Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(60)

His lips quirk again in more of a smile than I’ve seen since he moved in. “I had road exhaust and a pack of peanuts.”

“Cristoff left egg rolls and chicken bacon avocado paninis in the fridge.”

His nose wrinkles. “Got any bread?”

“Probably. Alessandro is a total bread freak and I have to keep him fed if I want to stay safe.”

“Peanut butter?”

“Hello, peanut butter of the month club subscription.”

“Potato chips?”

“Westley Jaeger, you need to stop talking dirty to me if you’re not interested.”

He drops his head with a wry grin. “Fair enough. I’m gonna go fix something. Welcome to join me if you want.”

“So very kind of you to think of the poor starving heiress putting a temporary roof over your head. I accept.” I lift Remy and kiss his cheek. “C’mon, little man. Let’s go torture you with all the food you can’t eat yet.”

He whimpers when I take the book away, but I pop a pacifier in his mouth, and he settles in with a hand resting on my boob and his forehead pressed to my neck as I stand.

West’s eyes pinch like he’s in pain, but he turns and opens the door, gesturing us out, and whatever was there a minute ago is gone. “Lead on. Watch out for the cats.”

Lead I do.

With an extra swing in my hips, while I toss questions back to him about how work’s going, if he’s explored Bluewater at all, and how bad Derek, Jude, and Beck’s inquisition was of him on Sunday while I was off brunching and breaking down.

Which I don’t add, by the way, because he doesn’t need to know that. Plus, I feel like I’m getting my feet back under me, like I can do this.

I’m not surprised when he gives me short answers and turns the questions back to me. “Take over the world at work yet?” he asks while he picks through my peanut butter collection in my bright, cheery kitchen. He’s standing under copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling over the white marble island, making quick work of dismissing the fancier peanut butters I’ve laid out for the simpler organic crunchy versions.

He does the same with the bread, passing over the rosemary focaccia in favor of cracked wheat—which even I’ll admit makes sense—but when he pops open a bag of Lays and crumbles the plain potato chips over the layer of peanut butter on the bread, my eyes go wide.

“What are you doing?”

“Making the best peanut butter sandwich in the universe.”

“That—that—that’s sacrilege.”

“Thank you. By the way, major points to you for having Lays. I thought you’d have gold-crusted organic potato chips made of rare exotic potatoes.”

“Original is best.” Remy fusses on my shoulder, so I rise and bounce him until he drifts back to sleep. “And I’m serious. You can’t do that to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“Peanut butter and honey.” He lifts a jar of local honey too. “Can, did, and would do it again. The rule-breaker objects to rule-breaking? What’s going on here, Ms. Carter-Kincaid? Are you secretly craving order? Say it isn’t so.”

He’s laughing at me now, which I’ll allow, because he’s fucking gorgeous when he lets that smile loose.

Eyes crinkling. They’re honey-brown tonight, and if licking eyeballs was a thing, I’d be tempted. All of his dark stubble parts to reveal straight white teeth. Even his damp hair seems happy. And when he’s smiling, his shoulders relax, his grip on the peanut butter knife loosens, and I get a glimpse at the man he could be if he’d let go of whatever it is that’s keeping him from embracing the beauty of the unexpected.

“Fine,” I declare. “I’ll try your monstrosity, but I won’t like it.”

“Bet you one overnight shift you’ll never eat peanut butter sandwiches without chips in them again.”

“You’re on.”

I hold out my free hand, and when he takes it to shake, a warm zing slides from my fingers to my elbows.

Zings are bad news.

Not when I’m overseas, I mean. Zings signify solid potential for a fun fling when I’m at least two thousand miles from home, operating under a fake name with no chance of my mother getting ideas or my date getting attached.

But I can’t fling with West. Pretty sure he’s an all-or-nothing man, and we need to get along for the social worker next week. Or at least prove we’re independently capable of caring for a baby, along with not being dysfunctional when we’re together.

Especially since this is temporary.

I drop his hand and grab one of his peanut butter abominations.

I know, I know. Daisy, you’ll do anything! What’s wrong with a peanut butter-potato chip sandwich?

I don’t like my food to touch. Okay?

Gravy goes on potatoes and porterhouse, but not on the green beans.

I chomp into the crime against peanut butter—I mean, the sandwich—fully intending to hate it, except…

Huh.

The salt and the honey work well together.

And the crunch is—it’s like crunchy peanut butter, except…dammit.

Except better.

I narrow my eyes.

He smiles broader. My heart pounds a little faster. And I decide that if a pout will make him smile even bigger, then I’ll do it.