Sweeter Than Candy (The Davenports 1)

Chapter One

CLARA

I punch the code into the white box with silver keys and wait. It clicks. A buzz sounds, and the iron gates slowly open. I drive the modest four-door green sedan into the gates’ community. I feel like an intruder. Large homes, which sit on acres of land, line the streets. Shiny sports cars and foreign sports utility vehicles fill the long driveways that snake down from the oversized garages. These cars cost more than I make in a year. Forget about the houses. This is the crème de la crème, and I can’t help but feel like an alien in a strange land. The people living here are way above my pay grade.

Then again, Rachel Davenport-DuPont was the most influential client our company has ever landed. Mother Love is two years old, and slowly chugging its way past breaking even to earning us a decent profit. We specialized in all things from pregnancy to toddler age. Pride swells up inside of me like helium in a balloon. Thinking about how far we’ve come makes me feel like I’m walking on air. We may have a ways to go, but given how many people told us we’d never get this far, I’m counting our current position as a win.

We’re living our dream. After years spent at the same hospital together, we decided to go our own way. A lactation specialist, natural birthing coach, and a midwife who fantasized about leaving the hustle and bustle of big medicine behind to branch out. We took a risk and ended up creating a unique environment that offered more options, and a one-on-one experience for mothers-to-be and those in the earlier stages of motherhood.

After a year of planning, Austen, Paislie, and I bought our shop space, gave our notices, and jumped in head first. It would be a lie to say it’d been smooth sailing. The water was rough and choppy, and things were shaky as we got the word out, found clients, and built a reputation. Now, on the other side of growing pains that come from every new venture, I’ve never been happier.

Affording the costs had meant downsizing. I sold my ranch home, moved into a two-bedroom apartment, and traded my SUV for an economic friendly vehicle. It was all worth it. The simple living had an unexpected side effect. I focused in on the things that meant the most and freed up wasted income.

Finding the address, I pull into a round driveway and park in front of the three-door garage. The beige, brown, and tan masonry work outside of the home added charm to what could’ve been an imposing fortress. I let out a low whistle. This house must be valued at close to a million dollars. As the daughter of a real estate agent, I have a good sense of numbers for property. I exhale. We can’t afford to lose Rachel. She’s the foot in the door to more upscale clients. That puts a lot of pressure on me.

I’ve met her in passing, but as the natural birthing coach, Austen’s been the one to deal with her almost exclusively up until this point. Anticipating the birth of her first child, she’d hired the shop to assist her.

Grabbing my oversized black bag, I climb out of the car onto my low-heeled black pumps. I tug the black and white quarter-sleeved dress back into place. The strategically placed angular roses and color blend forms an hourglass that flatters my size-sixteen curves. My black cardigan wards off the late March chill that lingers in the air. Weather at the start of spring in Cincinnati feels like Mother Nature is playing Russian Roulette with winter. In the past week alone, we’ve had everything from a sunny seventy-degree day to sporadic snow storms, and rain.

After closing the car door behind me, I hurry up the drive to the front door.Rachel sounded frantic when she called. Acton was having trouble latching, she was exhausted, and feeling like a failure. It was a recipe for disaster. I knock on the thick wooden doors and clutch the handle of my black bag tight to hide the nervous tremors.

The door jerks open. A tall, lean man with red-rimmed dark brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes, and thick brows furrowed together scowls so hard I take an involuntary step back on the porch. A hank of chocolate brown hair falls over his forehead in a state of disarray. It’d be charming if I wasn’t worried about him tearing my throat out. An angry shriek that could only be a newborn or a banshee drifts out from behind him.

“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested.” He slams the door.

Stunned, my jaw drops before I can think to respond. Is he serious? I’ve never been treated so poorly in my entire life. Furious, I knock again. He flings the door open. His nostrils flare. I shove my foot in the door to prevent him from closing it again. “I’m Clara Paulson, the Lactation Consultant.”

The man blinks. His full lips form an O shape. His eyes rake over me in an appraising manner that grates on my nerves. “You’re not what I expected.”

I arch an eyebrow. Because I’m black?

“Wait. That came out wrong,” he quickly explains. “Because you’re so young and stylish. I had a picture of someone older in my head.”

