Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

  The guy’s basically playing hero tonight while I’m hiding in here trying not to hyperventilate at the idea of sudden motherhood.

  And that whole hero thing—I don’t trust that either.

  Are people really that pure-intentioned?

  Although, I don’t have to wonder why I’m having erotic thoughts about him rubbing froyo all over my breasts.

  That part’s pretty obvious. He’s six feet of overprotective muscle with a chiseled jaw shaded by dark stubble and a hint of a tattoo peeking out from beneath one of his sleeves. The guy could be on the cover of a romance novel.

  I toss my laptop to the side and tiptoe to the door to the next room to peek in.

  It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust enough to see that the baby’s swaddled in a blanket and snoring softly on the floor, West just a few feet from him, long body stretched out, one arm under his head, his breath slow and even.

  I don’t actually believe he’s sleeping. Even with the light so dim, I swear I can tell that he’s too tense to be sleeping.

  And he’s positioned himself between Remy and the door to the hallway, so if anyone tries to come in in the middle of the night, they’ll trip over him first.

  Seriously.

  What kind of guy would do this? Stay with a baby that isn’t his, but still needs him?

  I shake my head and chalk it all up to utter weirdness that’ll make more sense in the morning, pull the door mostly shut, and head back to bed, stripping out of my shirt and panties. Why have nice bedding if you can’t rub your whole body against it?

  And then I slide under my soft, satiny sheets and flip off my light.

  I’m mildly horny.

  And I need to take the edge off.

  A nice fantasy about Julio should do. He’s a delectable beach bum I spent a night with in the Canary Islands a few months ago.

  He also thinks my name is Sandi with an I, and he had quite the dirty-talking tongue on him.

  I let myself imagine we’d met on a cobblestone road in Tuscany after highwaymen made off with my carriage and escort, leaving me naked and alone and vulnerable.

  He’d whip off his shirt and wrap it about me, surrounding me with the scent of sun-dried cotton and salty seas, then heft me into his chiseled arms and carry me to the nearest tavern, where he’d spoon-feed me broth and murmur low in Italian about how he’ll avenge my honor, and keep me safe until such a day as he’s run his dagger through the hearts of every highwayman in Europe.

  Possibly I’ve been reading too many historical romances.

  But it’s working.

  My skin burns against my sheets, and I part my legs while I tease my nipples into hard nubs, ignoring the little detail in my fantasy that instead of a lean surfer’s body with sun-kissed brown hair, all I can see is a thick-necked, dark-scruffed, brown-eyed warrior in a leather kilt.

  My fingers drift over my breasts and down my soft belly as I smile and stifle a whimper. My pussy’s aching. My clit is tingling. And I’m fantasizing about Westley Jaeger in gladiator gear, charging a raging bull trying to trample a baby, and holy fuck, why are men with babies so fucking hot?

  I flick my clit to distract myself from remembering him pulling his shirt up, giving me a glimpse at a tattoo. At him staring my grandmother down like a warrior. At him bouncing Remy.

  My head tilts back and I have to squeeze my lips tight together to keep from moaning.

  I wonder if he’s as good with his hands on a woman’s body as he is with a baby.

  No. No, Daisy.

  Too close. He’s off-limits. For so many reasons.

  God, off-limits is hot.

  I want off-limits. I want to be bad. I want—

  A high-pitched wail suddenly erupts in the next room, and I yank my hand out of my chacha and fly off the bed.

  I fling the door open to the sitting room, remember I’m naked as West looks up at me, and I screech.

  He screeches.

  Remy wails.

  And I dive for cover under my vanity.

  I’m good with nudity. My body’s never going to earn me a strut down the catwalk during Fashion Week, but I know how to use it to maximum advantage.

  Plus, I have these tits that just won’t stop.

  Also, it’s flipping dark. No way he actually saw me.

  So I don’t know why I’m shrieking and hiding.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I totally know why I’m shrieking and hiding.

  My grandmother would kill me if I tried to seduce West, which is actually the least of my concerns.

  I do a lot of things she’d kill me for—I’m very good at walking that line between making her angry and making her head explode like a volcano before it reforms into a meaner version than before—but I make her enough money that she overlooks it. Mostly.

  We both know I only make her a lot of money because people know if they don’t deal with me, they’ll deal with her. Without her name behind me, I’d need to get a door-to-door salesman mustache and the brown leather briefcase holding vacation timeshare brochures to make enough money to put food on my table.

  And I don’t mean food on the crystal Aisu table in my under-the-sea lounge downstairs either. I mean a wobbly Formica table that I pulled out of the trash after I get evicted from my fabulous D-shaped hacienda.

  Fucking up Julienne’s kid’s life would never be overlookable to The Dame.

  Plus, West lives within driving distance of my house—obviously—and he knows my real name, which by default marks him off my list of people I’d like to sleep with. If co-inheriting my cousin’s baby with him is complicated, getting physically involved would be catastrophic.

  Sleeping with Westley Jaeger is completely and totally off the table.

  All the tables.

  There will be no nookie on the Aisu table or any of the other tables in this house.

  Or anywhere in Bluewater.

