Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(49)

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t get attached, West. Don’t do it. Actually, you know what? Walk away. Fucking walk away. People like Daisy—she can get all the help she needs. She doesn’t have to break you in the process.”

“She’s not going to break me.”

“You should’ve moved up here with me. The guys—lots of sisters. Lots of bunnies. We’d get you hooked up, find you a normal girl. Normal’s basically overrated, but we’d get through the awkward first date, settle down, and have kids of your own. Get you past Sierra—”

“I’m fucking over Sierra.”

“Mara,” he tosses out.

“Didn’t know she had a kid, only went out with her twice.”

“Becca.”

“Shut up.”

“Daisy.”

“Not falling for Daisy. That would be crazy.”

“Dude. I’m not saying abandon the kid, but I am saying you don’t have to wear the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore. You’re retired. You’re single. Go have some fucking fun—with someone who’s not Daisy, which is a fucking shame, because she’s basically the most fun you can have legally outside of skydiving in go-karts—and don’t apologize for it.”

I’m gripping the steering wheel too tight. The ocean view, the palm trees, the Miami skyline—none of it is soothing and tropical and relaxing right now. “How do you know Daisy’s fun?”

“I read the gossip rags. Berger got me hooked on them. Fucker’s a celebrity gossip junkie. Also, Mom’s booking a ticket to fly down.”

“No.”

“You need someone there to protect you from yourself.”

“I’m not getting attached.”

“Sure. If you say so.”

I’d be pissed that he’s calling me a liar if I didn’t know he was right. “And there’s no reason for Mom to get attached. This legal stuff—”

“Go on and keep telling yourself that’s your reason you don’t want us there. But that’s what family’s for. For being there when the shit hits the fan.”

“There’s no shit. Swear to god, there’s no shit. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Worried about you, bro.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Except all day, while I’m working, I keep thinking about Remy.

His wide yawn. The way his dark eyes cross as he’s falling asleep on a bottle. The way he shouts when he waves his fist in front of his face, like he’s telling it to go somewhere but can’t figure out where. Those moments when he stares into my eyes like he’s trying to tell me something, and he wants me to confirm that he’s right.

And then I think about Daisy.

Her legs wrapped around me. The smile on her face when she’s talking to Remy or looking at him. Her confession about how she was raised, which was less about her parents and more about how it affected her.

What would a woman with as big a personality as Daisy’s do if she believed in love?

I shake my head, because it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I’m effectively a temporary babysitter for a woman who’s emotionally unavailable.

If I let myself believe anything more than that, I’m going to get burned.





Twenty-Two





Daisy



I am in so over my head.

Remy cries for two hours straight after West leaves. He doesn’t want a bottle. He doesn’t want tummy time. He doesn’t want to read a book or take a nap or rock or go in a baby carrier or the stroller or sit on my lap.

It’s not until I change his diaper again and see the red marks on his little waist that I realize I wrapped his diaper too tight around him, and I break down in tears knowing that I hurt him, which makes him sob harder too.

We both get through it—him with a bottle, me with frozen yogurt since the baby books say you shouldn’t drink while alone with a baby—and I manage to get a little work done, as well as interview three nannies, none of whom I like.

They’re all perfectly lovely, but apparently I’m having some control issues, and I’m not ready to trust anyone else with my baby if I don’t click immediately.

Which is another conversation I need to have with myself. Or perhaps a therapist.

Remy and I also don’t get out to stroll through the village and visit with Steve the Alligator and see people, because I’m weirdly too exhausted to contemplate packing up his stroller and how I’ll handle it if he poops in public.

Also, he spends the last two hours of the evening fighting a bottle, then fighting a nap, and generally wailing his heart out. Lucinda comes in to check on us, points out that the nipple’s plugged on the bottle, tells me I’m doing a good job, and disappears like perhaps my grandmother has threatened to fire her on my behalf if she doesn’t make me learn this motherhood thing myself.

I’m going to freaking put a wooden stake through her heart and end this undead hypnotizer of the world thing she has going on.

When West gets back early evening, I somehow find it in me to force a smile and tell him we had the most fabulous day together, and wait until he sees what Remy picked out during our shopping spree.