Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(13)

“Flat surface?” I ask. “For sleeping?”

She tosses the dirty napkins into a trash hole in the white wall, then bites her lip while her darkening gaze travels down the length of my body again.

“Knock it off,” I growl.

She doesn’t flinch, which is probably a testament to how often she and her grandmother go at it. “Do you know much about babies? Like, does he need to sleep in a cage, or can he just sleep on a bed?”

“A cage?”

“That’s what a crib is, right? A caged bed? So they can’t…crawl away?”

“He’s too little to crawl.”

“You’re sure?”

“He can’t even lift his head by himself. I’m sure.”

She eyeballs the baby. Then lifts her eyes to me again. “Why are you still here? Not that I’m not grateful for the help, but…you’re not related to any of us. Julienne left you an asshole review for a new business. New, yes? And I doubt Rafe was any nicer. You know I can afford any help necessary so I can raise Remy on my own. You’ve also gotten a taste of what we both know my grandmother will throw at you to get you to leave, because she’s very protective of family when they’re still young enough to be molded into her next protégé. So…why not just bolt?”

“Because you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re doing.”

She tips her head back and laughs. “Oh, Westley. You’re adorable. And you’ve had quite the night. How about I take Remy upstairs to a cozy little corner of my room, and then we’ll get you settled in one of my guest suites? Miami traffic sucks all hours of the day, and there’s no need to travel home tired.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I sleep where Remy sleeps.”

Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but to my surprise, instead, she nods. “Thank you. It’s kind of you to help.”

I study her.

She stares right back.

And I have the oddest sensation that she’s more grateful than she’ll admit.

Retreat! Retreat! my nuts shout.

Because they know. They’ve seen this before.

Lady with a baby having a breakdown.

I tell my balls to knock it off. I’m older. I’m wiser. And I’m not falling for a hard-partying heiress just because she inherited an orphan who’s going to need all the love he can get.

Yep.

That’s my story. And if I repeat it enough, I might actually convince myself it’s true.





Six





Daisy



I get West and Remy settled in the sitting room off my bedroom—hello, temptation—and then retreat.

I can’t fully explain it, but I trust him.

Or possibly I’m just so relieved that I don’t have to dive into this guardianship thing alone just yet, that I want to believe I can trust him.

Either way, my life as I knew it four hours ago is basically over, and I need to adapt. Fast.

I climb into bed with my laptop, and send a slew of emails to my staff, both at Carter International Properties and at home, about my schedule suddenly needing to be flexible for a little bit, all while listening to the muted sounds of West settling onto the couch in the room next door.

He’s fascinating.

And by fascinating, I mean all of my erogenous zones are pinging just from having him in my personal space. I want to know why he always tilts his left ear toward me when I’m talking. If he’s a whiskey or a beer kind of guy. Or both. If his overprotective papa bear mode is just an adrenaline thing, or if there’s more to his story. If he’ll still be here in the morning. Why he’s in Miami when his family is in Chicago—yes, fine, I googled his brother when I was supposed to be working, but who could resist?

The guy’s basically playing hero tonight while I’m hiding in here trying not to hyperventilate at the idea of sudden motherhood.

And that whole hero thing—I don’t trust that either.

Are people really that pure-intentioned?

Although, I don’t have to wonder why I’m having erotic thoughts about him rubbing froyo all over my breasts.

That part’s pretty obvious. He’s six feet of overprotective muscle with a chiseled jaw shaded by dark stubble and a hint of a tattoo peeking out from beneath one of his sleeves. The guy could be on the cover of a romance novel.

I toss my laptop to the side and tiptoe to the door to the next room to peek in.

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust enough to see that the baby’s swaddled in a blanket and snoring softly on the floor, West just a few feet from him, long body stretched out, one arm under his head, his breath slow and even.

I don’t actually believe he’s sleeping. Even with the light so dim, I swear I can tell that he’s too tense to be sleeping.

And he’s positioned himself between Remy and the door to the hallway, so if anyone tries to come in in the middle of the night, they’ll trip over him first.

Seriously.

What kind of guy would do this? Stay with a baby that isn’t his, but still needs him?

I shake my head and chalk it all up to utter weirdness that’ll make more sense in the morning, pull the door mostly shut, and head back to bed, stripping out of my shirt and panties. Why have nice bedding if you can’t rub your whole body against it?