by Grant, Pippa
He stares blankly at her while I simultaneously try not to laugh and cry. “Are you for fucking real?” I ask.
Her face pinches again. “Yes, Daisy, I am for fucking real.”
“Sea Stars Anonymous is a local charity group dedicated to helping people who believe they are reincarnated sea animals and want to return to their…previous manifestation,” I tell West.
“I don’t give two shi—craps where their stuff goes.”
“Mr. Jaeger, just to clarify, Remington does not come with a trust fund, so if you’re expecting some kind of financial windfall for—”
I suck in a breath and step back, bumping into one of my frozen yogurt dispensers and accidentally making it leak down my back.
But that face—the raw anger emanating from his blazing hot honey brown eyes— the way his nostrils flare, the way he bares his teeth—hot as fuck may not be a strong enough sentiment.
“Lady, I don’t know what kind of selfish jackass you take me for, but you can shut your yap-hole right the hell now. This baby needs a family. His mother wanted it to be me. And if she’s any indication of what money can do for a person, I’ll be the best damn thing to ever happen to him. You want your lawyers to draw up papers having Party McDiamonds here surrender her rights to me, I’m good with that too. We clear?”
I need a fresh pair of panties. And also to realize I should probably be offended by Party McDiamonds, but I’m secretly very impressed with the nickname.
It’s a new one.
The Dame squares off against him. “You’re here at my invitation, Mr. Jaeger. Do not make me revoke it.”
“I’m here at his dead mother’s invitation. You go on and threaten whatever you need to threaten, but you can be one hundred percent fucking certain that when my lawyers look over that will and confirm for me that I’m this baby’s legal guardian now, I’m taking him home, and I’m raising him right.”
He’s cradling the tiny bundle against his dark blue polo with one thick, corded forearm while a fire rages in his dark eyes, and is it possible for ovaries to melt? Because my mouth is dry and my knees are weak and I just had a flash of something that has nothing to do with my erogenous zones and everything to do with some deeper level of arousal than I’ve ever felt before.
Men with babies.
Men who tell off my grandmother with babies.
This is better than weekends in Bali with rock stars.
Oh, god.
My biological clock just gonged. Fuck.
Fuck.
“Where’s his nanny?” I ask. I’m breathless and desperate, and I need to latch onto something solid and familiar.
Westley snorts like that’s an inappropriate question.
“The nanny was fired the day before the accident for posting YouTube videos with him,” The Dame informs me.
“Oh? Because Julienne didn’t use him to help criticize baby wash and diaper cream from the minute she brought him home from the hospital.”
“So glad to see you’ve found the silver lining for Remington.” Belatedly, I realize she hasn’t started shapeshifting into a bull to ram a horn up West Jaeger’s ass over his insolence. But before I can dwell on it, she adds, “As for you, you can consider this the next family test.”
I suck in a sharp breath, because no, she didn’t.
Except she did.
She just threatened to disinherit me if I don’t raise Julienne’s baby.
This whole inheriting-a-baby thing might have me teetering on the edge of a major fissure while an earthquake still rocks around me, but I’m not an asshole concerned about getting a couple hundred million bucks when The Dame kicks the bucket.
It’s more that being disinherited means being fired from Carter International Properties.
It means failing.
I spent the first twenty-one years of my life being underestimated to the point that I didn’t believe in myself. I need this job. I actually don’t suck at it, and while I know my success is more because I have the Carter family name behind me than because I’m actually good at negotiating with people, she hasn’t fired me yet.
Helping run a real estate empire? I can do that.
Raising Julienne’s baby?
I. Am. So. Fucked.
“If you want to have your lawyers go ahead and draw up paperwork for Ms. Carter-Kincaid to surrender custodial rights to me, I’m happy to wait,” Westley offers.
I straighten and shiver as a glop of frozen yogurt slides down my ass. “The hell she will. How do I know you’ll be a good guardian?”
He lifts a brow, then looks down at his arms, at the bundle of sleeping baby with a little milk dribbling out the corner of his mouth.
The utterly innocent bundle of orphan that I haven’t touched yet, even though realizing he’s completely alone in the world makes me want to smother him in my arms and hug him tight and promise him he’ll be okay.
Oh my god.
I don’t know if Julienne ever hugged him.
No wonder he’s so comfortable in a stranger’s arms. He just needs to be loved. That is all babies need, isn’t it?
Or is it?
Fuck. I don’t know the first thing about babies.
Fuckaroni.
I need Westley. I need him to teach me how to hold a baby and how to know when Remy’s hungry and how to put him to sleep. Yes, Remy, because he’s so tiny and innocent and a cute little name just fits him better.
Oh, double fuck with cheese and bacon on top.
I really am having maternal urges. And ridiculous notions about dark-eyed, overprotective strangers. I have a full staff who runs my house, and I’m positive any of them could teach me the same things this man holding the baby right now can.
Except those maternal urges to kiss Remy’s little cheeks are getting mixed up with the hello, hot single dad vibes thumping in my ovaries, which I do not appreciate.
Mostly.
