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“I don’t know what to do for you, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He kissed her wet cheek, heartbroken that he couldn’t make this better for her and terrified that she was ill and his stubbornness in not asking for Olivia’s help could be wasting precious time. Finally he conceded defeat, his concern for Clara outweighing his pride and his fear that Olivia would lose trust in his ability to take care of the baby.
He dug his phone out of his pocket and sent a message to Olivia.
I’m sorry. Clara won’t stop crying. Not sure what to do.
The “read” notice came up a few moments later, and she started typing her response.
Be there in a sec.
Greyson’s eyes and face registered relief and fear when Libby walked into the office two minutes after receiving his text. Clara was screaming her head off, and Greyson was pacing up and down the tiny confines of the office, awkwardly rocking her.
“I’ve tried everything,” he said as soon as he saw Libby. He sounded on the verge of tears himself. “She refuses the bottle, and she doesn’t need to be changed. I’m sorry.”
Once again apologizing for the wrong thing. Libby shook her head but didn’t say the words out loud this time.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, hoping the reassurance in her voice would convince him of that truth. It didn’t seem to help; he still looked sick with guilt. “I mixed some formula in with the breast milk. Maybe she doesn’t like the taste of it.”
She took Clara from him, and the baby’s screeching diminished somewhat as she recognized her mother’s hold and immediately started rooting around for a nipple. She gave a frustrated scream when she was thwarted by the barrier of her mother’s clothing.
“Okay, sweetie. I know what you want, but you’re going to have to drink that botty,” Libby murmured and held out an open hand to Greyson, silently demanding the bottle. Greyson leaped to get it to her. Clara turned her face away from the rubber nipple, clearly adamant in her refusal to drink it.
“Maybe you should breastfeed her,” Greyson suggested. And Libby sighed.
“I don’t think she’ll get much joy there. I pumped before coming to work tonight. And since I’m not producing as much as I did before, there’s not much in there . . .” She tried the bottle again, and Clara refused, her entire body arching in Libby’s hold. “One of the reasons I mixed in so much formula was because I had so little milk for her tonight.”
“And that just happens?” Greyson asked. “It just dries up?”
“I think because I haven’t been breastfeeding her as regularly as before, my body has started producing less milk.” She heaved a huge sigh as she stared down into Clara’s desperately unhappy face before shaking her head and setting aside the bottle. She unbuttoned her smock with one hand, then slid the tank top she wore beneath it down one shoulder and unzipped her soft nursing bra. Greyson’s eyes widened, and he turned away, giving her privacy.
“You don’t have to do that,” Libby said quietly. “It’s not like my boobs are a mystery to you.”
“I didn’t think you’d want me to watch.”
“I didn’t at first. But breastfeeding is the most natural process in the world; you might as well see how it’s done,” Libby said, and he turned around just as Clara latched on to her nipple. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. He sank down onto the wobbly desk chair Tina kept for visitors, his eyes glued on Clara’s face as she fed.
“Does it hurt?” he asked after a moment of silence.
“She has started biting down a bit lately. I think she’s on the verge of teething. She’s been drooling a lot more, and everything goes into her mouth.” Libby stroked a hand over Clara’s silky hair. The baby was making soft, contented sounds . . . but it wasn’t long before she started to fret again. Libby transferred her to the other breast.
“You’re both so beautiful.” Greyson’s unsolicited compliment brimmed with reverence, and Libby lifted her gaze to his. He looked sincerely appreciative, his eyes soft and warm. “I should never have let you go.”
“You didn’t let me go,” Libby corrected him. “I left.”
“It was my fault you left.”
She didn’t respond to that statement of fact, and after a short awkward silence, Clara made a frustrated sound and started crying again. She turned her face away from Libby’s breast.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Libby murmured against her wet cheek.
“What happened?” Greyson asked while Libby set her clothes to rights.
“No milk. She’s going to have to take the bottle.” She reached for the bottle again, but Greyson leaped from his seat and beat her to it. He looked determined, as if he had made his mind up about something. She tilted her head as she tried to figure out what that might be.
