“Greyson,” he said cautiously as he climbed the patio steps and walked toward his brother, who stood staring at him through bleary eyes. “You okay?”
He came to a standstill directly in front of his twin. They were exactly the same height, but the fact that Harris wore shoes and Greyson was barefoot gave the former a fraction of an advantage.
“Where have you been?” Greyson asked, sounding groggy. Harris didn’t smell any alcohol on the man’s breath and knew his brother must have just woken up. Also uncharacteristic . . . as far as Harris knew, Greyson hadn’t taken an afternoon nap since kindergarten.
“To Knysna for a new mattress, and then to the restaurant . . . to see Libby and Clara.” He watched Greyson closely for his reaction. But only by the slightest tightening around his eyes did the guy betray that the news disturbed him.
“There’s no food in the house,” Greyson pointed out after a lengthy pause, and Harris raised his eyebrows.
“So go and get some groceries.”
Greyson stared at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign language, and Harris fought back a grin. He wasn’t sure his brother had ever set foot in an actual grocery store in his entire life. Harris liked to cook and often went out to buy his own produce. Greyson’s housekeeper did the shopping for him.
“Maybe later,” Greyson prevaricated and turned to head back into the house. Harris followed, eyeing his brother closely.
“Greyson, are you wearing my clothes?” he finally asked, disbelief rife in his voice. Not even when they were kids had Greyson ever borrowed Harris’s clothing. The brothers had always had vastly different tastes. Harris liked to bum around in whatever was most comfortable, usually jeans or sweats, when he wasn’t forced to wear a suit to the office, while Greyson always wore neatly pressed chinos and dress shirts as casual wear. Harris couldn’t recall ever seeing the other man in jeans and doubted his brother even owned a pair.
Seeing his twin looking less than impeccable and then realizing that he was wearing Harris’s own sweats was a double whammy that left Harris feeling a little speechless.
Greyson looked down at the navy-blue sweatpants and matching hoodie as if only now realizing that he was wearing them and then shrugged, the movement of his shoulders looking listless and disinterested.
“It was the closest thing available. I haven’t unpacked my bag yet.”
Harris’s eyebrows shot up.
The ever-organized, professional traveler Greyson Chapman hadn’t unpacked yet.
Well . . . hell.
“You look like crap,” Harris said, forcing the sympathy from his voice. He didn’t want to feel sorry for Greyson. The idiot was getting his just deserts . . . still . . . he looked miserable. And pathetic. It was hard not to feel sympathetic.
“Fantastic. Nice to know I look like I feel,” Greyson said drily, and Harris gaped at him, a little shocked by the self-deprecating humor he heard in his twin’s voice. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard anything similar from Greyson, and he couldn’t quite hide his astonished reaction.
“What?” Greyson asked, swiping self-consciously at his nose. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just thought you’d completely lost the ability to laugh at yourself, is all.”
“Yeah, well, when your only options are laugh or—” He stopped abruptly, and Harris silently completed the sentence for him.
Cry?
Greyson cleared his throat uncomfortably and glared hard at the floor between his feet.
“Anyway,” he continued awkwardly, “when your options are shit, it’s best to choose the path of least resistance.”
“So what are your plans, Greyson? What do you intend to do here?”
“I don’t know,” Greyson admitted, and Harris was astounded by the naked honesty in his voice. Greyson always knew what to do, and even when he didn’t, he soon worked it out. “I’m taking some time to figure it out.”
“And taking time out means slouching around here, wearing my sweats all day?”
“They’re surprisingly comfortable,” Greyson admitted, his lips lifting in a half grin, inviting Harris to smile with him. But Harris wasn’t quite ready to laugh with his brother yet, and he averted his eyes.
“There’s a sporting-goods store in town—I’m sure you’ll find something similar there,” he offered before looking back up to gauge Greyson’s reaction. The small smile had faded from the other man’s lips, and he looked . . . shit.
He looked miserable.
Harris didn’t want to hurt Greyson; God knows there had been way too many ill feelings and misunderstandings flying around since before Clara’s birth. But a large part of him wanted to punish Greyson. Especially since nothing had been resolved between them yet.
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll go and check that out.”
“I have a few emails to take care of,” Harris muttered. “If you’re going out, don’t forget to get some groceries. We need everything. The basics, from toilet paper to milk and sugar . . . and get a couple of steaks, will you? I’m thinking of throwing something on the grill later.”