“Granny-kins, it’s late, and tonight’s been a real shit-show. I think it’s time for you to hit the road.” I smile, but holy fucking shit, how the hell am I going to do this mothering thing? “I got this.”
I most definitely do not got this.
But I have to get my grandmother out of here before she catches on to how closely I might be veering into panic territory.
Imogen Carter, The Dame of the Carter family, knows things. And she’s scowling at me like my position at Carter International Properties isn’t the only thing in danger.
But it’s the one thing she can take away that I care about. I can’t lose my job.
I can’t. My job is the only thing that I’ve ever been successful at that matters.
“Go,” I repeat.
“Stay home tomorrow. Bond with the baby and get help lined up,” she orders me. “Mr. Jaeger, watch yourself.”
While my grandmother leaves, Westley turns away from me, but not all the way, and I catch the big bad construction guy’s face softening into a gentle smile.
Swoon.
No. No. Not swoon. Swoon is only for foreign hotties who believe me when I say my name is Melanie and that I get mistaken for Daisy Carter-Kincaid all the time. For men who know I’m a one-time deal. For men who can’t just drive down to Miami, and yes, there was that one who just drove down to Miami from California a few years back, so no, I don’t date Canadian or Mexican men either.
All of North America is out.
My security team agreed it was a good idea.
I knew when I found West in the pool house that he wasn’t a stripper, but I also knew that whoever he was, he was there because The Dame had ordered him to be, much like she’d had my security team find me and inform me she was headed over and needed to talk.
And I knew it would irritate the shit out of her to walk in on me making out with whoever he was.
And now I have to pay for my sins.
So, so much.
Five
West
It’s late. My head hurts the way it normally does after an adren
aline crash. There’s something orange dripping behind Daisy all over her marble floor and killing my curiosity about the wall of frozen yogurt in this bright, airy office—which I assume is her office because of the frozen yogurt wall and the distressed white desk at one end—and I don’t have a fucking clue where this baby needs to sleep tonight.
Me? I’ll be on the floor. Right next to him. For tonight, at least, while my temper cools and my injured pride heals. Nothing like being kicked with a dangled insta-family that’ll be taken away soon enough by those lawyers Imogen Carter was talking about.
But this little guy has bigger problems than my temper and pride.
He’s a fucking orphan. Without a bed. Probably have to sleep on—christ.
That round pink Persian-inspired rug in the center of the floor has a circle of penises woven into it. And the sunken white leather seating area around an indoor gas fireplace at the other end of the room has curved end tables decorated with jade stick figures doing each other in the butt.
My balls whimper. Tonight could’ve gone soooo differently. Are we sure all’s lost?
“So. You’re not a stripper,” Daisy says with an easy, friendly, trust me smile that puts an ache back in my shoulders.
“No,” I answer curtly.
“We could still play pretend.”
I scowl.
She sighs, grabs a handful of napkins from a dispenser, and turns in a circle while she tries to wipe the orange frozen yogurt off the white and gold sparkle dress holding her tight, round ass. “Let’s start over. Hi. I’m Daisy. Welcome to my house. Thanks for feeding the baby. Who are you and how did you know my cousin?”
I know how this ends. They have more money and access to better lawyers than I ever will. This kid isn’t my insta-family, and my rapidly cooling temper is making me regret that ballsy move in telling off her grandmother. “Redid the kid’s nursery. Never met her—Julienne—before the job. Haven’t—didn’t talk to her after.”
“You’re the guy she one-starred because you wouldn’t take out a wall to put in a marble statue and fountain?”
I give a single nod, because I have no idea if it’s actually normal for rich people to think taking out a fucking exterior wall—and raising a ceiling eight inches—in four days with a crew of two is no big deal.
“Don’t take it personally. She gave my driveway one star because she would’ve picked starfish instead of crushed seashells, and she once one-starred my mom’s boobs for being too boob-like. How’d you get the job?”
“My brother.”
Her brows pull together briefly. “Wait. Tyler Jaeger? That asshole who knocked us out of the play-offs this spring with that buzzer beater?”
“You follow hockey.”
“I follow a lot of things. How’d Tyler get you the job?”
“Knew somebody who knew somebody who said she couldn’t get a contractor to take the job. Just retired from the Marines. Needed the work.”
She rolls her eyes. “That makes unfortunate sense. Why did Julienne put you in her will?”
“No clue.” I should put the baby down, but I don’t want to. He’s a tiny little thing. Can’t be more than twelve, maybe fifteen pounds.
My parents’ cat is bigger than this child.
More loved too. Not a single other person has tried to take him from me.
Daisy’s face is morphing as I bounce in place with the sleeping baby, and I don’t like it.
It’s not lust exactly, but it’s not not lust either. It’s dark-eyed, heavy-lidded interest warring with body language that says stay back, danger, danger, and this isn’t the first time that look has taken over her face tonight.
If life has taught me anything in twenty-plus years of dating, and then reinforced it tonight, it’s that dating single mothers doesn’t work.
Time might heal all wounds, but the one poking me tonight needs more than six years, apparently.
“Why’d she name you as a guardian?” I ask Daisy.
“Either she had a sick sense of humor, or she thought she was just as immortal as The Dame and that it would never actually be an issue.”
