Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(16)

The baby.

Oh, the baby.

His skin is so smooth and soft-looking, his eyes mildly panicked like he knows his mama’s gone, and his little hands are waving about like he’s trying to grasp onto something but doesn’t know how.

And I want to love him.

I want to love him and promise him he’ll be fine and that I know what I’m doing, except I can’t.

Who gives me a fucking baby?

West slowly transfers the infant to me, the back of his hand brushing the top of my arm and making me shiver, but he doesn’t stop. It’s like he has no idea that the mere thought of holding Remy is making me both freak out and go all twitterpated.

What if I drop him?

What if he’s allergic to my soap?

What if he thinks my boobs have milk in them?

I sink back down onto my bed as the squirmy little human flings a dimpled hand at me.

He’s light as a feather and seven gazillion times more fragile. But as soon as I have a firm grip on him, holding his sweaty little body against my breast, I start bouncing and whispering shh like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And he stops fussing. Stops crying.

Just snuggles in, a little bundle of pure innocence that has chosen me.

My breath catches, and I stare down so West can’t see my face.

Babies?

So not in my life plan. I work hard so I can play hard. Make a deal in Madrid, then head to the Canary Islands for a wild three-day fling with a Spaniard. Start talks in Rio, then dash down to Antarctica for a South Pole polar plunge on a dare that costs some actor or Greek shipping magnate a hefty donation to charity and ends with a big, burly Viking warming me up in bed.

Coming home to the husband and three-point-two minions?

My genes aren’t really built for the whole solid family thing.

I used to think it was the money, except it’s not. Money’s a symptom. Not the root cause.

We’re a judgmental lot of assholes.

Performance determines worth.

And I never wanted a child to feel like an accomplishment.

Feel accomplished, yes.

Be someone else’s accomplishment—like I am to my father—no.

And much as I love my mom, she, too, puts her self-worth directly in line with how well her art sells.

But holding this baby while he snuggles in close?

It’s making me feel weird protective things that I was never supposed to feel but can’t stop. Like I would move the entire fucking earth to keep him happy.

I wonder if Julienne felt those things about him, or if she was as screwed up as the rest of us?

West is watching me, something both soft and protective as hell flashing over his features, and my nipples pebble and remind me that I’m not wearing a bra under this shirt.

“Thank you for your help last night,” I say quietly, my gaze darting down again.

“People should help people.”

It’s a simple sentiment, but it gives me more horny shivers in the vajayjay. My emotions are a wreck right now.

I don’t like wrecked emotions, so I tell them to shape the fuck up.

“I don’t know why Julienne tangled you up in this mess, but Remy and I will be fine.”

I hope.

Even if I figure out how to take care of a baby, there’s still the Rodericks to deal with. They’ll undoubtedly challenge the will, which is dumb, because I don’t think either of them cares about anything beyond money and stature.

Anthony Roderick would probably sell his wife for a million bucks and controlling share in a whiskey distillery, and Margot Roderick honestly believes neither her husband nor her son could do any wrong, when they’re both what my mother would call philandering assholes.

Just thinking about them makes me want to buy out six florists today and make sure everyone all across Little Havana gets a free flower. It’s how I get balance from the ugly parts of my life—by spreading love bombs across Miami.

“You’re almost out of formula,” West says gruffly.

Of fucking course I am. But I smile at him. “Got that covered.”

I press a kiss to Remy’s head because I need to look away from the man whose temper is rising so fast that he’s making me sweat—who knew I was a sucker for the overprotective type?—and oh my god.

This baby.

He’s so sweet.

He’s cuddling closer and closer, smelling like peach fuzz and baby sweat, which shouldn’t be addictive to sniff, except it is. And his hair—he has this thick black hair that’s so fine and soft, it could probably be sold on the black market for a special new kind of cashmere.

Not that I’d do that to him.

But I know enough unscrupulous people who would.

My door bangs open.

West spins into a crouch, flinging himself between me and my visitors. “Out!” he orders Alessandro, who crosses his arms and lifts a brow.

I should be trying not to grin right now, but West just basically put his life on the line in issuing orders to my head of security without looking first.

Except having someone who’s not paid to protect me put himself in the line of fire is volcanic on the hotness scale, and there’s nothing funny about that.

“Your grandmother’s on her way,” Alessandro tells me.

He eyeballs West.

West eyeballs him right back.

“You staying?” Alessandro demands.