Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(55)

“We can play for this.” Derek holds up a wallet, and—dammit.

Fucker lifted my wallet.

Jude grabs him by the collar and lifts. “Give it back.”

“You know I do this to all my friends.”

Now it’s Beck’s turn to clap me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club, man. Welcome to the club.”





Twenty-Four





Daisy



Mordecai’s is blurry.

Or maybe that’s my eyes making the dimly-lit bistro seem fuzzy and glowy around the edges as Emily, Cam, and Luna steer me to our usual booth in the back. Normally it’s shaped like a horseshoe.

The booth, I mean. Not the whole bistro.

Today, the horseshoe is a big blob that either looks like half a heart or a cocoon where I could happily curl up and pull a Sleeping Beauty, depending on which eye I use to look at it out of.

“Am I wearing clothes?” I whisper to Luna while I scoot in deep so I can make sweet, sweet love—in the form of sleep—to the soft cushion.

I think I whisper, anyway, but Lady Raquel, our favorite server for Drag Queen Brunch, whips around and looks me over. Today, she’s in a sequined white jumpsuit and matching white platform boots, à la The King of Rock ’n Roll, with her hair in a blue Marge Simpson ’do that looks utterly fabulous on her. Rhinestones sparkle in both her ears and nose, and I suddenly want to hug her, but I can’t, because she has at least nine inches on me and my head would basically turn into a shelf for her fabulous boobs if I did.

Plus, there’s a table between us.

“Girl, you’re a mess,” she says. “A fabulous mess—love that sequin tank, darling—but you know better than to drink the cheap stuff before brunch. Sit your tush down, and I’ll cover up that Fireball with a bloody margamosa that’ll put your whole world to rights.”

“I don’t know what a bloody margamosa is, but I want seven,” I tell her.

“She’ll have pancakes,” Cam interrupts.

“Alcohol,” I whine. “I want to part-eye.”

“Part…eye?” Emily repeats.

“I’m too tired to say part-ee.”

“Oh, honey.” Luna pets my hair, which I may or may not have combed. I can’t remember. All I remember is Remy crying because I forgot to put the powdered formula in the bottle before I fed it to him, so he just got a bunch of water, which is apparently really bad for babies since they don’t know when to stop drinking water, or so said one of those parenting books, but I can’t remember if it was the parenting book I believe or the parenting book that’s full of bullshit.

I can’t remember if I’m being a bullshit parent.

“Is it…that bad?” Emily asks.

“I am so tired I confused Lichtenstein with Frankenstein during a telecon and I couldn’t understand why we were talking about building a city center inside a fictional monster. I am so tired that I called Alessandro to have him order a chocolate-covered strawberry basket for himself for his birthday, instead of calling Tiana like I should’ve. I am so tired that I tried to brush my teeth with diaper cream this morning. Ladies. Ladies. I think—I think my TPE is drying up.”

“Your TPE?” Emily asks.

“Tight pussy energy.”

Luna winks at me. “Or maybe your TPE has never encountered this kind of big dick energy.”

“Fascinating,” Cam murmurs.

“What?” I ask.

“TPE plus BDE divided by forced cohabitation to the co-parenting power…I’m pretty sure the solution to that equation is an explosion.”

“A big explosion,” Luna agrees.

“This has nothing to do with the size of West’s dick energy. It’s all about parenting. I’m tired. So tired.”

“Is he not pulling his weight?” Cam demands. “Do I need to go talk to him? Do I need to call Jude to talk to him? Jude is super scary when he wants to be. He could make West piss himself. That’d serve him right for making you so tired.”

“No, no, he’s taken as many shite nifts—night shifts—as I have, but…like…having a baby is stressful. And not in a ruling the world kind of stressful, but in a…this little thing that can’t communicate but has needs has to have those needs met every hour of the day even when I don’t know what those needs are and when he’s not with me, I’m thinking about him, and when he is with me, I’m thinking about him, and every minute that I’m thinking about him, I’m also wondering if West is judging me for being a horrible parent and if I’m going to utterly flunk this parenting test and if my grandmother will disown me and if I’ll end up living in a cardboard regatta boat in the Everglades while panhandling with the crocodiles and pythons and raising the next Tarzan the Everglade Jungle Man. Is that a napkin or a pillow? I need a pillow. And for Anthony and Margot Roderick to disappear and drop this ridiculous challenge to the will. And for our meeting with the social worker to go amazingly well. And a pancake. Cam. How did you know pancakes sound sooooo good right now?”

“Can I oh, honey her again, or is that too much?” Luna whispers.

“Shh!” Emily hisses, and I bolt straight upright and open my eyelids as far as they’ll go, because I know that shh.