I lift a brow.
“Gramalicious. The Graminator. Gram-grams. Grammykins. My grandmother. Call her a Gramogenarian if you really want to get her panties in a twist. She says she’s eighty-two, but I suspect she’s actually the original Dracula.”
My eyeball is twitching. If she keeps talking, it might never stop. “And you do…what, exactly, for your grandmother?”
“Apparently whatever she tells me to do.”
She flashes a billion-dollar smile again, but I’m well aware that Imogen Carter just put a fuck-ton on her shoulders. The Carter family matriarch doesn’t strike me as the type to trust anyone else to fill her lawn mower with gas, much less raise a child she has vested interest in.
“So I could google you, and that’s what it’d say? Daisy Carter-Kincaid is an heiress who asks how high when her grandmother says to jump?”
“Oh, no. Google says I’m a partying heiress with a penchant for causing the occasional scene and getting into sticky situations.”
“And your grandmother is trusting you with…the first in the next generation of the Carter family?”
“You’re here too, Mr. Jaeger. My grandmother is doing what she legally needs to do to make sure Julienne and Rafe’s final wishes are carried out.”
“Before she removes me from the situation once the Rodericks are dealt with.”
She winces. “You could take her a sacrifice of the still-beating heart of her enemy in a crystal goblet forged in the fires of hell, and she might go easy when she has her lawyers chew you up in court. But…do you actually want to raise a baby right now?”
“Do you?”
“Westley.” She winks. “What kind of question is that? I have ovaries and mammary glands, don’t I? Obviously I’d want to raise a baby anytime.”
In other words, no. Possibly with a side of, this is a conversation for not tonight.
Am I going to raise this kid?
No.
But am I going to leave him with someone who doesn’t have a fucking clue what she’s doing?
Also no.
“Do you have a crib?” I ask.
Her whole face transforms into pure joy. “Yes! We just redid the butterfly lounge and turned it into this epic—oh. Baby crib. Not party crib. Sorry. No.”
This is going to be the longest night in the history of long nights, and I once pulled a forty-eight-hour shift in the desert kicking in doors looking for a terrorist.
“Flat surface?” I ask. “For sleeping?”
She tosses the dirty napkins into a trash hole in the white wall, then bites her lip while her darkening gaze travels down the length of my body again.
“Knock it off,” I growl.
She doesn’t flinch, which is probably a testament to how often she and her grandmother go at it. “Do you know much about babies? Like, does he need to sleep in a cage, or can he just sleep on a bed?”
“A cage?”
“That’s what a crib is, right? A caged bed? So they can’t…crawl away?”
“He’s too little to crawl.”
“You’re sure?”
“He can’t even lift his head by himself. I’m sure.”
She eyeballs the baby. Then lifts her eyes to me again. “Why are you still here? Not that I’m not grateful for the help, but…you’re not related to any of us. Julienne left you an asshole review for a new business. New, yes? And I doubt Rafe was any nicer. You know I can afford any help necessary so I can raise Remy on my own. You’ve also gotten a taste of what we both know my grandmother will throw at you to get you to leave, because she’s very protective of family when they’re still young enough to be molded into her next protégé. So…why not just bolt?”
“Because you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re doing.”
She tips her head back and laughs. “Oh, Westley. You’re adorable. And you’ve had quite the night.
How about I take Remy upstairs to a cozy little corner of my room, and then we’ll get you settled in one of my guest suites? Miami traffic sucks all hours of the day, and there’s no need to travel home tired.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I sleep where Remy sleeps.”
Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but to my surprise, instead, she nods. “Thank you. It’s kind of you to help.”
I study her.
She stares right back.
And I have the oddest sensation that she’s more grateful than she’ll admit.
Retreat! Retreat! my nuts shout.
Because they know. They’ve seen this before.
Lady with a baby having a breakdown.
I tell my balls to knock it off. I’m older. I’m wiser. And I’m not falling for a hard-partying heiress just because she inherited an orphan who’s going to need all the love he can get.
Yep.
That’s my story. And if I repeat it enough, I might actually convince myself it’s true.
Six
Daisy
I get West and Remy settled in the sitting room off my bedroom—hello, temptation—and then retreat.
I can’t fully explain it, but I trust him.
Or possibly I’m just so relieved that I don’t have to dive into this guardianship thing alone just yet, that I want to believe I can trust him.
Either way, my life as I knew it four hours ago is basically over, and I need to adapt. Fast.
I climb into bed with my laptop, and send a slew of emails to my staff, both at Carter International Properties and at home, about my schedule suddenly needing to be flexible for a little bit, all while listening to the muted sounds of West settling onto the couch in the room next door.
He’s fascinating.
And by fascinating, I mean all of my erogenous zones are pinging just from having him in my personal space. I want to know why he always tilts his left ear toward me when I’m talking. If he’s a whiskey or a beer kind of guy. Or both. If his overprotective papa bear mode is just an adrenaline thing, or if there’s more to his story. If he’ll still be here in the morning. Why he’s in Miami when his family is in Chicago—yes, fine, I googled his brother when I was supposed to be working, but who could resist?
