“Why did you marry me, if you didn’t think I loved you?” he retorted, bringing the focus squarely back to where she would prefer it not to be. For the first time she heard a hint of defensiveness in his voice. How interesting. Why would he be defensive about this, when there were so many other, more serious issues on the table? She raised her eyebrows at him in disbelief.
“Are you seriously answering a question with a question right now?”
“I’m interested in hearing your response,” he said, and she snorted in confounded amusement.
“I don’t care. I asked you first.”
“Will you answer my question if I answer yours?”
“Why are you hedging?” She was completely exasperated with this frustrating topic and couldn’t keep the scowl off her face.
“It was time to get married and settle down,” he said. “And I figured you were someone I’d known for years, we got along, and we were great in bed together. I thought it was a good fit.”
A good fit. Such a Greyson thing to say. So damned logical and emotionless. She said nothing in response to that, and he held her gaze.
“Well?” he prompted her, and she lifted her brows.
“Well, what?”
“Why did you marry me?”
“Since it’s not relevant to this conversation, it’s not something I care to discuss right now.” Especially since the truth was humiliating. She had stupidly allowed her infatuation to flourish into deeper and more real feelings for him. Then she had convinced herself that he would eventually come to love her.
They’d had two months of something resembling a real marriage, and even then, he had rarely been around during the first month. With him working such long hours, she had seen him only late at night, when he’d stumbled into bed to make love with her. The second month had been better; he’d been around more, and just when things had seemed to be settling into a pleasant routine, she had told him about her pregnancy. And that had been the end of that.
It had hurt so much when he had distanced himself. When he had moved in to another bedroom with only the flimsiest of explanations. His lack of interest in her pregnancy, his absence and coldness. All of that had hurt like hell, and she would be damned if she allowed him to see that now.
“I can fix that faucet in the morning,” he said, changing the subject unexpectedly. Libby couldn’t help it: she snorted at the thought of Greyson properly fixing something. He looked affronted by her amused response.
“What’s so funny?” he asked softly, and Libby shook her head.
“I’m sorry. It’s nothing. But you don’t have to do anything; I’ll have the plumber come in tomorrow and have it fixed.”
“On a Sunday? That’s going to cost the earth.”
“That’s my concern, not yours.”
“Let me take care of the problem, Olivia,” he demanded, sounding way too much like his old bossy self.
“How do you propose to do that, Greyson? By throwing money at it? That’s how you fix all your problems, isn’t it?”
His lips thinned seconds before he ducked his head, frustratingly hiding his reaction from her. He was always so good at disguising his visceral reactions, and back during those first couple of months of their marriage, Libby would have done anything to get a rise from him. Now, while it irritated her, she couldn’t afford to care much anymore. What was the point in trying to figure him out anyway? Their marriage was over. She would leave it to the next woman to try and read Greyson. Someone else could attempt to get under his skin, provoke him into honest responses, coax him into sharing himself. Libby had a child to raise.
Alone.
She swallowed painfully at the near-constant fear that resurfaced whenever she found herself faced with that reality. She wasn’t sure she could do this alone. Not while trying to simultaneously restart her career and keep a restaurant afloat with very little help from the best friend who was supposed to be her partner.
Abruptly overwhelmed and feeling more than a little terrified, Libby pushed herself to her feet and walked toward her sleepily gurgling baby, ostensibly to check on Clara but really just to take a moment to compose herself.
“I meant I could attempt to fix the plumbing myself.” Greyson’s stiff voice spoke from behind her left shoulder, and she screwed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm her nerves while formulating her response.
“I’m pretty sure you have no clue how to fix the plumbing, Greyson,” she said, giving his suggestion the curt, scathing dismissal it deserved.
“I solved the faucet problem earlier, didn’t I?” he pointed out, seeming frustrated with her.
“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how to turn off a faulty tap.” Okay, so maybe she was being bitchy, but she wasn’t feeling very generous right now. Having him so close made her feel like her skin was wrapped too tightly around her body. “I would have done it if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with Clara.”