Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(36)

“Tiana took care of it.”

We turn down my seashell drive, and I frown. My eyes are still a little blurry from all the swelling and tears, but there’s definitely a big black truck parked under my porte-cochère. “Who’s here? Is that Becca?”

“That’s Mr. Jaeger’s truck.”

“Oh. Right.” Relief I didn’t know I needed floods through my limbs.

He’s still here.

Probably with Remy.

I hop out of my car as soon as it slows to a roll.

“Stop,” Alessandro orders. “You want a smashed nose to go with the rest of it?”

“I’m fine,” I retort. “And I need to check on the baby.”

I need to check on the baby.

Who am I?

It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours, and I’m all…motherly.

I fling open the door, and seven cats shriek, meow, and dart at me.

“Aaahh!”

“Mrow!”

“Meow!”

“Yaaaarrrooooo!”

I gape at the tortoiseshell cat, because is he bungee jumping from the stairs or something?

But no.

He just has a weird meow.

“What the fuck?” Alessandro says behind me.

“Oh, shit, it’s Saturday,” I whisper.

“What’s Saturday? Who authorized this? What the fuck’s going on?”

I don’t answer, but instead dash past my sunken sitting room and down the hall toward my lounges.

You can’t keep a reputation for being an epic party-thrower without having themed lounges.

Plus, I get bored easily. And I like variety when I’m hosting friends.

Acquaintances.

Same thing.

Also, I wouldn’t normally be upset about seven cats wandering around my house—we’d catch them all eventually, and if one got out, it would be very well cared for in Bluewater—except I don’t know how cats are with babies.

Or how babies are with cats.

And if this didn’t get cleared off my schedule, who else can sneak into my house?

Shit.

I need to get more responsible. Now.

“Is this like the exotic bird thing?” Alessandro says while I race toward the end of the curved hall.

“I told one of Luna and Beck’s friends who runs a cat shelter that they could do a photo shoot. What better way to find the poor sweeties their forever homes than with professional photos of cats looking adorable?” I swing into the last room, my current favorite party room, which is basically one huge room of interconnected trampolines with ball pits lining the black walls, and instead of dozens of cats bouncing on trampolines, there’s a single chubby calico meowing plaintively from the center trampoline while Luna’s boyfriend, Beck, tries to crawl carefully out to get her.

And there’s a photographer happily snapping away as the big blond bearded biker dude tries to not scare the single cat left on the trampoline.

I hold up a hand to stop Alessandro. The poor kitty looks terrified. If anyone can reach her, Beck can, but only if we don’t scare the piss out of her first.

We back out of the room, because my face could scare a shapeshifting vampire wildebeest today.

“How many cats were coming today?” my bodyguard asks.

I shrug. “Somewhere between eight and thirty?”

“Fifteen,” a breathless Tiana answers as she bustles in from the courtyard. I owe her overtime for coming in today. “We’ve caught one, if you count the one still in the trampoline room with Beck. I let them in because they were cleared by security.”

I keep waiting for the day that they both get frustrated with me and leave, but so far, I have yet to drive them to drink or quit. It helps that when my grandmother insisted I hire a security team, I picked my own head bodyguard instead of letting her have a say.

“Cute idea to photo shoot them on trampolines,” she adds. “They got some really adorable shots. At first. Until West decided to see what needed babyproofing around the house. He opened the door, and the cats took off.”

“Where is West?”

She finally looks straight at me, gasps, and she stumbles back half a step. “Maybe you should go take a nap and let us deal with the cats.”

I touch my face. “It’s still bad, isn’t it? Or is this because you don’t want to tell me where West is?”

“He’s around here somewhere. With the baby. Security’s basically been trailing him to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. And you probably shouldn’t go near the photographer again if you don’t want to end up in the National Enquirer with their proof that you’re actually an alien. He might be cleared by security, but that picture would go for a fuck-ton of money. Also, your calendar’s clear tomorrow. I can get you scheduled with Mirabella for a facial if you want.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Yes.”

Clearly, I don’t pay her to lie to me. I wince, which makes my skin hurt. “You think it’ll be better enough by tomorrow?”

“If not, Mirabella will know what to do. Even if it’s to tell you to take a few more days off. Or Emily and Luna. Someone. Somewhere. We’ll make sure you have your game face back by Monday.”

I don’t need my game face.