Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(30)

Oh, and I’m wearing a white tank top too, so while I look awesome and am showing some cleavage, I’m not likely to cause permanent eye damage like the sun would.

“Becca?” I ask, sticking my hand out to shake. “Hi. I’m Daisy. West has told me so much about what an awesome friend you are.” I tell the lie while beaming up at him and while she continues to stare at me star-struck, which is a little uncomfortable, because it’s not like I’ve cured cancer or written an earworm song, which are both equally impressive accomplishments in my book.

Also, I’m rapidly getting the feeling that the note in Gram-gram’s background check that West was dating Becca just might’ve been wrong.

Way wrong. “Oh! Looks like our table’s ready. Care to join us?”

She babbles something that sounds like a yes, and West takes her by the shoulders and steers her into the cozy restaurant with its palm frond fans and Jimmy Buffet music playing in the background, dropping his hands back to his own pockets as soon as she’s pointed in the right direction following the hostess.

They are so wrong together.

For one, she’s wearing jean shorts and a buttoned-up sleeveless blouse, which is a perfectly acceptable Miami outfit, except for the part where West himself is so buttoned-up this morning that he needs someone more like Luna.

Free-spirited with a touch of a wild side. Luna also has a huge heart, which West probably also needs. Because don’t we all? Not that you can judge a person’s heart size by what their clothes say about their personality.

But I can judge compatibility by clothes. Usually.

And my matchmaker instincts—which are admittedly rusty, since I rarely put much time into matchmaking—say these two are so wrong, and that ship has sailed.

Dammit.

Maybe all isn’t lost. Maybe I can salvage this for them. And then West will be happily dating someone, and I can mark him officially on my off-limits list for the most solid reason anyone ever goes on that list.

“You’re evil,” Alessandro murmurs to me.

“Just because I’m the byproduct of a messy divorce and have no use for commitment doesn’t mean I believe other people shouldn’t have love.”

“I don’t think what they have is love.”

I sigh, because he’s right, and now I’m going to go back to not having a solid excuse for telling myself West isn’t hot as fuck.

He and Becca are doing a funky dance around the table, each one trying not to touch the other, or even look the other in the eye, as they pick seats at the window table shaped like a fish.

A grouper, specifically.

I asked Pixie, the owner, about which fish they were once, and I can totally see the resemblance now. Plus, it’s a boxier fish, which works well for a table. So long as you don’t bump your knee or elbow on the fins.

West ends up under the tail, with Becca on top of the tail, which leaves me with the head. Alessandro parks the stroller across from me and next to Becca, then surreptitiously slips into the vacant two-person table behind Becca where he can see the whole restaurant.

“Hush puppies?” I ask my companions. “Pixie makes the best hush puppies in the universe, and then she serves them with strawberry butter, which is basically like having an orgasm in your mouth.”

Becca goes red.

West sighs. “Yeah. Hush puppies.”

“They’re out,” Chipper Bergman says forlornly from the seat beside Alessandro. “I really wanted hush puppies, but they’re out.”

A perky teenager with braces bounces to our table with a bright grin. Her parents own a luxury condo across the golf course, and she works here all summer for a place to escape.

“Good news,” she announces. “We found the batter. We’re back in business. Hi, everyone. Welcome to Fish Tails! I’m Laney, and I’ll be your server today. Hush puppies all around? And for you too, Mr. Bergman. I got you covered. You all need menus, or did Daisy already tell you what’s best? You should listen to her. She never picks wrong.”

“Flattering, but also true. I recommend the seafood bucket for you, Becca. And West, definitely try the coconut-crusted swordfish with the mango salsa. Life-changing.”

He snaps his gaze from roaming around the room and when it lands on me, his eyes narrow dangerously thin. Yes, yes, his life has already changed once in the past two days, but the more important part is, Becca should totally be salivating over him with narrowed eyes, because protective grumpy dudes with muscles are almost as sexy as dudes with babies, and West is a protective grumpy dude with muscles AND a baby.

But Becca isn’t watching him. She’s leaning over to peek at Remy.

I ignore my own disappointment and West’s glare, and I ask for a mahi-mahi sandwich for myself, plus a pitcher of Pixie’s famous mango sweet tea.

Neither West nor Becca object to my orders for them, so Laney bounces off after promising Chipper one last time that no, she’s not kidding, there is more hush puppy batter in the kitchen.

“Of course there is,” Becca says with a half-laugh, her gaze darting to West’s chin.

I kick back in my chair with the front two legs off the ground. “So how do you two crazy kids know each other?”

“We went to high school together,” Becca tells my left ear.

“In Chicago?”

Her brows furrow, and she finally makes eye contact. “You…really know a lot about West.”