Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(50)

Which didn’t happen, but it’s what West expects to hear, right?

Plus, it makes me sound like a vapid shopaholic with no redeeming qualities, which I’m sure helps him immensely since he’s tilting his head the way he does when he’s concentrating and looking at me like he’s concerned about me as a person, and we can’t have that. He and I need to get along on superficial terms.

Not on Are you okay? terms.

Are you okay? terms are dangerous for the heart. And connections. And he’s made it clear I’m not welcome in the heart region.

Fine by me. I don’t let anyone in my heart region either.

He was completely and totally right when he said we needed to not get involved, and I owe him this much.

Besides, I have a bigger issue to worry about.

Namely, how the fuck I’m going to actually do this mothering thing.

As soon as West and Remy disappear, I fly up the stairs to my room and change into body armor.

Also known as my ivory business suit.

I hate the ivory business suit. It’s so…so…so much like what The Dame wears every day.

But it’s necessary. So are the pearls. The diamond brooch from my paternal great-grandmother. The pantyhose. Pantyhose. I’m wearing fucking pantyhose and the boring-ass please-don’t-ever-fuck-me pumps.

Seriously.

They’re more effective than a chastity belt.

I also call Emily and beg her for Derek to do my hair. She declines—politely, which of course I expected, since Derek only does her hair—but she also gets me an emergency last-minute appointment with Maxim, her other favorite stylist who’s actually a real stylist, and not just a trained-at-home dude who uses his skills to seduce his woman.

My friends’ significant others are all super hot in super weird ways that I never would’ve expected, and I love them all, which I can do, because it’s friend-love, and not love-love.

I take a selfie and send it to Cam—queen of the business suit, whose ass I will never be able to compete with—and she assures me that once I’ve had my hair done, I’ll look so professional that even the professionalist professional wouldn’t realize my favorite pastime is doing body shots off baseball players.

I text Luna just because there’s something about her that always makes me feel one with the earth, and I need to borrow some of her pure, awesome Luna energy.

And two hours after I hand off Remy, I’m strolling across the velvet carpet lining the marble floor of the high-windowed gallery in The Dame’s castle—I mean home—toward her office in the east wing. Framed paintings of flamingoes, monkeys, crocodiles, and poodles—don’t ask—line the opposite wall and watch me like they know I’m a total poser.

You only have money because you have your family name behind you, the flamingo mocks.

You’re going to fail this baby test, the poodle sniffs.

And here I thought I got lots of sleep last night.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need less sleep so the animals in the portraits won’t talk to me anymore.

I knock once at the massive double doors then twist the wrought-iron handle. “Evening, Grammykins. We need to talk.”

Except my grandmother isn’t in her office.

“Miss Daisy?” One of her security team peeks into the room behind me, and I school my features behind one of my normal smiles, like everything’s just fine.

“Barry. Hi. How’s the baby?”

His dark face splits in a grin, and he whips out his phone to flip through a slideshow of the second most adorable baby on the planet.

“Aww, look at those curls! Mimi recovering okay?”

“She’s amazing.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. Do you happen to know where my grandmother is?”

“On her way to Japan, Miss Daisy.”

Oh, fuck. I forgot about Japan.

And there goes a mini panic attack in my stomach. It feels like there’s a jousting match going on between my liver and my appendix.

I should be on that plane to Japan, because I can’t even change a diaper and feed a bottle right.

How the fuck can I raise a baby?

Barry smiles knowingly. “That lack of sleep gets you every time, doesn’t it? They’re worth it though.” He claps a meaty hand to my shoulder and squeezes, and for a split second, I want to ask if he wants two babies.

Which of course I won’t. Because there’s another entirely different swell of panic rising at the thought of not seeing that gummy smile ever again.

I’m a total mess.

And I need people. And work. And for someone else to hire a nanny. And preferably for me to not have to have West around to witness my complete and utter failure at this motherhood thing.

Because I realized something today.

My grandmother didn’t call me to chew me out about West telling her we were married.

He’s my grandmother’s spy.

I smile at the security guard. “Thanks, Barry. You let me know if the Gramigenarian isn’t paying you enough.” I wink, he chuckles, and tells me to take my time and snag a nap here before I go home if I need it.

I might actually need it, but more, I need to talk to my grandmother.

It’s a long drive back to my house. Alessandro, who normally keeps his cool during everything, flips off three drivers and cuts six more off in the horrible Miami traffic, like maybe he’s channeling my mood. He tells me he’s not getting the spy vibes off West, but he could be wrong. But finally, with just barely enough time before I’m due for my next shift with Remy—god help me—we get back to my house.