by Shyla Colt
Sweeter Than Candy
Shyla Colt
Inspired Ink
Copy Right
Text copyright © 2018 Shyla Colt
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All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews are permitted.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover by :Dreams2Media
To the incredible city I’m from. I’m proud to be a Buckeye.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Sweeter Than Candy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The Rook – OTR Bar
Sharonville Convention Center
BonBonerie bakery and café
Jungle Jim’s Grocery Store
The Maine
Doctor Who ©BBC
Stranger Things © Matt and Ross Duffer
Dead of Winter ©Plaid Hat Games
Kerplunk© Mattel
The Birds ©
Nailed It © Netflx Francois Gragnon
NetFlix
Sugar & Spice Restaurant
Arlington Memorial Gardens
Sweeter Than Candy
Blurb
First impressions matter.
It takes Clara Paulson less than a minute to decide Asher Davenport is a jerk. The sexy brunette in the custom suit dismissed her like a peasant thanks to a case of mistaken identity. It doesn't matter that he’s completely devoted to his baby sister and her newborn. Right?
Looks can be deceiving. Asher didn’t expect a lactation specialist to look like that. The brown-skinned beauty with curves in all the right places and a stunning jawline caught him off guard. His libido raged to life, and he deviated from the cool composure he’s known for.
When life continues to throw them together, they’re forced to explore the potential that sizzles between them.
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.”
I smile at her grateful tone. This moment is why I love this job. The adoration in her eyes as she peers down at her son is inspiring and moving. I blink rapidly to hold back the tears. Moving toward my bag, I pull out charts and allow the two to have uninterrupted bonding time before I begin to ask questions to help me figure out how much milk she’s producing, and how much nourishment Acton has managed to take in.
“How are your nipples doing?” I ask as I jot down her responses to the questions.
“Rachel, I see that you’re in good hands, and my nephew is sufficiently calmed, so I’ll take my leave now,” Asher mumbles from behind us.
“Thank you for staying with me, Ash,” Rachel says.
Asher’s face softens. It’s like looking at a different person. “Of course. I know it’s hard having Joseph gone. If you need anything at all, I’m a phone call away. Kane will be out of town for the next couple of weeks, but Micah and Luka are working from home as well right now.”
“I don’t want to impose—”
“Stop.” Asher holds up a hand and Rachel clamps her mouth shut. “Family first?” he asks.
“Family first,” Rachel repeats. Their devotion to one another is admirable.
“Excellent. Ms. Paulson.” He gives a curt nod and strides out the front door.
It’s too bad good genes were wasted on the frosty, arrogant man.
“It’s good that you have so much support. Parenthood is difficult, and there’s a huge learning curve starting out.”
“We have a pretty big family. It’s driven me nuts over the years, but it has its perks also. My husband took three weeks of paternity leave, and now he’s stuck out of town.” Her words are a jumbled mess. With Acton snoozing in his cherry wood, canopy-covered bassinet, we’re free to talk. I can see the shame and embarrassment on her face.
“Life happens. There’s no judgment here, okay?”
She nods her head. “This isn’t how I envisioned this going. I put so much thought and planning into my birth plan, and nearly ended up having a C-section after thirty hours of active labor. Then Acton had trouble latching and was finicky with formula. It’s been one thing after the other, and having Joe gone makes it all even harder.”
“We’re going to get you to a version of normal you can handle. I’ll be here for the rest of the day helping you get Acton accustomed to breastfeeding. If for some reason it turns out that’s not the best option for the two of you, that’s okay, too. All that matters is that Acton is loved and well-cared for. You can do that, right?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Yes. But I know breastfeeding is best.”
“There are certain undeniable benefits to breastfeeding. But there’s no one right way to raise your child. Together, we’re going to figure out what works best for you and Acton. That is the important thing. We’re going to help you transition into this new stage as smoothly as possible. I’ll be here for the rest of the day supervising feedings and answering any questions you may have. First, I want to ask you when’s the last time you ate?”
She opens her mouth and pauses, shaking her head. “I don’t remember.”
“You have to be sure to take care of yourself. Why don’t you get some lunch, and take a shower? It’ll sit here with Acton.”
She glances at the bassinet nervously.
“Being a mother doesn’t mean being with them every second of the day. It’s okay to accept help and take time for yourself. You have to be okay in order to care for him the way you’d like to.”
“I didn’t expect to feel this conflicted. There’s guilt when I’m not doing everything possible to see to his well-being.”
“Mom guilt is a real thing. The first step to defeating and managing that irrational emotion is being aware of it. You still have an abundance of hormones running through your system. We’ll monitor how you’re feeling, and if it gets too extreme, we’ll get you in to see your doctor.” Post-partum depression is a condition that was once often overlooked. Education has really brought the woman’s issue into the forefront.
“I won’t be long.” Rachel stands.
“Take your time. You’ve pumped to keep up your milk supply like we mentioned, correct?”
“I have.”
“Good, I have some new bottles I’d like to try. The nipples were made to simulate a breast. He may take to them better than he did previously. And I can only imagine your breasts could use a break. It’s tough on the tissue. Take a shower, use some of the medicinal cream.”
ASHER
“Explain to me why we have to be here for this,” Kane mutters.
I glance over at the passenger seat. He pops the top button of his electric blue oxford button up.
“To support our sister. She’s had a rough start with motherhood. It’s good to see her acting more like herself.” I bite back the comment I want to say to chide him for his selfish behavior.
“She’s always been so upbeat. The post-partum depression diagnosis surprised me,” Micah admits, chiming in from the backseat.
“It’s a matter of fluctuating hormones and stress, not personality. With Joseph away for the first few weeks after Acton’s birth, and the baby fussy and difficult to feed, it created the perfect storm I’d imagine. She’s always been a perfectionist. This must’ve felt like a form of failure for her.”
The second oldest in our parentless family, I’ve stepped up my game in a major way since Luka married a year ago. The unofficial head of the family, our eldest brother sacrificed enough to raise and guide us since our parents perished in a car accident over fifteen years ago. He put himself on the back burner long enough. I’ve made it my mission to help him shoulder the responsibility of the Davenport Candy business and family management. The five of us range from thirty-one to forty-two, but there’s no such thing as being too grown to need help from your family.
