by Grant, Pippa
So when my head of security nods to West and holds out a fist for a bump, a puddle of warmth floods my chest.
A puddle of warmth that means absolutely nothing, because in the next breath, West is walking out the door.
“Hey, take my number,” I call after him, making Remy squawk at the sudden noise.
He turns, and I catch the weirdest expression on his face. Like…hope? Or dread?
Or both?
“For attorneys.” I wave a hand, realize I don’t want to take that hand off Remy, and quickly put it back. “And all that boring stuff.”
“Got you covered,” Alessandro says to me.
And then West is gone.
And I have this horrible suspicion I’m never going to see him again, which shouldn’t be a bad thing—we can’t date, for multiple reasons, and having him out of the way so no one is witness to me fucking up Remy is a good thing.
But I still feel the weirdest emptiness, an extra loneliness, at my temporary co-guardian doing exactly what my family wants him to do.
Leave.
It’s right, but it’s also so, so wrong.
Eight
West
I don’t want to leave Daisy alone with Remy, because she has the same look on her face that Tyler had the day our first niece was born—the one that says oh my god I have no idea what I’m doing holding this thing that’s smaller than a football.
But that baby is hers so much more than he can ever be mine. I have no blood claim. I didn’t know his family. And it’s not like I’m leaving him stranded at the steps of a firehouse and hoping he’ll get adopted someday by a family who loves him.
This family has money. They have their own brand of loyalty. And it’s none of my fucking business.
Alessandro walks me down a winding staircase, out through the D-shaped courtyard and past a D-shaped pool, and into a sitting room with another round sunken seating area with a gas fire pit in the middle, crystal penises decorating the end tables, and bright green plants placed about the room beneath the high ceiling. We walk through this room too, straight into a connected foyer with a curved glass staircase.
I pause at the doorway. “Can she handle this on her own?”
He studies me briefly, and I know he’s not going to answer me. So it surprises me when he replies, “Doesn’t matter. She will.”
That’s not ominous. Not at all. “There’s no legit reason for me to stay.”
“Just a legally binding will.”
“You knew Julienne?”
“Unfortunately.”
“She make her will while she was drunk?”
“Probably drew names out of a hat.”
I look down at the textured white marble floor. All I need is one person to stand up and tell me this kid’s parents had a solid reason for putting me in that will, and I’d stay.
I’d fight.
I could give him doting aunts. The best grandparents. An insane uncle—everyone needs an Uncle Tyler—and cousins and pool parties and root beer popsicles and birthday parties and lawn darts and a solid middle-class life full of fun and hard work.
But staying here is nothing more than a shortcut to another family I don’t belong with.
Easier to walk away now than to stay, get attached, and complicate what’s undoubtedly going to be a messy situation. “The Rodericks—they’ll fight for the kid?”
I met Anthony Roderick once. Guy leered at his daughter-in-law like he wanted to take her to bed himself, slapped the housekeeper on the ass, and pissed in the bushes.
Not in that order.
I’d probably be in jail if I’d been any closer when the ass-slapping happened, but he was long gone by the time I made it out of the nursery. My Spanish wasn’t good enough to understand the maid, but I knew the hand gesture. Leave it be. It’s fine.
It wasn’t fine.
“They’ll try,” Alessandro tells me. “They’ll lose. We know people.”
We know people.
See? The baby has Alessandro too. He doesn’t need me. He’ll never even remember me.
I hand him my card. “Either of them need anything, let me know.”
He studies me again, and I get the feeling he’s calling me a pansy-ass for leaving. Or possibly an idiot for thinking I could have anything Daisy Carter-Kincaid might need.
He opens the door, and a parrot squawks an obscenity at us from a perch near a window. “Get out of here, Frank,” Alessandro says.
The parrot tells him to fuck off, then flutters away.
“We’ll keep you on the guest list until the legal dust settles,” he tells me.
I nod and head for my truck, parked in the same place I put it last night. Or fifty years ago. Feels that long.
“By the way, TMZ has a copy of the will and pictures of both of you.”
My head whips up. “What?”
“Might want to keep your head down.”
Fucker.
He grins.
I flip him off and head for my car.
In all the chaos, I forgot to tell my family.
My sister Keely reads TMZ religiously. I open my truck, climb in, and fire up my phone, which I shut down last night when the battery started getting low. I’m tired, and I don’t want to deal with this. I got approximately forty-five minutes of sleep last night in the sprawling, sea-toned sitting room where the baby fussed and whimpered through the night, with the window open to let in the sea breeze and the sound of the bay outside.
