Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(52)

It’s the first thing I’ve ever been proud of.

I love having fun. Love partying. Love meeting new people. Love shopping and yachting and skydiving and skiing. But watching my employees utterly light up when a deal they’ve worked so hard on all falls into place? Being there when they tour a new hotel under construction and see firsthand what their hard work is leading to?

That’s a part of my life I can’t see giving up either.

And it’s not like I can just walk into another real estate office and offer to be a vice president.

Who would take me seriously?

No one.

“Fine,” I agree. “Two days a week. But just so you know, I’ll be back to five days a week and traveling within a month. The Rodericks are going down. And I’m going to rock motherhood like it’s never been rocked before.”

“No pictures with Remington on the internet either, Daisy. He’s the next generation in this family. Always remember that.”

I rarely wonder why my mother gave my grandmother the bird, walked away from her own inheritance, and went into penis art. It’s pretty fucking obvious.

Right now, I’m tempted to flip her the bird myself.

But seeing as I can’t even change a diaper right, I’m in no position to pack Remy up and jet off to a private island where he can grow up wild and free to be whatever he wants.

I hang up with the Graminator just as West knocks at my office door. “Ready? He needs a bath.”

Fuuuuuuck. “Are you my grandmother’s spy?”

He pins me with a look that says I’ve lost my marbles, and possibly that he’s insulted to boot. “Your grandmother is the Antichrist.”

“She likes you.”

“I’m not into cougars. Especially the undead ones.”

It’s not often I try not to laugh, but I have this horrible feeling that letting him see how amused I am by his joke is a terrible idea. I can’t see him working for my grandmother either, but I do honestly believe she likes him, which is the most disconcerting thought I’ve had in my entire life.

“You okay?” West asks.

I reach for Remy, who’s squirming and making that pinched-up face that suggests he’s not happy about something, and it’s now my job to determine exactly how to make him happy.

I want to make you happy, baby Remy. I do…

I just don’t know how.

“Totally fine,” I tell West. “Just missed this little guy.”

It’s the weirdest truth. I did miss him.

And I don’t know how I’m going to get through taking care of him all night tonight, but I’ll make it or fake it.

It’s what I do.





Twenty-Three





West



For the rest of the week, I only see Daisy at designated handoff times, which are usually first thing in the morning or right after office hours.

She doesn’t send Remy through any of her staff, but instead, delivers him to me herself with updates about how fussy he’s been, how much formula he’s had, when he last napped, and what new legal proceedings the Rodericks have started.

By mid-week, I start to understand how she’s so successful. There’s not a single handoff where I don’t feel like I’m not getting the better end of the deal—even the handoff late Friday where she informs me that social services wants to schedule an appointment to make sure we’re providing a safe, healthy environment for Remy—and she does it all with a smile that makes me feel like I’ve just been blessed by the sun.

I finish the gym renovation job, and I try to not obsess over the fact that I cannot shake the image of her pulling off her wet tank top in the pool, while reminding myself that keeping things platonic between us is best for the baby.

And for me.

And for her.

I have no idea if she obsesses over me while she’s there, because I can’t read minds, and even if I could, I don’t see her enough to try brain-reading.

That’s what we’re doing.

We’re living together, but separately, because she asked me to be here to lend credibility to her mothering skills.

It’s fucked up, but we’re falling into a routine, all while I remind myself not to get attached and somehow miss her all at the same time.

My family texts every day for updates. Becca texts once to ask if there’s anything else she can drop off for us.

The Graminator—yes, I’ve started calling her that too—drops by late Friday. Or so I’m told by the housekeeper. Imogen Carter apparently doesn’t want to see me any more than I want to see her, and the more I think about it, the weirder I feel about Daisy’s assertion that Imogen likes me.

Or her accusation that I’d actually work for her grandmother.

I’m ignoring that and concentrating on what I need to do for Remy first. I swear he changes every day. He’s smiling more. Cooing more. Pooping more.

His legs are losing that bow-legged look that my sisters tell me is a side effect of being folded up in the womb for so many months before birth, and his thighs are starting to chunk out.

His hair is thinning in back, where he lays on his head for fourteen hours a day.

Daisy took him to the doctor after finding his medical records and discovering he was overdue for his two-month checkup.