Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(61)

“I suppose it’s edible,” I sniff. “But it’s no fluffernutter, bacon, and Nutella sandwich.”

If he smiles any harder, he’s going to break his cheeks.

I flip my phone out of my cleavage and snap a pic before it disappears. “Ha! Gotcha being happy.”

“Victories are always worth celebrating.”

He doesn’t try to wrestle my phone away to delete the photo, but instead digs into his own sandwich.

His eyes slide closed, and a different smile flits across his face.

I wonder if that’s what he looks like as he’s drifting off to sleep after a sweaty romp in the sheets. Happy. Glowing. Satiated.

I set the phone aside and grab a carrot stick from the vegetable tray we found in the fridge, chomp into it, and promptly inhale too quickly and choke.

And not like fake-choke either.

I’m talking carrot lodged in my throat, dripping carrot crumbles into my lungs while I try to pound myself on the breast bone without hitting the baby.

Oh, god.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to choke on a carrot and die before I get to see Remy grow up. He’ll have to live with the heartbreak of knowing that every woman who ever tried to love him died too soon.

One killed by horny dolphins.

The other felled by a vegetable.

I try to cough, and I can’t.

My head is getting hot.

My face is swelling.

It’s like the shrimp, but worse. Sixty zillion times worse.

I’ll be the vagillionaire heiress taken down by a carrot stick.

My lungs burn. My knees shake. Oh, fuck, I’m going to drop the baby.

I am.

I’m dropping the baby.

I try to tell West to catch him, but I can’t see past the haze of panic, and I can’t talk, and I— Something hard jolts my ribs once, twice, and on the third thrust, a half-eaten carrot flies out of my mouth.

I gasp and hunch forward while the island countertop swims back into focus.

My eyes are wet, my limbs are shaking, and there’s a solid arm still wrapped around my waist.

“Daisy? Fuck. Fork. Say something.” A large, solid, warm hand rubs my back while I wheeze. “Are you okay?”

“Remy,” I gasp out.

The hand stops.

The arm tenses.

Oh, god.

I dropped the baby and killed him.

I choked on a carrot, and that sweet, innocent little bundle of smiles and baby poop is the one who paid the ultimate price.

I dropped him on his head. I silenced him forever.

I have blood on my hands.

My wheeze turns into a sob, and I spin away from West, who shouldn’t touch me, because I’m a murderer.

My pulse ramps up so hot and hard that I go lightheaded and a scream forms deep inside my head, hollering just like Remy, like that precious little boy who will never scream again, because he’s—he’s—he’s— Squirming on the island in front of me.

Wailing.

Flinging his hands around, his face beet red, his legs kicking one of his tiny socks right off.

“You didn’t die,” I gasp. I grab him and kiss his cheeks and lift him to look at him again while he squirms and wails and my eyes go hot and overflow. “I didn’t drop you. Oh my god, I thought I dropped you. I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll never choke on anything again. I’ll quit eating, and I’ll never choke on anything ever, ever again, and I won’t leave you, and I won’t ever let anything bad happen.”

I can’t stop crying.

The tears have started, and they won’t stop, and I’m standing in my kitchen making promises to my little orphan boy that I can’t keep.

I can’t promise him nothing bad will ever happen. That he’ll always be safe. That I’ll always be here.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m so sorry, sweet boy.”

Two massive arms encircle us both, and I don’t deserve them.

I don’t deserve West’s warmth. I don’t deserve Remy’s smiles. I don’t deserve peanut butter and potato chip sandwiches.

I’m a selfish asshole who parties too hard and pretends I don’t do terrible things in business because I do it with a smile and promise people they’ll be better off after they turn their buildings and land over to me, even if it’s not always as true as I want it to be.

And I do it all to make my grandmother happy, when the truth is, I can’t.

No one can make her happy.

Because you can’t make another person happy any more than I can promise Remy that I can see into the future to where we’re all one big happy family without problems or pain or conflict.

“Shh,” West says. “You’re okay, Daisy. Remy’s okay. You’re both okay.”

“Please don’t leave me,” I whimper. “I can’t do this on my own. I can’t. I’ll gut my pool house and build you whatever you want out there if you don’t want to live here in my house with us, but please, please don’t leave me to do this parenting thing alone. I can’t. I can’t. And I can’t tell my grandmother, or she’ll take Remy from me too, and I—”

“Daisy—”

“Please.”

Warm lips brush my hair. “Okay,” he whispers.

I shouldn’t trust him. I’ve been burned by people I know a lot better, a lot harder.