I nod my head in understanding as I mentally roll my eyes. People know so little about what a lactation consultant does. They often assume I’ll be an elderly grandmother type. It’s not the assumption, but the poor treatment that rubs me the wrong way. If this is Mr. DuPont, I’m not impressed.

“Clara. Thank God you’re here,” Rachel yells. Her words are distorted by tears. I step inside, ignoring the man who’s become a frozen statue. Red-faced, the cerulean-eyed blonde woman’s expression matches that of her squalling infant. Bundled up in a baby carrier, Acton flails his tiny fists like a prize fighter in mid-bout.

She rushes toward me. “I can’t

get him to stop crying. He’s not latching on, and he hates the formula the hospital sent us home with.” Her words are a run on sentence I can scarcely decipher.

The rudeness of the baby daddy is forgotten as I launch into work mode.

“First of all, take a deep breath and calm down. He can feel how upset you are, Rachel. I promise you, if you calm down he will begin to do the same.” I place a hand on the baby’s back and the other on her shoulder. Her stormy gaze meets mine.

“Breathe with me. In.” I inhale for four beats, hold it, and exhale for an equal amount. She follows my lead. Acton’s screams began to subside and settle into whimpering. “Good job, mama. Now, let’s get him out of there.” I support his bottom and quickly unbutton the carrier. Cradling his head, I place Acton on my shoulder.

“How the hell did you do that?” baby daddy asks in awe.

I smirk. “Lot’s of practice and patience.” I focus back in on Rachel. “We have to remember, babies are way more tuned into body language and atmosphere than we are because their ability to communicate depends on nonverbal and very basic verbal cues.”

She nods her head.

“How about we get you settled over there?” I gesture toward the navy blue velvet couch as I gently bounce Acton. He roots against my shoulder, and I know we’re on a countdown until he makes his displeasure known once more. “I think you could both benefit from some skin-to-skin contact.”

Removing the carrier, Rachel plops onto a cushion and grabs the edge of her shirt.

Baby daddy clears his throat, and she freezes. “I’ll be in the den if you need me.”

I frown. This guy is O for two. An unsupportive partner is hell on a new mother.

“Your husband is welcome to stay. In fact, I recommend it. It’s beneficial for him to be included in the bonding process.”

The man sputters, and Rachel bursts into laughter. The amusement changes her demeanor entirely. Her eyes sparkle with mirth and her face lights up.

“I am not her husband.” The man spits the words out like poison. I glance over my shoulder to see him grimace. “I’m her brother.”

I cringe. Jesus, no wonder he was so disgusted and uncomfortable. Heat fills my face, and I look away. “Sorry,” I mumble, embarrassed.

“Seems like we’ve both put our foot in our mouth enough for today.” He turns on his heels and exits with all the flare and haughtiness of royalty. And I’m back to peasant status.

“Oh, I needed that.” Rachel waves her hands, breathing heavily as she fans her flushed face. “Poor Asher. He’s probably mortified.”

Of course his name is Asher.

“I think he’ll live,” I respond lightly.

Rachel peels her shirt off and settles back into the crook of the couch.

“Okay, let’s get Acton settled on his mama.” I grab the blue star-themed nursing pillow discarded on the couch, place it around her waist, and settle him against her skin. “Now rub his back. This is the sweet boy you carried around for nine months. He knows his mama will provide for him.”

Rachel bends down and breathes in the sweet baby scent I’ve always found addictive. At thirty-three, my clock is ticking. Unfortunately, Mr. Right remains elusive. Acton nuzzles against her chest. Longing rises inside of me. Distracting myself, I decide to move to stage two.

“Are you ready to try again?”

“I think so,” Rachel says softly.

Rachel opens her nursing bra, and I help position Acton.

“Now, we’re going to let him feel the nipple. Hold your breast and slowly rake the nipple across his lips. This will help stimulate the nursing instincts, and hopefully, he’ll begin to root.” The baby moves his head from left to right. I gently guide his head, and he latches on. Rachel holds her breath. He presses his fist against her breast, and tears roll down her face.

I tense. “Are you in pain?”

“No.” Her voice shakes. “It’s just working.”