Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(48)

“Not it?”

Shit. Now I’m being a shithead. But if she’s serious—if she wants to raise this baby—then it’s about time she gets a real taste for what she’s in for. “He didn’t pass gas, and I’m not it.”

“What are you—” Her lip curls and her nose wrinkles as the scent of a baby’s finest byproduct finally hits her.

I still haven’t taken my finger off my nose, because this is a time-honored Jaeger tradition that started when my first niece was born thirteen years ago. “Like I said, not it.”

“Oh my god, what is that?” She flies to the window and flings it open, waving a hand as the cool breeze off the ocean rolls into the room.

“Apparently the kind of diaper you haven’t had to change yet.”

She’s still fanning her nose, her eyes—which are a brilliant green today—wide and twitching at the edges. Either she’s trying to force them into submission to telegraph that she has this under control, or the scent coming out of Remy’s diaper is about to kill her.

“This explains everything.” She inhales, coughs, and fans her face again. “He’s the chosen one. He has the power. His butt is a bioweapon, and my grandmother wants to harness it for the power of taking over the world with her undead army.”

Despite not wanting to, I grin. I can’t not. She’s hilarious. “My sisters tell me breastmilk poop is different than formula poop.”

“Don’t take this from me, Westley. He’s the chosen one. His butt hath declared itself so. I bow before greatness. Remington Nathaniel Roderick, I am your humble servant. Please be kind and merciful, sir.”

Utterly outrageous. I choke back a laugh. “Congratulations, Aunt Daisy. You’re up.”

She straightens and squares her bare shoulders. “Damn right. Hand him over.”

In those stilettos, she’s almost as high as my chest. There’s no evidence of the lingering rash from her seafood reaction the other day, which either means she has killer makeup, or she has magic fast-healing skin.

She’s also really fucking hot when she’s marching into battle.

We’ll slay for you, your holy sexiness, my balls crow.

She leans into me again, her hands brushing my arm and chest. My cock twitches. My mouth goes dry. And no amount of foul diaper in the world could keep me from wanting to touch her cheeks to see if they’re as soft as they look.

But she’s off-limits. I told her so, and she’s not trying to hit on me this morning, and the only reason she’s next to me is to pick up Remy.

Whom she’s pulling close despite the diaper that’s overflowing. “Thank you. I’ve got him from here. See you around six.”

Fuck.

I’m dismissed.

By a woman who’s braving the diaper of doom, which is the last thing I’d expect from the Daisy Carter-Kincaid of the tabloids.

This woman—she has more layers than I want to admit. Than I should admit.

I brush a thumb over Remy’s forehead. “Later, kiddo. Be good for Aunt Daisy.”

Leaving is the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. But I have to.

Noooooo, my nuts wail as I head out to my truck. I need to get over and check on the beach house, plus grab a few more things before hitting the gym for what will likely be my last week on the job there.

My phone rings as I’m firing up the engine. I’ve been ignoring most of the family group texts—other than to reiterate that none of my family should fly down, that we need “time to adjust” before they invade—but I can’t ignore phone calls.

And though there’s over a decade between Tyler and me, he’s still the only brother I have.

I answer through the truck’s speaker system and hit the road. “What are you doing up this early?”

“Haven’t been to bed yet,” he replies happily. “Win like we did last night, it’s party central all night long. Morning skate’s gonna be a bitch.”

I smile. Miss the little fucker. “What you get.”

“Dude. Level with me. You okay?”

“Just fine.”

“What’s Becca think of all of this?”

My shoulders hitch, but I make them relax and wave to a lady out for a jog along the perfectly landscaped Bluewater golf cart trail. “Becca’s dating someone.”

There’s a beat of silence. Doesn’t take much to picture my little brother smothering a not-surprised laugh.

Our sisters like to tell me I’m romance novel fodder—but, West, usually it’s the GIRL who has all kinds of bad dates.

“Ah, fuck her,” Ty finally says. “Shit. Shit. West. Dude. Tell me you’re not falling for Daisy. Don’t go there, man. You know better. Fuck. We’re not in Miami for another couple weeks. I can’t come kick your ass. Fuck.”

“I’m not falling for Daisy.” On purpose.

She’s hard to not like. Even when I’m frustrated with her for any number of things, she’s so—so—fun.

If there wasn’t the complication of Remy, I could honestly see myself letting loose and having fun with her.

But ultimately, I want to settle down. She never will.

“Westley.”

“I’m not falling for Daisy,” I repeat. “The legal situation—I shouldn’t have ever been named in that will, and everyone knows it. But dude—that kid—his parents died. His paternal grandparents are nutcases who think he’d be a possession, not a person. His great-grandmother is—Daisy jokes she’s an immortal dark being, which doesn’t feel too far from the truth. Best I can tell, she’s his most sane immediate relative. Daisy Carter-Kincaid. She’s the sane one.”