Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(15)

He mutters something under his breath.

Remy wails.

“Never mind,” he says.

I almost offer to take Remy, but I’ve never actually held a baby before.

I’ve squealed over plenty. Made googoo eyes and baby-talked and booped their little noses and kissed their little heads.

But I haven’t held a baby.

I need to.

Soon.

But as long as West’s here, I don’t have to, and so I’m putting it off until I’m well-rested.

Yep.

That’s my story.

“Ten minutes,” I call to him.

Maybe I can’t hold a baby, but I can work miracles.





Seven





Daisy



Friday morning, I’m yanked out of a dream by a loud, weird wailing in my ear. I’m disoriented and tangled in a sheet of doom that I apparently twisted myself into overnight, and as the remnants of the dream evaporate, I realize I’m not alone. I try to bolt upright, almost fall off the bed, and stick my head straight into the crotch of a tall, burly man who smells like baby powder and coffee.

There’s a man.

Standing beside the gauzy curtains of my four-poster bed in my dollhouse bedroom.

And he’s holding out a crying baby.

Oh, fuck.

I have a baby.

“He’s been fed, changed, and burped,” the tree trunk announces over the sound of the baby’s cries. “Baby books say he needs tummy time, but no television. You’re up, princess. Watch his head and neck. He’s still too little to sit up on his own, and I need to get to work.”

I blink away the crustiness in my eyes and try to make him come into focus. “Who are you?”

“Nobody important. Just a dude who watched a baby overnight.”

Nobody important.

Not likely.

I know exactly who he is, and that dream that evaporated comes flying back into my head like a runaway locomotive.

Which is eerily symbolic of everything that was just going down in my dreams, which West was unfortunately starring in, this time in a train conductor uniform, which was sexier than you might think.

“You’re…leaving?”

He sighs. “He’s your cousin’s kid. Not mine. There’s not a single logical reason she’d put me in her will, and there’s not a single logical reason for me to stay.”

Panic swells under my breastbone and flops around like a grouper in the sand. “I don’t know anything about babies,” I blurt.

“You can afford help.”

“But it takes time. There’s a vetting process. I can’t just hire the first nanny off the street.” It’s the rich kid version of street smarts. Don’t hire anyone you haven’t vetted, and make everyone sign an NDA.

Oh, fuck.

I didn’t ask West to sign an NDA. I wonder if the Graminator did.

Probably.

I bat my eyelashes.

He rolls his eyes. “Four sisters. That doesn’t work.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“Don’t insult me either.”

The clock hands on the ivory wall across from my bed tell me it’s almost eight AM.

Our little incident happened around three AM. I had him a rocking chair by three-fifteen—and I owe my housekeeper a case of strawberry Pocky to thank her for that, since it’s Lucinda’s favorite treat ever.

However, I don’t think I’ll be thanking anyone for the fantasy fuel that was listening to West sing Remy lullabies until around four.

He’s cradling the baby one-armed and wearing the same clothes he arrived in—jeans and a blue polo—but his beard seems thicker and his eyes—which I swore were honey-brown last night but are now a deep-set green under his thick brows—are definitely more world-weary.

He works construction. Without air conditioning. Swinging a hammer in the Miami sun, wiping sweat off his forehead, bare-chested, and tipping his head back to enjoy a Diet Coke while the office ladies across the street gawk, and god, if I’m having bare-chested fantasies of a man holding a baby before coffee, then this co-parenting thing is an awful idea.

That’s probably why Julienne did it.

Because she thought it would be hilarious to imagine me raising an infant with a retired Marine with the body of a god and the soul of a saint and the sense of humor of—well.

I’m not sure I’ve seen his sense of humor yet.

Unless this is it. You’re up, Daisy. I’m going to stand here and laugh my ass off while you try to figure out how to change a diaper.

My phone rings somewhere amidst all the fluffy covers—my grandmother’s ring tone, that Half-Cocked Heroes song about the devil calling—and Remy bursts into a harder wail.

West smirks. “Hands full today, Ms. Carter-Kincaid?”

“Daisy, if you please. Seeing me naked doesn’t mean this has to get formal. Hand me that baby. We’ll be fine.” I double-check that I’m not naked and mentally high-five myself when I realize I’m wearing my oversize Sober is a Four-Letter Word T-shirt.

Present from Emily last Christmas.

I love my friends. They get me.

And since I’m decent, I throw the covers back, find my phone and silence it, and then peek over at Remy, ignoring that tempting scent of coffee lingering on the man holding the baby.