Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(72)

Helene’s shoulders inch as high as her wince. “I didn’t know today was a bad day for art class.”

Louise freezes.

She’s covered in cat hair. Possibly got cat piss on herself too, to go with the baby piss.

“Lil Nutt Sacc?” she repeats.

“Who’s asking?” the hip hop mogul says with a jerk of his chin.

Three cats race back in, but Louise doesn’t seem to notice.

She’s gaping.

He squints at her. “Aw, man, Lou Lou-licious? Dog, get out. Whatcha doin’ here? How do you know D? Give it up, girl.”

My jaw hits the floor.

Daisy’s mouth is a perfect O.

And Helene’s eyes are darting between the social worker and Lil Nutt like she’s watching tennis as they approach each other for a chest bump.

“You know Daisy?” Louise asks him.

“Hells, yeah. Lets my kids come artify her fancy party lounges. Feeds ’em pizza. Good people. And her mom’s hot too.”

Daisy sinks to the nearest sofa, Remy clutched to her chest.

I wordlessly sit down next to her.

“We have lost all control,” I mutter.

“That might not be a bad thing,” she mutters back.

It’s bad.

It’s always bad.

Question is, will it be bad enough for us to watch this woman walk away with our baby today?





Thirty





Daisy



For the second time in four hours, I collapse onto the low couch in the center of my parlor and drop my head back to stare at my mom’s chandelier, which has a layer of cat hair sticking to it now. “So, that went well.”

West settles in next to me, and for once, I don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to offer him.

If we were at a club or a bar, I’d have a double-shot of whiskey put on my tab for him. Or possibly a double shot of whiskey for everyone in the bar.

But I don’t think he’s the type to drink his troubles away.

If I was out of the country, I’d head to the nearest beach or winery or club, put on a different wig, tell my bodyguard to call me Liza, and I’d hook up with whoever looked the most fun.

Except that doesn’t even seem appealing right now.

I think I’ve been ruined for one-night stands and weekend flings.

And I don’t know that I’m sad about it.

“They’re not looking for perfection, Daisy,” West says quietly. “You did great.”

“Of course I did. I always do great.” I have a house with more potential dangers for a child than a nuclear waste facility. The world thinks I’m an airheaded party girl. My cats got drunk on the organic catnip Luna sent over and went on a rampage after the neighborhood’s free-range St. Bernard—who is the laziest fucking dog on the planet when he’s not being a total sweetheart—decided he wanted a little pussy.

And I’m letting my family down.

Remy. My mom. My grandma. My dead cousin, who might’ve been awful, but who didn’t deserve to die so young and tragically.

“You did.” West brushes my hair back with a gentle hand, and my wig falls off and topples to the floor behind me.

He snortles.

It’s adorable.

“Quit laughing, Mr. Suit. You dressed up for this too.”

“Is that a Halloween costume, or do you parade around Miami like a fifties housewife just for fun some days, handing out chocolate chip cookies to all the neighbors?”

I freeze.

I did, indeed, provide pizza lunch for Lil Nutt Sacc and his class of future artists. But I don’t talk about buying all of Miami Beach’s lunches at Beach Burgers, or filling up the parking meters all along Ocean Drive and all the side streets so that no one has to pay, or randomly—and anonymously—having Carbs ’n Coffee deliver donuts to all the local hospitals’ staff once a month.

And actually—I did buy this dress for Halloween, and then also use it to hand out cookies once.

At a bar, not in a neighborhood, but close enough.

“Daisy?” West says.

“Did you always know you wanted to be a Marine, or was that what you just settled on when you didn’t know what else to be after high school?”

He settles an arm along the back of the sofa, close enough that I can tell myself he’s wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

I mean, if that’s what I wanted to believe.

“I…don’t know.” He’s staring at the fireplace.

I’m staring at him.

“I’m the oldest of six. Always had a lot of responsibility. Dad’s a retired carpenter. Mom worked long, weird hours, and her stand-up career didn’t take off until I was in high school, so I always knew it would be the military or student loans for college. Taking care of me. Taking care of my sisters and Ty—it’s what I always did. When the Marine recruiter came and talked…I guess it just clicked. Felt right. Never gave it much thought after that.”

“Is that why you date single mothers? Because they need to be taken care of?”

“No.”

He’s lying. Or maybe he thinks he’s telling the truth. He’d probably tell me single mothers are strong and more capable than he’ll ever be, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to take care of them, whether he realizes it or not.