“I’m fine,” she assured Tina quietly. “Just going to get the munchkin changed and into bed. See you in the morning.”
Chapter Four
Greyson settled behind the wheel of his luxurious rental car and swore long and hard. He had flown up to the Garden Route. In the company helicopter, with his brother sitting in aggrieved silence across from him. Harris had already been seated on the chopper by the time Greyson had boarded and had proceeded to ignore him on the short flight over.
Greyson resented his brother’s intrusion but at the same time couldn’t really blame him for coming. He knew the other man’s actions were a pointed indication of his loyalty toward Olivia. Greyson understood he had lost any semblance of allegiance from Harris, but having the other man there and squarely in Olivia’s corner stung. A lot.
And then when Harris had deigned to speak to him, it had been to offer unsolicited advice. Greyson had ignored him, not needing to be reminded—yet again—of how much better Harris thought he knew his wife. Harris had advised him to proceed with caution, and Greyson had chosen to go straight to her house. Preferring a no-nonsense approach.
But of course he had scared her, lurking in the shadows like a stalker. After four months apart, he had been desperate to see her. To see Clara. And both had welcomed him with screams of anger and dismay.
“Shit.” The word contained little heat, laden instead with weariness and disappointment. He dug out his phone and did a quick search of local hotels and B and Bs, his eyes occasionally drifting back to the still-dark outer facade of Libby’s ramshackle old house. The place had a large, overgrown garden, full of thigh-high sedges, bottlebrush bushes, a couple of bare apple trees, and assorted other fynbos plants. The rest of the space was wild with weeds.
The building looked old and drafty, like the next strong gust of wind could blow it over. He had seen pictures of it, of course, but it was much worse seeing it in person. He hated that she lived in that house. Wanted to swoop in and drag both her and Clara back home where they belonged.
“Motherfucker,” he swore again, a frantic internet search later. The word was ugly and unfamiliar on his tongue. He didn’t like using profanity, finding it base and unnecessary. Words could excoriate without the speaker resorting to the lowest common denominator, as Olivia had so succinctly proven earlier. He preferred to use the barest minimum of words required to get his point across. He had never felt comfortable getting caught in any type of extended personal conversation with people. Unless it was business related, he never quite knew what to say. Small talk was meaningless, and he had never gotten the knack of it. Only with Olivia had he ever felt remotely able to overcome that social stumbling block.
Lately, he found that resorting to a good old-fashioned swear word now and then proved quite satisfying on occasion. This wasn’t such an occasion. No amount of swearing would alter the fact that there was no accommodation available for miles around. Not in this town and not in any neighboring towns.
He dropped his head back against the headrest, tempted to just curl up and go to sleep right here . . . but he knew it was just a matter of time before Olivia called the cops on his stalkery ass.
He groaned and covered his face with one hand, his phone still clutched in the other.
“Damn it.” The words were milder—more familiar and completely resigned. He lifted his hand from his face and brought up his brother’s number.
He stared at it for a while before pushing the call button. Harris answered almost immediately.
“Yeah?”
“There are no vacant hotels, motels, or guesthouses in this fucking town,” he said gruffly. Yet another coin for the swear jar. This was getting too easy.
“Libby didn’t welcome you back with open arms, then?” Harris asked smugly, and Greyson’s jaw clenched as he sought to control his surge of temper. When he didn’t respond to Harris’s question, his brother asked, “What did you think was going to happen, Greyson?”
This time his hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. Harris sighed. He sounded tired.
“I rented a flat,” Harris murmured, and Greyson sagged in relief, recognizing the quietness in Harris’s voice as an acquiescence that Greyson damned well knew he didn’t deserve. “It has two bedrooms. You can have the spare room if you want. But the place is small, so you’re going to have to resign yourself to seeing more of me than you’d probably like.”
Greyson’s eyes drifted back to the house. The interior lights were still off, but he knew she hadn’t gone to sleep yet. She was probably watching and waiting for him to leave. He heaved a long, heavy sigh. He’d barely caught a glimpse of Clara. She’d been distraught, and he’d been to blame for that. Not exactly father-of-the-year material.