’t see him.
“Thanks.”
He moved to the kitchen, not seeing the bucket in the middle of the floor until the very last second. He swore and swerved to avoid it. The roof was leaking. This place was a bloody disaster. He hated the thought of Olivia and Clara living like this but knew that his stubborn wife would never consider allowing him to buy her a better place.
He found the wrench amid a mishmash of other mysterious tools. He wouldn’t be able to explain the function of most of those under threat of death and dismemberment. He made fast work of closing the faucet after that and was inordinately proud of his accomplishment as well as the fact that he’d barely made any mess at all.