Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(67)

“Nope.” And that’s exactly why no one ever thought I’d succeed.

Showed them, didn’t I?

Here I am. Succeeding. Behind my grandmother’s name. Panicking over raising my cousin’s baby. Going to the office every day because I’m better at faking business than I am at faking mothering.

Hashtag success.

The social worker lady is going to see right through me and we are doomed.

I wasn’t actually kidding about living in a cardboard box out in the Everglades, and it’s not because I don’t own my house outright—I do—and it’s not because I didn’t put a clause in my contract giving me twenty-five percent share in every property I help my grandmother develop—I did.

It’s because I’ll be mortified when people discover the truth about me.

West tilts his head back to look at me, and I dig a thumb deeper into that tight muscle in his shoulder.

He grunts, and his eyes slide closed. “Social…worker…need…talk…”

“Step one: relax. Step two: conquer the world. Or the social worker. Whatever.”

That earns me a smile. And it’s one of those I-don’t-want-to-be-smiling-but-can’t-help-it smiles that makes my heart give a big ol’ fist pump. He lets his head fall forward again while I attack all the tension he’s carrying, and I smile to myself.

I’ll win him over. Sooner or later. Probably sooner, because I’m irresistible when I want to be.

I like having him around. And not just because he’s good with Remy.

He’s good with me.

It’s weird.

What’s weirder is that I like it. I don’t actually want him to leave.

Ever.

Which is an extra weird feeling to have when I consider that we haven’t slept together.

Not that I don’t want to. My vibrator and my fingers have gotten quite the workouts lately with West’s face and body as inspiration. Not that I’ll tell him that, because I save my one inappropriate comment every day for things that I suspect will amuse him.

The guy needs to relax more.

“Believe it or not, I have an entire wardrobe appropriate for meeting social workers,” I tell him, which helps calm me down too. “I also have a script Emily’s Derek wrote for me back before he was Emily’s Derek, when he was just a guy I hired to make me look good after I got framed for shoplifting—which I was cleared of, by the way, so that shouldn’t be a problem today. I also know how to paint the paparazzi as the bad guys. Plus, we have you with your impeccable credentials. No one’s taking Remy from us today.”

No one’s taking Remy from me today. Another day, possibly, but not today.

West, though? They’d never take him from West.

He’s a solid, dependable dreamboat, and I’m honestly starting to wonder if my grandmother’s plan isn’t to pay him to raise Remy, because he’s the only reason I’m semi-competent at taking care of the baby myself.

Either he’s inspiring me to not want to fail, or he’s inadvertently teaching me something.

“Daisy?” he says on a sigh.

I knead deeper and wish I wasn’t getting a lady hard-on from touching his bare skin. “Yes?”

“That feels amazing. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

He tilts his head back to look at me again. “You’re not who I thought you’d be.”

“Aha! He admits he thought about me.”

“After I met you.”

“Wouldn’t it have been boring to inherit a baby with anyone else?”

His eyes are twinkling in the soft dawn light, pure green mischief, and oh my god, mischievous West is everything.

“I don’t know. I might’ve preferred inheriting a baby with a Kardashian.” He smiles at me, tilting his head back so I’m looking at him upside down.

I mock gasp. “Are you saying I’m not outrageous and outspoken enough for you? That’s it. Neighborhood pool party tonight. Come naked except diamonds covering the jewels and bits.”

He hasn’t shaved since he got here, and his beard is thick and dark, and I can’t resist stroking the rough growth. Holding his head so it’s nestled against my breasts.

Have I ever had a guy friend?

I don’t think I have. And I like it.

And I don’t.

I don’t want to be his friend. I want to kiss him. I want to explore every inch of his body, trace his tattoos and caress the ridges of his muscles. I want to strip him out of his sweatpants and straddle him and ride him until we both fall off the cliff into satisfied oblivion.

I drop my hands and start to move, because I promised I’d respect his boundaries.

I fucking hate boundaries.

But I’ll do this for him, because he’s done so much for me, and my family, and I owe it to him to not push.

Except when I start to shift away, he reaches behind us and settles his hands on my head, then tilts his face, and suddenly his lips are brushing mine, tasting like coffee and temptation, his rough beard tickling the sensitive skin around my mouth and sending my nerve endings into hyperdrive, and all of my good intentions fly out the window.

This.

This kiss is everything I shouldn’t want and can’t have, but fuck if I can stop myself.