“Why now?” She forced the question out. Not sure why she was asking. She should take the papers and run. But now that they were there, right in front of her, she was oddly reluctant to even touch them.
“Because you’re going to want them after I’ve said what I came here to say.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Olivia . . .” His voice throbbed with misery, and part of Libby wanted to reach across the expanding chasm between them to take his hand. Offer him comfort.
“Worse than the investigator?” she asked, and he swallowed before meeting her gaze head on. He looked absolutely devastated.
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” He shook his head before trying again. “I’m not a very demonstrative man, Olivia. You know that. I’ve never been one to wear my every emotion on my sleeve. I know you all used to joke that I probably didn’t even have emotions.”
You all? The phrase jolted her and made her wonder to whom he was referring.
“We all who?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“You. Tina.” Tina? Since when did he use the nickname? “Harris. I’ve heard the comments. About me.”
“What comments?” she asked, although she was pretty sure she knew what he meant. But their adolescent teasing had never seemed to bother him. Reinforcing their belief that he was unflappable and completely emotionless.
“You know . . . the Ice Man stuff. And, uh, Mr. Freeze, I think it was. The Terminator?”
“Greys—”
“I mean, it’s okay,” he quickly interrupted, which was great because Libby had no idea what she’d been about to say. There was no denying the mocking nicknames she and Harris had come up with when they were teens. But part of it had stemmed from Libby’s desire to be noticed by him, to provoke some kind of reaction from him. She had never succeeded, of course. He had remained as cold and aloof as an iceberg. And the first inkling of warmth she’d ever seen in him had been that night at the rooftop party.
“I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not great at revealing what I’m feeling. I find emotions messy and needlessly complicated. I’ve never found it easy to participate, and quite frankly, when you were younger—a teen—it was simpler to keep my distance. Whenever I found myself in your presence, I wanted to do highly inappropriate things. And that would have been . . .” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t have been acceptable. You were young and vulnerable. Your parents worked for mine. There was an imbalance of power, and I wanted to stay as far removed from you as possible because you were so very hard to resist.”
“What?” Her voice was quiet and confused, and she found herself reeling at the admission that he had wanted her for so long. He had never let on. Not once.
But he did himself a disservice when he said he was cold. She now knew he was far from cold. He was hot and passionate, and there was a wealth of emotion teeming just below the grim surface he presented to the world. She had managed to tap into it, as had Clara, and the more time she spent with him, the more of himself he revealed to her.
“Are you saying you wanted me? Years ago?”
“I was always aware of you . . . but when I saw you after I came home from college. The year you turned sixteen. God. My world flipped upside down. You were so fucking beautiful.” It still jolted her to hear the f-bomb from him, but there was such intense sincerity in his voice that there was no denying he meant every word. “But you were so young. I couldn’t allow what I felt to show. I kept myself as far away from you as humanly possible. But you and Harris . . . you were so close, and I-I envied him. I was jealous of his ability to be so at ease with you. I wanted to talk and laugh with you. But Harris was the one you went to with your stories and your laughter and your confidences.”
She tilted her head as she absorbed those words. Of course she talked and laughed with Harris . . . they were friends. They were closer than friends: they were like siblings. Greyson knew that.
“When I saw you again at the party,” he continued, “I couldn’t resist you anymore. You were . . .” He shook his head, seemingly unable to find the words. “I knew your parents had retired. You were independent, career minded, talented . . . and I could finally act on my need for you. After that—knowing I was your first—the thought of letting you go was . . . difficult for me. I started pushing for marriage. I shouldn’t have; I should have told you about my fertility concerns. I should have told you so fucking many things, Olivia. But I didn’t. I wanted you. And I would do anything to have you.”