Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(40)

On any other man I’d call them hazel with personality.

On him, they’re magic.

“That cat is puking up hairballs up and down the hall,” he informs me.

“Huh. We’ll have to send him back.”

He shoves his fists into his eye sockets. “That much puke means he’s sick. He needs to see a vet.”

I know, and I’ve already made a mental note to call the vet who sometimes checks in on Steve and ask for a house call. “You take me very seriously.”

“You—you’re wearing that backpack backwards.”

“I like it better this way.”

“I left you a schedule this morning. I’m busy until five, and you get the overnight shift.”

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“It’s called alone time, and some of us need it.”

“Did you get a lot of alone time in the Marines?”

“Yes.”

“Did you really go on a date with a woman once who only wanted to ask you to video call your brother? I swear Becca mentioned that yesterday.”

He mutters something about being a martyr and hoping Julienne and Rafe are rotting in hell—at least, that’s my interpretation—while he shoves to his feet and stalks toward the door.

Remy and I join him.

Cam, Emily, and Luna are all busy today either having sexytimes with their soulmates or saving the world at charity events. My housekeeper and personal assistant don’t work on Sundays. Neither does the pool boy, who’s actually a woman who runs Pool Boy Maintenance—she mostly hires eye candy to service rich cougars in the area, but I get her personally, since she’s freaking awesome and can handle everything from unbalanced pool pH to rescuing armadillos that fall in the pool, which only happened that one time in the dick pool, but I was still grateful.

I could grab Alessandro and head to the village, but my face hasn’t yet recovered from that theoretical boxing match with a lobster, so I’m homebound.

West turns into the Strawberry Daiquiri suite, which is his assigned bedroom suite for the duration of his stay. It doesn’t look lived in at all, despite all the stuff he brought over yesterday.

Clearly his Marine training is still with him.

Or maybe he’s plotting an escape from the room that Alessandro says has Pepto Bismol-colored walls.

Yes, yes, I should’ve given him the Pi?a Colada suite. It’s much more masculine with its off-white walls and coconut chairs.

But that wouldn’t have been as much fun as pushing his buttons.

You don’t really know a person until you know them under stress. And since I’m going to be living with him for a while, I really should know how he handles stress.

It’s for the good of the baby.

Seriously.

Also, I have a very good feel for when I’ve pushed someone too far after years of walking the line with my grandmother. Plus, knowing what stresses a person out helps me figure out how to do them favors that are better than arranging super-awkward group dates where I have allergic reactions to seafood.

So far, the only favor I can see that West needs is alone time, which isn’t helping me figure out how to really pay him back at all.

“Can’t you go read a book or something?” he says when we follow him into the suite.

“I can’t read.”

He swings around and looks me straight in the eye at that.

I blink coquettishly.

And his lips twitch.

Just the briefest amount, but I made the big bad Marine construction guy smile.

High fucking five to me.

I’ll dance about this later. Right now, I’m not sure Remy’s secure enough in this backwards backpack for me to risk it, which is unfortunate.

I love dancing.

“All these people are sending baby presents,” I tell West. “I shouldn’t open them alone.”

“So call your grandmother.”

He shoots. He scores. And I shudder before I catch on to the fact that he’s razzing me right back.

“She says the Rodericks are claiming there’s video evidence that Julienne and Rafe made their will while they were drunk, so their previous will should take precedence. They also claim I’m an unfit mother, and we’ll probably be getting a call about a visit from social services as soon as the office opens tomorrow. Just so you’re in the loop.”

He studies me again the same way he did yesterday at the pool when I got back from my little field trip to the hospital. “What does their previous will say?”

“According to my grandmother, something about their future hypothetical children being raised by Benedictine monks in the Italian foothills.”

His lips flatten for a moment before he lifts his head to the ceiling. “Why?” he mutters to himself. “Why do I keep falling for this?”

“Hate to break it to you, Westley, but that is literally what their previous will said. They made it while they were drunk on their honeymoon, which I know only because I keep security cameras on my yacht, which will actually make the Rodericks’ legal challenge more difficult if both wills were made while drunk. Also, they stole-borrowed my yacht for their honeymoon. Google it. That’s how Julienne became a trash blogger. She started by one-starring my ship for daring to—gasp—rock on the sea.”

He’s shaking his head and muttering again as he heads into the walk-in closet.