Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(19)

Tyler: High five, Dad. You keep sexting Mom. But leave us out of it.



West: Are you fuckers done?



Mom: Of course, honey. Though I am taking screenshots of all of this. I’m working on a new set for my show. Netflix asked for a second season. Their demographic testing shows I do well with the middle-aged set, which means I need more funny family stuff. Tyler, I also need you to show me how to do that intentional autocorrect thing with your father’s phone.



Keely: And again, let’s get back to West… *GIF of the three dudes from Three Men and a Baby* You okay, West? F

or real? They’re not talking about taking the baby away from you, are they? Or would you rather not raise him? Either way, we support you.



Britney: God, yes. Let’s talk about West AND THE REAL BABY. baby emoji See? ONE BABY. ONE BABY EMOJI. Not coming from my baby making loins. porkchop emoji Also, ditto to Keely, West. However you want to play this, we have your back.



Tyler: You need a lawyer, West? I know a guy who knows a guy.



Keely: GIF of someone popping gum and waiting for the story



West: Yes. YES. I definitely need to talk to a lawyer. But I hope this lawyer’s better than your last “I know a guy who knows a guy.” He smelled like canned baloney and only won that case because the judge got tired of his burping.



Not true, but if there’s one thing my family’s good at, it’s giving each other shit.

And given how many guys Tyler knows in the whole hockey league who’ve had to do paternity tests—which is somewhere between more guys than I knew in the Marines who had to do paternity tests and the number of times I’ve already seen Daisy bounce up and down in excitement over something—I’m going to assume his lawyer contact is reasonably competent.

And probably expensive.

And very, very ironic.

The last time I tried parenting ended spectacularly horrifically.

But I had zero legal claim that time. I was just the boyfriend. Sierra didn’t want to get married—said she’d done that once and wasn’t doing it again. But when the military ordered me to move from South Carolina to California, I thought she’d change her mind.

That she’d realize I was worth moving for.

Except it turns out, she didn’t love me that much.

I would’ve stayed just for her kids at that point. But she kicked me out. Told me to eat shit and die. And then hit on my best friend.

Wasn’t in much of a place to be a solid father figure after that.

Probably could’ve stayed and fought for her, but at what ultimate price to her and her kids?

My phone dings, pulling me back to the present. Tyler’s sending contact info for a local family law attorney.

Almost a father once with no legal claim.

Now, I have all the legal claim, but no moral reason to stay. “Just love him,” I whisper to Daisy. “Love the shit out of him.”

I had my doubts when I got here.

I had my doubts overnight.

But that soft but overwhelmed smile that crept over her face when she finally took the baby and looked down at him in her arms?

That’s not something money can buy.

My gut says that kid’s going to get the only thing I thought I could offer him.

And so I tell my family I’m bowing out—that it’s for the best—put my truck in gear, and head back out the way I came.

Past all the mansions. A golf course. Condos. Palm trees. People in colorful clothes out for jogs or walks along the golf cart trails winding along the road. A group of ladies on a patio overlooking the miniature golf course, all gossiping and holding out their pinky fingers while they sip their coffee. Glimpsing a little row of shops beyond that carved rooster near the gate.

And I head back to what I’m supposed to be doing.

Getting my footing after the Marines. Fixing up an old gym. Living life on the beach.

And apparently not having a family anytime soon.





Nine





Daisy



If it wasn’t for Lucinda, I would be falling apart. But she bustles in two minutes after Alessandro escorted West out of my room, like she wasn’t up mere hours ago hunting down a rocking chair in the middle of the night.

She holds the baby while I shower quickly, and when I’m ready to face the day, he’s sleeping peacefully in a large basket lined with a soft but thin pillow.

And so I do what I do best—I dive into faking my way through this.

I call up a personal shopper I know, explain what I need, and she assures me she’ll have a nursery arranged before dinnertime, complete with a wardrobe to get a Miami baby through the holidays. Then it’s on to searching for nannies, which is new territory, but I’ve phone interviewed three nanny agencies before ten, and have in-person meetings set with the executive directors of my two favorites.

My personal assistant shows up mid-morning with crates of diapers, wipes, and formula, and by the time I’m done interviewing the two nanny services, I feel like I have everything under control.

It helps that Lucinda’s been playing babysitter.

She has four grandchildren and adores babies, but also loves giving them back to their parents at the end of her days with them.

Apparently it’s the true joy of grandparenting. Or so she tells me.