Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(39)

“Did you just say chill pill?”

“I embrace all the happy words, hammer man. Doesn’t matter what decade they were popular.”

My sisters would love her.

Which is exactly what I’ve thought about every single woman I’ve ever dated.

And not a single one of those dates have ended well.

Some, in fact, have ended worse than others.

“You need to get off me,” I repeat.

“So that’s a no to working off steam?” She shrugs. “It’s because of the face thing, isn’t it? Give me ten minutes and my stylist, and you won’t know what hit you.”

“You’re not the first woman to have an allergic reaction on a date with me. You won’t be the last. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Ah, so it was a date. And with two women, you player, you. So. Tell me more about this other time you were on a date and a woman had an allergic reaction?”

“Are you ever going to get down?”

“You have nice hands. I’m not inclined to make you remove them from my ass anytime soon.”

I release her butt and lift my hands.

She doesn’t move.

“West?”

I sigh. My sisters will definitely love her. “What?”

“Thank you for being here. It was a big comfort to know Remy was taken care of while I was battling for my life.”

She leaps off me like she’s a freaking gymnast who didn’t just hide a truly sweet sentiment behind what I hope is a huge exaggeration, and turns and sashays her curvy ass to the pool house. “Is the howler in here? I need to see his cute face and snuggle him. Isn’t that weird how he barely registered in my life forty-eight hours ago, and now I can’t stop thinking about him?”

No.

It’s not weird.

But her saying it is provoking the kind of reaction that means I need a cold shower.

I already knew I was getting attached to Remy.

I don’t need my nuts suggesting we should get attached to Daisy too.

Even if watching her hold the baby is making my heart whisper that it might be too late anyway.





Eighteen





Daisy



West is avoiding me. He says he’s baby-proofing and cat-hunting, but I know he’s avoiding me. Since I got back from the hospital yesterday, we’ve spoken exactly thirty-four times, which is way less than I usually talk to houseguests.

Especially since he’s refused to take the bait to talk about anything other than Remy.

But the baby gifts are starting to roll in, and he definitely needs to see the frog urinal that the prince of St?lland sent, so Sunday evening, while Cristoff is in the kitchen muttering to himself about not being able to use shellfish in my dishes anymore, I go searching out my co-guardian again.

But first, I strap Remy to my chest with the new baby backpack that came from a former boyfriend who loves to take six-week hikes through the mountain.

I’m well aware it’s supposed to go on my back, but I don’t like not having Remy in sight.

He’s just so dang cute. And he only poops or cries when West is watching him, which means he’s basically the world’s best baby.

Three cats streak by as I make my way up the stairs to the guest wing of the house. I’ve named them Cotton Ball, Snickers, and Mr. Peabody, and I’m reasonably confident they’ll be permanent fixtures here, along with Elvira, who’s chilling in the pool on a unicorn floatie again.

“West?” I call as I make my way down the hallway and its row of arched windows overlooking the mangroves surrounding the hump in the D part of my house. “You up here?”

A muffled curse answers me from the Bahama Mama suite, so I backtrack to the mellow peach-and-yellow suite decorated with sunset pictures I’ve shot off my yacht in the Bahamas. Naturally.

The furniture is a vintage Queen Anne set that I had reupholstered with a pineapple patterned fabric, and the chandelier in the sitting room in here is my favorite—it’s a blown glass oversized drink umbrella lined with color-changing LEDs that rotate from orange to yellow to pink to orange.

I spent a fuck-ton of money to win that at an auction a couple months ago, along with a jewel-encrusted giraffe that I keep in one of my lounges. My friends thought I was crazy, but they love that about me.

Even Remy stops to stare up at it when we walk in. “Aaaooooo,” he coos like the adorable perfect little baby that he is.

“Aaaooo,” I agree.

He grins.

I grin back.

Like we’re actually communicating.

“Fucking cat,” West grunts deeper in the suite.

I follow his voice to the bedroom, where I find a picture-perfect view of his ass in black mesh shorts while he bends over and reaches under the bed.

“Get out here, you mangy beast,” he says.

“Aaaooooo,” Remy says again.

I coo back at him again and finagle us up onto the bed, then bounce.

“Aaaah!” West hollers.

A streak of black and white darts out of the room with a yowl, and my co-guardian sits back on his heels and gives me another of those looks he’s gotten so good at.

This one’s a green-eyed glare.

I am fascinated by his eyes. Mine change color because of my contacts—non-prescription, just for fun—but his, I’m certain, are a reflection of his mood.