  So being naked around him probably should be too. And it’s more expeditious to pretend I’m embarrassed to be naked than it is to stand there and tempt him with my goddessness while I tell him that we’re not happening.

  Yep.

  That’s my logic.

  I drop my head to the floor and stifle a groan, and this one is definitely not a good groan.

  He knocks at the door. “Do you have a rocking chair? Also, I’m not looking. Don’t see a thing. I have four sisters. I’m an expert in not looking.”

  I scoot deeper under the vanity, which would be easier if I didn’t have these melons on my chest getting in the way, and if I’d eaten a little less pasta the last four times I was in Italy this year.

  And gelato.

  I definitely should’ve eaten less—no, never mind.

  I definitely should’ve eaten more gelato, because you only live once, and it’s Italian gelato, and it’s well worth the extra padding on my ass.

  I should have some gelato delivered tomorrow.

  Apparently along with a rocking chair. “I have a mechanical unicorn that I can turn down the speed on?” I call back.

  He mutters something under his breath.

  Remy wails.

  “Never mind,” he says.

  I almost offer to take Remy, but I’ve never actually held a baby before.

  I’ve squealed over plenty. Made googoo eyes and baby-talked and booped their little noses and kissed their little heads.

  But I haven’t held a baby.

  I need to.

  Soon.

  But as long as West’s here, I don’t have to, and so I’m putting it off until I’m well-rested.

  Yep.

  That’s my story.

  “Ten minutes,” I call to him.

  Maybe I can’t hold a baby, but I can work miracles.

  Seven

  Daisy

  Friday morning, I’m yanked out of a dream by a loud, weird wailing in my ear. I’m disoriented and tangled in a sheet of doom that I apparently twisted myself into overnight, and as the remnants of the dream evaporate, I re
alize I’m not alone. I try to bolt upright, almost fall off the bed, and stick my head straight into the crotch of a tall, burly man who smells like baby powder and coffee.

  There’s a man.

  Standing beside the gauzy curtains of my four-poster bed in my dollhouse bedroom.

  And he’s holding out a crying baby.

  Oh, fuck.

  I have a baby.

  “He’s been fed, changed, and burped,” the tree trunk announces over the sound of the baby’s cries. “Baby books say he needs tummy time, but no television. You’re up, princess. Watch his head and neck. He’s still too little to sit up on his own, and I need to get to work.”

  I blink away the crustiness in my eyes and try to make him come into focus. “Who are you?”

  “Nobody important. Just a dude who watched a baby overnight.”

  Nobody important.

  Not likely.

  I know exactly who he is, and that dream that evaporated comes flying back into my head like a runaway locomotive.

  Which is eerily symbolic of everything that was just going down in my dreams, which West was unfortunately starring in, this time in a train conductor uniform, which was sexier than you might think.

  “You’re…leaving?”

  He sighs. “He’s your cousin’s kid. Not mine. There’s not a single logical reason she’d put me in her will, and there’s not a single logical reason for me to stay.”

  Panic swells under my breastbone and flops around like a grouper in the sand. “I don’t know anything about babies,” I blurt.

  “You can afford help.”

  “But it takes time. There’s a vetting process. I can’t just hire the first nanny off the street.” It’s the rich kid version of street smarts. Don’t hire anyone you haven’t vetted, and make everyone sign an NDA.

  Oh, fuck.

  I didn’t ask West to sign an NDA. I wonder if the Graminator did.

  Probably.

  I bat my eyelashes.

  He rolls his eyes. “Four sisters. That doesn’t work.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “Don’t insult me either.”

  The clock hands on the ivory wall across from my bed tell me it’s almost eight AM.

  Our little incident happened around three AM. I had him a rocking chair by three-fifteen—and I owe my housekeeper a case of strawberry Pocky to thank her for that, since it’s Lucinda’s favorite treat ever.

  However, I don’t think I’ll be thanking anyone for the fantasy fuel that was listening to West sing Remy lullabies until around four.

  He’s cradling the baby one-armed and wearing the same clothes he arrived in—jeans and a blue polo—but his beard seems thicker and his eyes—which I swore were honey-brown last night but are now a deep-set green under his thick brows—are definitely more world-weary.

  He works construction. Without air conditioning. Swinging a hammer in the Miami sun, wiping sweat off his forehead, bare-chested, and tipping his head back to enjoy a Diet Coke while the office ladies across the street gawk, and god, if I’m having bare-chested fantasies of a man holding a baby before coffee, then this co-parenting thing is an awful idea.

  That’s probably why Julienne did it.

  Because she thought it would be hilarious to imagine me raising an infant with a retired Marine with the body of a god and the soul of a saint and the sense of humor of—well.

  I’m not sure I’ve seen his sense of humor yet.

  Unless this is it. You’re up, Daisy. I’m going to stand here and laugh my ass off while you try to figure out how to change a diaper.

  My phone rings somewhere amidst all the fluffy covers—my grandmother’s ring tone, that Half-Cocked Heroes song about the devil calling—and Remy bursts into a harder wail.

  West smirks. “Hands full today, Ms. Carter-Kincaid?”