Forty-five minutes of dream-filled sleep about getting summoned into that princess bedroom for a second chance at the striptease, followed by a booty call, courtesy of that flash of seeing Daisy naked at three AM.
She’s wild and unpredictable and annoying and irresponsible and fucking fascinating.
And for two whole minutes, I thought we’d have some fun. Until life happened.
But life with Daisy isn’t happening now. Because I’ve done the date a single mother thing one too many times.
No way I’m getting involved with a woman who just unexpectedly inherited a baby.
No matter what watching her face light up with joy and utter adoration at holding the baby did to that hollow in my chest.
My phone powers up, and a minute later, I get approximately six thousand message notifications. I scroll up, and start at the top of the family group text, and jump in apparently just in time.
Keely: WESTLEY MICHAEL JAEGER, YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE WITH ME. A BABY? You inherited a BABY with a BILLIONAIRE HEIRESS PARTY GIRL and you let us find out from people.com? *angry emoji* *shocked emoji*
Mom: Keely, I told you, that article was about a different Westley Jaeger. Our West would’ve told us if he inherited a baby.
Britney: Mr. I’ll Take Care Of This Myself? No, Mom, he wouldn’t have.
Mom: He didn’t even know that awful woman.
Keely: Yes, he did. Remember? “He strokes paint onto the wall like he’s never satisfied a woman in his life and he probably stuffs his pants with ass padding to make it look that good.”
Mom: Oh, THAT woman? THAT was the woman who left him a BABY? Honey. This is just Tyler setting up another prank.
Allie: God, Keely, did you memorize that review? And Tyler knows a lot of people, but even he can’t hack people.com to put up a prank article about West.
Allie: Wait. Actually, he probably knows someone who could. Tyler, tell me you didn’t set this up.
Tyler: I WISH I set it up. That’s fucking epic. W, did someone else set this up? Who else knows you well enough to pull off the prank of the century?
Britney: West, we know you have your hands full, but if you don’t answer in the next two minutes, we’re organizing a convoy and charging Daisy Carter-Kincaid’s mansion. *sword emoji* *dragon emoji* *knight emoji*
West: You can’t teleport from Chicago, so don’t threaten it. Yes, I inherited the 1-star lady’s kid. No, I don’t know why. Yes, with Daisy. No, you can’t come see the house just because you want to. Sorry I didn’t tell you—be
en a little busy the last twelve hours or so. Don’t get excited—it won’t stick.
Allie: West, I still have Liliana’s high chair. Actually, it’s the last baby thing I have left. Yours if you want it. I’ll ship it, because you’re my favorite big brother, and it’s about time you settled down and gave Mom kids, considering how long you’ve already made her wait.
Keely: DO NOT GIVE AWAY YOUR LAST BABY ITEM OR YOU’LL GET PREGNANT AGAIN, YOU IDIOT. West, I’ll buy you a fucking high chair. DO NOT TAKE ALLIE’S. Also, insensitive much? HELLO, THE SIERRA YEARS. If West wants a baby, I fully support him inheriting one of his own.
Britney: Not touching that Keely said the S-word, but hard agree on the high chair. Don’t take Allie’s. *pacifier emoji* *avocado emoji*
Allie: You guys, Oscar’s fixed. More babies are NOT a concern. And avocado? WTF, Brit? I don’t know what that means.
Allie: OH! Right. Avocado. Good baby food. I got it now.
Keely: *GIF of woman falling over laughing* You’re all nuts, and DAISY CARTER-KINCAID CAN FUCKING AFFORD A HIGH CHAIR. Can we get back to the important part here?
Britney: Keely’s right, Allie. We should talk about the important part. Has Oscar had his semen tested to make sure it’s swimmer-free? Not saying I know from personal experience how important that is, but *baby emoji* *baby emoji* *baby emoji*
Mom: OMD, you’re pregnant with TRIPLETS?
Allie: Mom. It’s O-M-G. Oh My Gosh. G. G. G.
Mom: I like D. It drives your father nuts when I say Oh My Dog. Back to the triplets. OMD, I’m CRYING. Four new grandbabies in one day.
Dad: I’m sitting next to goob reading these sexts too, May Ella. I can creed what you just let’s go to bed.
Dad: Let’s go to bed.
Dad: LET’S GO TO BED.
Dad: What the duck is wrong with my dingaling?
Dad: Dingaling.
Dad: GOOBERSNATCHER BRA BRA LIGHTWEIGHT, Tyler, QUIT MESSING WITH MY DINGAGLING SETTINGS.
