Allowing him to spend time with Clara was one thing, but letting him creep beneath her defenses was another matter entirely. She had to be careful.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Clara wouldn’t stop crying, and Greyson was desperate for solutions. He had tried her bottle, of course, and that swooping thing she liked. Tickling and tummy raspberries only made the crying worse. She refused to be appeased in any way, and Greyson felt like a complete failure as a father. She had started crying about fifteen minutes after he’d arrived at the restaurant for babysitting duty, and it was now nearly half an hour later, and she hadn’t let up at all.
He had queasily checked her nappy—clean—rocked her, sang to her, played with her, laid her down, picked her back up . . . nothing helped. He was starting to worry that maybe she was sick. Especially after she’d spit up the small amount of milk he had managed to get her to drink.
He was wearing jeans and a dress shirt, trying to mix his old wardrobe with his new. And he now had baby puke on the shoulder of his white Armani shirt. Not that he cared about that—he just wanted Clara to be okay. To stop crying. He was pacing up and down and bouncing her awkwardly in his arms.
“It’s okay, darling,” he said, sounding frazzled even to his own ears. “It’s all right. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Daddy’s here.”
“Greyson.”
Greyson lifted his gaze, startled to hear his name coming from the doorway. His eyes met Harris’s. His brother was watching him, concern and shock evident on his face. Greyson had never been happier to see another human being in his life before.
“Harris! Oh, thank God you’re here,” Greyson said, desperate for help, not even wondering why his brother was there in the first place. “She won’t stop crying. I think she’s sick. Do you think she’s sick?”
Harris took Clara from him, easily cradling her in the crook of his arm. He tested Clara’s temperature with the back of his hand while Greyson hovered anxiously, waiting to hear the verdict.
“She doesn’t feel feverish.” Clara stopped screeching at the sound of his voice and started sucking on her fist, her pretty blue eyes fixed on her uncle’s face. Harris looked at her and smiled, and Greyson’s heart sank to the floor.
“Oh my God, she hates me.” Of course she did. Everybody else seemed to hate him these days—hell, Greyson even hated himself—so why should Clara be any different?
“She doesn’t hate you,” Harris said, his voice low and soothing. Okay, so maybe Harris didn’t hate him. Not anymore. Not since their talk this afternoon, when he had finally accepted Greyson’s apology and plea for understanding. “You were tense and panicking. She probably picked up on that.”
“I can’t do this,” Greyson said urgently. “You have to help me.”
Harris laughed at him. “No way. You seemed confident you could handle this. So handle it. Libby is literally a stone’s throw away if you need her. You’ll manage.”
“No. Damn it. She’ll never let me near Clara again if she thinks I can’t cope.” Why couldn’t his brother see how dire Greyson’s situation was? Harris looked way too relaxed and amused for Greyson’s liking.
“Greyson, you’re able to run a multimillion-dollar organization without blinking an eyelid; you can handle one tiny female.”
Was Harris being serious right now? Did he even know Olivia?
“No, I can’t! You know I can’t,” Greyson protested. “She fucking up and left me before I had a chance to even recognize what an idiot I was. She defies handling.”
“I . . . uh . . . I meant the baby.”
“Oh.” Of course he meant the baby. Greyson felt foolish for leaping to the wrong conclusion, an emotion exacerbated by the laughter he could see in his brother’s eyes.
“Now take your daughter. I have a date to get back to. Call Libby if you run into trouble—she won’t think less of you. It’ll show that you’re more concerned for Clara than you are about your ego.”
A date? Momentarily diverted by that revelation, Greyson was about to ask Harris about that date, but the other man kissed Clara, gently transferred her back into Greyson’s arms, and walked away. Clara immediately started crying again, sending Greyson spiraling into panic.
“Harris!” Greyson called, needing the other man to come back and help him handle this situation, but Harris laughed at him and callously shut the door.
“Okay, Greyson,” he muttered to himself. “Okay, you can do this.”
He forced himself to relax his hold on Clara. He sat down on the sofa and held one of her rattling toys up in front of her eyes, hoping to distract her from her tears. She blinked at the rattle for a moment, sucking in a breath and quieting down for a few precious seconds. But the respite was all too brief, and her face scrunched up before she released her breath on another angry screech. Her tiny fists balled and flailed in frustration.