Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(35)

Huh.

She just grew two feet taller.

That’s probably a bad sign.

Also a bad sign? That she can make me lose my temper with four words. There’s something about her haughty insistence that the world bend to her just because she wants it to that sets off all of my triggers. Who is she, really, to think she can play god?

“Mr. Jaeger, you do not issue orders around here. Speak to me like that again, and you won’t see this child again. Ever. Also, his name is Remington.”

I fold my arms and glare at her.

She folds her arms and glares back.

Daisy’s assistant is perched on the curved glass staircase behind us, leaning forward for a better angle on her phone.

Fuck. She’s recording this.

“Now,” I growl, “start over. Politely.”

“I believe we’ve already covered who issues orders in this house.”

“Daisy does. And since we got married over lunch, turns out, I do.”

Fuck. Fuck. I don’t know where the hell that came from, but it’s stupidly satisfying to see her face drain of all the blood.

Maybe this is why Daisy likes chaos so much.

There’s power in unpredictability when dealing with her grandmother.

“You did not,” she breathes.

“Didn’t we?”

She doesn’t know if she should believe me.

Lying goes against everything I was taught growing up, and everything I learned as a Marine.

But nothing about the past few days has followed the rules of life.

“Help or get out,” I growl.

“I’m not leaving until I speak with Daisy.”

The assistant is still aiming her phone at all of us. Definitely recording this for YouTube.

“That’ll be hard to do, since right after we said our vows, she had an allergic reaction to some shrimp,” I tell Imogen. “If she doesn’t make it, I’m the only hope you have of ever seeing this baby again.”

“Tiana. Where is Daisy?” she barks.

The assistant shrugs. “Last I heard, getting admitted to the emergency room. Cell reception’s spotty inside hospitals. And I didn’t catch which one, but Alessandro assured me they had real doctors on staff.”

“Daisy’s not allergic to anything.”

“She’s allergic to something, and she’s at the hospital.”

Her neck swivels until she’s aiming that apocalypse-inducing glare at me again. “You poisoned my granddaughter.”

Christ. Am I in a soap opera now? “Did you actually see your other granddaughter’s dead body, or is this all a conspiracy to ruin my life because I wouldn’t put a fountain in her fucking nursery?”

She sucks in an audible breath, and I can’t decide if I regret all those hours I spent listening to my sisters discuss Pretty Is As Pretty Does, that daytime show that my mom got them all addicted to, or if I’m having fun.

I’m probably not having fun if I have to question it.

She snaps her fingers, and a butler who was hiding behind a giant palm in the corner leaps to attention. “Yes, Mrs. Carter?”

“Pierson. Time to go.” She spears me with one last glare. “The Rodericks have filed more legal paperwork suggesting that you’re as unfit a parent as they claim Daisy is. Do not leave this house again until I say you can.”

Definitely not happening.

I have jobs to finish.

A house to check on.

And some sanity to get in touch with.

But mostly, I need to make sure Daisy’s okay.

And break the news to her that we’re married.

Christ.

I don’t know who I am today, but it’s not the same person I was when I woke up yesterday.





Sixteen





Daisy



My face is the mushy part of an overripe seedless watermelon.

I know I’m only pretty because I’m rich. My eyes are too wide-set, my mouth too big, my nose too small, and my cheeks too round. I know this. I accept this. And because I have the personality to compensate for it, it never really bothers me.

Until times like today, when I feel utterly stupid for not seeing the warning signs sooner.

The last time I had shrimp, I caught a six-hour cold and thought I’d gotten stung by a honeybee on the lip when I wasn’t watching my drink carefully out on my boat.

The time before that, I caught a rash on my face that I attributed to uneven sunscreen distribution.

But now, my entire body has revolted to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that just like my mother, I’ve developed a shellfish allergy in adulthood.

“I’m not an adult,” I whine to Alessandro while he drives us across the final bridge to my humble abode. “I’m a twelve-year-old with the mental capacity to handle business and the physical capacity to handle alcohol and this desperate need to know that Julienne’s baby is okay. But I have at least seventy-three more years before I qualify as an adult. For the record.”

He humors me with a grunt of agreement.

At least, I’m calling it agreement.

He’d probably call it frustration.

“Thank you for saving my life,” I add. “And I’m still mad at you for not letting me go show Pixie that I’m just fine.”