Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(22)

“I—yeah.”

“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me after last night, but I just thought if I could help out any—”

“No. Yeah. I mean, we’re good. And sure. Help is good.” Fuck. I can take down a man one-handed, but I can’t tell a woman to fuck off.

Probably because I was an idiot. I still think safe relationships are best, but who am I to decide that for anyone else?

Or maybe this guy is her safe relationship, and I’m chopped liver.

In any case, I don’t tell her I’m not hanging out day to day with Daisy, raising a new baby with an insta-family.

“Good. And yay! I love baby stuff. I mean, if you want help. You don’t have to take it. If you don’t want.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Ambiguous is good, right?

“Of course! My pleasure. Seriously. I got the impression you’re not at home, so I thought you might need some things dropped off?”

“I’m covered.” Because I am about to head home. “But thank you.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for. Oh, and I went through Julienne’s blog when I heard, because I know you know a ton about kids, but I thought it might be helpful to have a list of the brands she used. I mean, babies are sensitive to changes with diapers and formula—assuming he wasn’t breastfed—so I thought…”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s great. Thanks.” Why can’t I just tell her to buzz off?

“I’ll text you the list. Or I can go get some for you? Whichever. Whatever’s most helpful. And if you need a babysitter, you know where to find me. Or I could come to you. Just let me know.”

“I—yeah. I’ll let you know.”

“I really value you as a friend, West, and I know you’re probably going through some really weird stuff with the baby, so I just wanted you to know I’m here for you. Despite…last night being a little…unexpected.”

“Yeah. We’re good. Thanks, Becca.”

“Okay. Good.”

I thank her again, tell her the baby’s crying, and hang up the phone. Then I lean against the nearest wall, drop my head back, and sigh.

I should’ve just told her I wasn’t in the kid’s life. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Yep, rejected by another family, thanks for asking.

The whole fucking world is upside down.

“Problems?” Daisy asks.

I jump and turn, and there she is, in the gym’s doorway in a bright yellow sleeveless one-piece jumper thing, pulling a stroller inside.

“No,” I say curtly as my heart leaps and my balls perk up. Friendly nooner? We’re down! “What can I do for you, Ms. Carter-Kincaid?”

“Ideally, or realistically?” She grins.

I don’t.

And then she sighs. “You weren’t nearly this kind of a killjoy when we both thought you were a stripper.”

If only life could’ve stayed that simple. I’d still be hitting some dating apps today—women like Daisy don’t see me as anything other than the same temporary distraction she would’ve been for me—but at least there would’ve been a happier end to a sucky night.

“Okay, Mr. Straight Shooter, here’s the deal. Do you know anything about Anthony and Margot Roderick? Remy’s paternal grandparents?”

I just watch her, waiting, because I know it won’t take long for her to tell me what I already know.

Sure enough, not even three seconds pass before she’s talking again. “They’re basically dicks in human packaging, which means sometimes they get feelings. And currently, their feelings are hurt, as is their pride, so they’re contesting Julienne’s will. You’d think it would be a good thing that multiple family members would want the little guy, but the truth is way more complicated. Anthony Roderick thinks that having money means he should own everything he sees, and that blood means ownership, which means he thinks Remy here should be his, except he raised Rafe, who was a douche, and yes, I’m being polite because you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But the point is, if Anthony Roderick raises this baby, he, too, will turn out to be a worm, which is totally preventable, because look at this sweet face. As for Margot, without Remy, she’ll lose her will to live. Which in theory would mean that we should save her life by giving her the baby, except it’s not Remy’s responsibility to be someone’s reason to live. It’s his responsibility to be a fucking baby and grow up and test limits and be himself, rather than the mold of his dead father that his grandmother would want to turn him into. Except it’s possible all she wants him for is a vial of blood so she can take his DNA to a mad scientist to have Rafe recreated.”

I scowl, because this is ridiculous, except I don’t miss that she said we.

Merely a legal formality, I tell myself. That’s all she’s here for. Expedited paperwork.

Also, did she even take a breath through all of that?

She tilts her head. “Dude. You don’t have to like the truth for it to be the truth.”

“So the grandparents weren’t named in the will as guardians for a reason.”

“They did get fifty dollars to buy themselves a few sacks of manure. Not sure if you read far enough to see that part.”

“So you need paperwork,” I supply.