  “Daisy, if you please. Seeing me naked doesn’t mean this has to get formal. Hand me that baby. We’ll be fine.” I double-check that I’m not naked and mentally high-five myself when I realize I’m wearing my oversize Sober is a Four-Letter Word T-shirt.

  Present from Emily last Christmas.

  I love my friends. They get me.

  And since I’m decent, I throw the covers back, find my phone and silence it, and then peek over at Remy, ignoring that tempting scent of coffee lingering on the man holding the baby.

  The baby.

  Oh, the baby.

  His skin is so smooth and soft-looking, his eyes mildly panicked like he knows his mama’s gone, and his little hands are waving about like he’s trying to grasp onto something but doesn’t know how.

  And I want to love him.

  I want to love him and promise him he’ll be fine and that I know what I’m doing, except I can’t.

  Who gives me a fucking baby?

  West slowly transfers the infant to me, the back of his hand brushing the top of my arm and making me shiver, but he doesn’t stop. It’s like he has no idea that the mere thought of holding Remy is making me both freak out and go all twitterpated.

  What if I drop him?

  What if he’s allergic to my soap?

  What if he thinks my boobs have milk in them?

  I sink back down onto my bed as the squirmy little human flings a dimpled hand at me.

  He’s light as a feather and seven gazillion times more fragile. But as soon as I have a firm grip on him, holding his sweaty little body against my breast, I start bouncing and whispering shh like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  And he stops fussing. Stops crying.

  Just snuggles in, a little bundle of pure innocence that has chosen me.

  My breath catches, and I stare down so West can’t see my face.

  Babies?

  So not in my life plan. I work hard so I can play hard. Make a deal in Madrid, then head to the Canary Islands for a wild three-day fling with a Spaniard. Start talks in Rio, then dash down to Antarctica for a South Pole polar plunge on a dare that costs some actor or Greek shipping magnate a hefty donation to charity and ends with a big, burly Viking warming me up in bed.

  Coming home to the husband and three-point-two minions?

  My genes aren’t really built for the whole solid family thing.

  I used to think it was the money, except it’s not. Money’s a symptom. Not the root cause.

  We’re a judgmental lot of assholes.

  Performance determines worth.

  And I never wanted a child to feel like an accomplishment.

  Feel accomplished, yes.

  Be someone else’s accomplishment—like I am to my father—no.

  And much as I love my mom, she, too, puts her self-worth directly in line with how well her art sells.

  But holding this baby while he snuggles in close?

  It’s making me feel weird protective things that I was never supposed to feel but can’t stop. Like I would move the entire fucking earth to keep him happy.

  I wonder if Julienne felt those things about him, or if she was as screwed up as the rest of us?

  West is watching me, something both soft and protective as hell flashing over his features, and my nipples pebble and remind me that I’m not wearing a bra under this shirt.

  “Thank you for your help last night,” I say quietly, my gaze darting down again.

  “People should help people.”

  It’s a simple sentiment, but it gives me more horny shivers in the vajayjay. My emotions are a wreck right now.

  I don’t like wrecked emotions, so I tell them to shape the fuck up.

  “I don’t know why Julienne tangled you up in this mess, but Remy and I will be fine.”

  I hope.

  Even if I figure out how to take care of a baby, there’s still the Rodericks to deal with. They’ll undoubtedly challenge the will, which is dumb, because I don’t think either of them cares about anything beyond money and stature.

  Anthony Roderick would probably sell his wife for a million bucks and controlling share in a whis
key distillery, and Margot Roderick honestly believes neither her husband nor her son could do any wrong, when they’re both what my mother would call philandering assholes.

  Just thinking about them makes me want to buy out six florists today and make sure everyone all across Little Havana gets a free flower. It’s how I get balance from the ugly parts of my life—by spreading love bombs across Miami.

  “You’re almost out of formula,” West says gruffly.

  Of fucking course I am. But I smile at him. “Got that covered.”

  I press a kiss to Remy’s head because I need to look away from the man whose temper is rising so fast that he’s making me sweat—who knew I was a sucker for the overprotective type?—and oh my god.

  This baby.

  He’s so sweet.

  He’s cuddling closer and closer, smelling like peach fuzz and baby sweat, which shouldn’t be addictive to sniff, except it is. And his hair—he has this thick black hair that’s so fine and soft, it could probably be sold on the black market for a special new kind of cashmere.

  Not that I’d do that to him.

  But I know enough unscrupulous people who would.

  My door bangs open.

  West spins into a crouch, flinging himself between me and my visitors. “Out!” he orders Alessandro, who crosses his arms and lifts a brow.

  I should be trying not to grin right now, but West just basically put his life on the line in issuing orders to my head of security without looking first.

  Except having someone who’s not paid to protect me put himself in the line of fire is volcanic on the hotness scale, and there’s nothing funny about that.

  “Your grandmother’s on her way,” Alessandro tells me.

  He eyeballs West.

  West eyeballs him right back.

  “You staying?” Alessandro demands.

  “Not really my place, is it?”

  The two men continue to stare at each other, and something passes silently between them. I don’t know what, but I know Alessandro is a better judge of character than any dog, and even Luna’s Beck, who spends his whole life around dogs, agrees.