Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(94)

“Hey, don’t insult monkeys,” Staci calls.

Remy erupts in a wail.

And that’s my boy.

My eyes get hot.

We almost lost him last night. I didn’t even know him a few weeks ago, and my world would’ve fallen apart if he hadn’t been found. He’s not just my responsibility.

He’s a bright spot in my life.

Which isn’t that much of a surprise—I could tell myself all I wanted that I wouldn’t get attached, but I knew it was a lie.

“Quit pinching him and hand him over,” I tell Brit.

Her finger flies to her nose.

My sisters all follow suit immediately, then my mom, and my dad. My brothers-in-law. Even my youngest nieces and nephews.

And I don’t care if I have to change a messy diaper.

I’d do anything for this kid.

Anything.

I take him upstairs—to Daisy’s room, not the guest room, because until she tells me we’re done, I’m carrying on like normal. And our normal is me in her bedroom.

Hell, even after she tells me we’re done, I’m carrying on like normal.

I won’t give up on her.

And that’s exactly what I’m telling myself when I leave her private wing and head back downstairs, carrying a fussy Remy who’s probably ready for a bottle.

But I don’t make it to the kitchen.

Because Alessandro corners me. “She wants to see you in her office.”

I square my shoulders.

Ignore the look of pity on his face.

And head in to let her do her worst.





Forty





Daisy



When West walks in with Remy, I almost break.

The man’s face is set fierce and determined, like he knows what’s coming, and he’s prepared to fight me the whole time.

He’s carrying the baby face-out, and that little face twists in a smile and almost breaks me.

But I have to do what’s best for him.

For both of them.

“Have a seat.” I point to the ivory chairs opposite my desk and push up my reading glasses, which aren’t actually reading glasses, but I feel like a badass with eye protection when I’m wearing them.

He ignores my directive. “You don’t have to do this.”

I could waste time quibbling with him over what this is, but the sooner I rip off the Band-Aid, the better. So instead, I push a small stack of paperwork across my desk toward him. “I’ve signed away all my custodial rights to Remy. He’s yours. Free and clear.”

He sucks in a breath and drops to the chair, and I have to look away. “What?”

“My lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to motherhood.”

“Bullshit.”

“If it’s not late-night parties, it’s traveling around the globe for work. You’ve connected with him. You love him. He loves you. You’re what’s best for him. I’ve started paperwork for a trust fund so you’re not financially inconvenienced—”

“I don’t want your fucking money. If you’re scared, just say you’re scared.”

“I’m being practical. He deserves to grow up outside the spotlight. Without all those extra pressures that could turn him into everything his mother was. And I can’t escape it. This is my life, with parties and people and dangers. I can pretend it’s not. I can try to fit into something different for a while. But I can’t stand being cooped up here. Not all day, every day. I need to be out in the world. With people. And I can’t be what he needs while I’m living the life I always wanted.”

God, my heart hurts. And I hate lying to West, but I know if I told him the truth—that I’m a fucked-up basket case who will one day leave Remy a fucked-up basket case too—he’d try to convince me that I’m wrong.

That he can fix me.

That we can manage the attention.

That we can keep Remy safe.

The only thing that will keep Remy safe is me removing myself from the situation so that West can take him somewhere far, far from here, and raise him quietly with lots of family around.

And I only partially mean physically safe.

Mostly, I mean safe from the influence of my grandmother that I’ll inadvertently pass on to him, despite what I plan to do next.

I could move halfway around the globe, change my name, change my face, change my hair, my boobs, everything, and I’d still be 25% Imogen Carter.

And that’s too much to inflict on one more generation.

Remy needs to be free.

West’s gaze bores into me with the force of a million sea-green ocean tides.

“Go ahead and rip them up,” I tell him with a nod at the paperwork. “I have the original and twenty-eight more copies. And I’m not changing my mind.”

Dammit, I hate it when my voice cracks.

“Tell me you don’t love him.”

“I love him with every fiber of my being.” And there goes the stinging in my eyes. “And that’s why I have to let him go.”

I rise. My knees wobble. My heart cracks open and spills out rotten rainbow sprinkles that are infected with a double dose of cynicism and hopelessness.

If I’m one-quarter Imogen Carter, I’m also fifty percent cheating bastard—and I do mean bastard in all the ways one can mean bastard—and that’s nothing to be proud of either.