Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(66)

And now I’m intrigued. “Like snorting coke with drug lords bad, or like this kind of bad?” I half-close one eye, tilt my head, and stick my tongue out and try to lick my nose while scrunching one cheek and shoving a finger into my ear.

When I blink back to normal, he’s closed his eyes and is taking a long, deep breath.

Huh.

He’s not wearing a shirt.

That’s lovely. And it’s a testament to how good of a friend and mother I am that I didn’t notice before now.

Okay, I’m lying.

I noticed.

I just didn’t get a chance to look closely at all the intricate inkwork until he closed his eyes.

“The second,” he grits out.

Is he—oh. My.

He is.

He’s sporting morning wood in those gray sweatpants while fuming about tabloid stories.

Despite my best bad photo face.

Or because of it?

The many facets of Westley Jaeger are fascinating.

I snap my focus back to his face before he opens his eyes and claims this is my one chance to hit on him today. “Where’s Remy?”

“Having breakfast with Alessandro.”

I fling open my balcony doors and step outside to drop into the fluffy butter-yellow love seat by the wide window overlooking Biscayne Bay and tuck my legs underneath me, then pat the cushion beside me where I’d normally stretch my legs out. The ever-present sound of rolling waves greets me like an old friend, as does the scent of salt water and flowers. We’re due for a nasty storm tonight—borderline tropical strength—and the wind’s heavier, the sky darker than normal. “Sit. Relax. I can solve this.”

He follows me out. “I’m not having Remy grow up with his pictures plastered all the fuck over trash rags.”

If he doesn’t stop talking, I’m not going to stop swooning. “Sit.”

He glares, but he sits. Glances around quickly. His eyes linger on my bed just inside the door, with the covers tossed willy-nilly everywhere behind the gauzy bed curtains because I am so not a make-your-bed type person.

Which probably annoys the hell out of him, except when he snaps his face back to the bay, there’s something more intriguing than irritation in the way his Adam’s apple bobs.

I shift on the love seat until I’m right next to him, then go up on my knees and settle my hands on his shoulders. “Relax. Being pissed never solved anything.” I knead my thumbs into the tight muscles, which tighten even harder before he gives up and lets his shoulders slump.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says gruffly.

“I shouldn’t help you relax before the social worker gets here? Because angry bull in a china shop is exactly the attitude you want her to see, right?”

“They have a picture of you in the ER from your shrimp reaction too.”

“Like anyone in the world hasn’t seen me in a bad picture. Please. I own the hell out of the shitty photos. They’re my gift to the people in the world who are having a craptastic day.”

He doesn’t reply.

Possibly because I’m digging my thumbs into a huge ball of tension behind his right shoulder blade.

“I’m calling and making you an appointment with Tiny as soon as you concede that I’m right and everything is going to be fine,” I inform him.

“Tiny?”

“My massage therapist. She’s six feet of pure magic when it comes to working out kinks.”

“I’m not using your massage therapist.”

“Shh. Trust me. It’ll change your life.”

“My life’s changed enough lately. And those pictures of you in the ER are going to be used to call into question how sober you were and if you put Remy in danger.”

“Westley. Quit being more difficult than you have to be. The ER drew blood. I can prove it was an allergic reaction, which could happen to any parent.” Oh, god. It could, couldn’t it? Will we lose Remy because I’m allergic to shellfish?

Wait. No. That doesn’t make sense. If being allergic disqualified you as a parent, then my mom couldn’t be a parent either.

Except her allergy developed as an adult too.

Fuck. Fucksticks.

Okay. Not going to worry about it.

I knead deeper, because his head is lolling to one side, and one of us needs to be relaxed in a couple hours.

It clearly won’t be me. “And I’m on baby duty tonight. Tiny can be here anytime I ask her to. And it’s not like you have plans after work, so take the fucking massage and say thank you.”

“Is this supposed to be making me relax?”

“Don’t even pretend it’s not working. I can feel your rock muscles becoming merely bouncy ball muscles. I might not be as strong as Tiny, but I have magic fingers, and you can’t deny it. You want more. You know you do.”

“Not even seven AM, and you’ve hit your one come-on for the day.”

Dammit. “That was not a come-on. That was an opportunity of a lifetime. Do you know how many people Tiny can see in a day? Six. Maybe eight if she skips her workout routine and tosses back a double Red Bull. Which means you’re like eight out of the three hundred million people in the country who could see Tiny today. You’re blessed, Westley. Still waiting on that thank you.”

“Do you ever stay focused?”