Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(3)

I blame Anthony Roderick, because he’s one of very few people in the world who has earned the distinct honor of going on my assholes that I will never speak to again list.

“How about a three-legged alligator grandson?” I offer Mom. “I always forget when it’s my day to feed Steve at the enclave. He’d love you. He gets an extra gleam in his eye when he sees that much sparkle around the neck of the one tossing him a chicken.”

“Human grandchildren.”

“Hm. Maybe you should adopt another daughter. I always wanted a sister.”

“I know, I know. You’re busy being you. But my life is so fulfilled by you. I just want you to feel the same joy that having children brings.”

“Wow.”

“Good, right? I had the congressman’s speechwriter help me with that one too.”

I crack up.

Mom cracks up.

And then we both sigh, because this really is the saddest funeral in the world.

As soon as we leave, I’m officially detouring on the way to the office. I feel like dropping little love bombs all over Miami.

Someone should be happy.

Might as well be people looking for burgers and donuts and for their parking meters to not expire.

“Your yacht’s free for a week or two? You’re sure?” Mom glances back at The Dame, who’s also watching the masses flee her garden as she talks with Anthony Roderick.

I rarely feel sorry for my grandmother, but talking to Anthony Roderick is a fate I wouldn’t wish on a flying cockroach. “Yes. Please take my yacht. It’s feeling neglected.”

“I was planning a trip to the Bahamas before Julienne’s accident.”

“Go. Use it. Escape. Have fun. Avoid horny dolphins and fake pirate ships.”

She starts to hug me, but we both grimace, because it doesn’t matter how many billions of dollars you have in the bank, you can’t fight body odor in heat like this. Freaking heat wave. Julienne would probably one-star her own funeral.

“You’ll be okay? You won’t be…sad?” Mom asks.

“I have my besties. And Tokyo and Bali. I’m good.”

“No, honey, you’re the best.”

I smile at her.

And I get approximately eight hours to believe her.

Until everything changes.





Two





Westley Jaeger, aka a recently retired, jaded military man determined to finally get the girl, even if she’s not exactly the one of his dreams



Beach Burgers is more crowded than usual tonight. The burgers are free today. Some rich local apparently did a random act of kindness and is paying, which we didn’t know when we got here. There’s barely standing room anywhere, but a table by the window opens up for Becca and me just as our number is called. I grab the tray of burgers and shakes and stuff a twenty into the tip jar while Becca stakes our claim.

The sun’s sinking lower in the sky. Dolphins are playing in the bay. The temperature’s dropping, with the heat forecasted to break tomorrow on the heels of thunderstorms overnight. Tiki music hums through the speakers. The scent of homemade French fries wafts through the air and mingles with the salty ocean breeze.

And tonight, I’m going to ask Becca the question.

We went to high school together in Chicago a lifetime ago. When I landed here in Miami after retirement this past June, and finally joined social media, I discovered she was living here too, divorced with two kids. I reached out, and we’ve been hanging out these past four months.

She has a funny laugh, her girls are great, and she’s currently wiping the table with a disinfectant cloth from her stash in her bag.

Is she perfect?

No, but what woman is? What person is?

Thought I found perfection once before, and I couldn’t have been more wrong.

But I’m pushing forty. Ready to move past the heartbreak—and military commitment—that’s hamstrung me the last several years, settle down, and live the rest of my life with what makes it worthwhile.

Family.

I grab extra napkins from the ketchup stand and weave through the beach bums and locals waiting in the rustic shack to the yellow-painted picnic table for two at the window, my heart ticking up a familiar rhythm.

Anticipation.

Except this isn’t anticipation for a military mission, which is something that faded over the years too.

Now, it’s anticipation for my life.

I set the tray on the table and climb onto the bench seat, my pulse steadily ramping up. Despite the view of the beach sunset, Becca’s bent over her phone, her strawberry blond hair lifting in the light breeze coming off the bay, her delicate fingers scrolling quickly across the screen. “Oh my god, West, did you hear about Judgy Julie?”

“Who?” I tell my heart to chill. Becca’s a safe choice. Attractive. Stable. Probably doesn’t want any more kids, and that’s okay. Can’t have everything in life.

“Judgy Julie. Julienne Carter-Roderick. The woman who one-starred you for refusing to take a wall out to put that giant marble fountain in her baby’s nursery?”

“Ah. Right. Judgy Julie. She one-star her husband or something?” Guy gave me all the dicknugget vibes, even if he did overrule her on the fountain. Mental note: I will not be a dicknugget to Becca.