Britney: NO! NO I AM NOT PREGNANT AGAIN. *profanity emoji* Jesus. I cut his fucking balls ALL THE WAY OFF after the twins happened. *eggplant emoji* And we get him tested every three weeks to make sure the snip-snip is still working. I just hit the emoji button too many times. Good DOG you people are crazy. *dog emoji* *eye roll emoji*
Tyler: High five, Dad. You keep sexting Mom. But leave us out of it.
West: Are you fuckers done?
Mom: Of course, honey. Though I am taking screenshots of all of this. I’m working on a new set for my show. Netflix asked for a second season. Their demographic testing shows I do well with the middle-aged set, which means I need more funny family stuff. Tyler, I also need you to show me how to do that intentional autocorrect thing with your father’s phone.
Keely: And again, let’s get back to West… *GIF of the three dudes from Three Men and a Baby* You okay, West? F
or real? They’re not talking about taking the baby away from you, are they? Or would you rather not raise him? Either way, we support you.
Britney: God, yes. Let’s talk about West AND THE REAL BABY. *baby emoji* See? ONE BABY. ONE BABY EMOJI. Not coming from my baby making loins. *porkchop emoji* Also, ditto to Keely, West. However you want to play this, we have your back.
Tyler: You need a lawyer, West? I know a guy who knows a guy.
Keely: *GIF of someone popping gum and waiting for the story*
West: Yes. YES. I definitely need to talk to a lawyer. But I hope this lawyer’s better than your last “I know a guy who knows a guy.” He smelled like canned baloney and only won that case because the judge got tired of his burping.
Not true, but if there’s one thing my family’s good at, it’s giving each other shit.
And given how many guys Tyler knows in the whole hockey league who’ve had to do paternity tests—which is somewhere between more guys than I knew in the Marines who had to do paternity tests and the number of times I’ve already seen Daisy bounce up and down in excitement over something—I’m going to assume his lawyer contact is reasonably competent.
And probably expensive.
And very, very ironic.
The last time I tried parenting ended spectacularly horrifically.
But I had zero legal claim that time. I was just the boyfriend. Sierra didn’t want to get married—said she’d done that once and wasn’t doing it again. But when the military ordered me to move from South Carolina to California, I thought she’d change her mind.
That she’d realize I was worth moving for.
Except it turns out, she didn’t love me that much.
I would’ve stayed just for her kids at that point. But she kicked me out. Told me to eat shit and die. And then hit on my best friend.
Wasn’t in much of a place to be a solid father figure after that.
Probably could’ve stayed and fought for her, but at what ultimate price to her and her kids?
My phone dings, pulling me back to the present. Tyler’s sending contact info for a local family law attorney.
Almost a father once with no legal claim.
Now, I have all the legal claim, but no moral reason to stay. “Just love him,” I whisper to Daisy. “Love the shit out of him.”
I had my doubts when I got here.
I had my doubts overnight.
But that soft but overwhelmed smile that crept over her face when she finally took the baby and looked down at him in her arms?
That’s not something money can buy.
My gut says that kid’s going to get the only thing I thought I could offer him.
And so I tell my family I’m bowing out—that it’s for the best—put my truck in gear, and head back out the way I came.
Past all the mansions. A golf course. Condos. Palm trees. People in colorful clothes out for jogs or walks along the golf cart trails winding along the road. A group of ladies on a patio overlooking the miniature golf course, all gossiping and holding out their pinky fingers while they sip their coffee. Glimpsing a little row of shops beyond that carved rooster near the gate.
And I head back to what I’m supposed to be doing.
Getting my footing after the Marines. Fixing up an old gym. Living life on the beach.
And apparently not having a family anytime soon.
Nine
Daisy
If it wasn’t for Lucinda, I would be falling apart. But she bustles in two minutes after Alessandro escorted West out of my room, like she wasn’t up mere hours ago hunting down a rocking chair in the middle of the night.
She holds the baby while I shower quickly, and when I’m ready to face the day, he’s sleeping peacefully in a large basket lined with a soft but thin pillow.
And so I do what I do best—I dive into faking my way through this.
I call up a personal shopper I know, explain what I need, and she assures me she’ll have a nursery arranged before dinnertime, complete with a wardrobe to get a Miami baby through the holidays. Then it’s on to searching for nannies, which is new territory, but I’ve phone interviewed three nanny agencies before ten, and have in-person meetings set with the executive directors of my two favorites.
My personal assistant shows up mid-morning with crates of diapers, wipes, and formula, and by the time I’m done interviewing the two nanny services, I feel like I have everything under control.
It helps that Lucinda’s been playing babysitter.
She has four grandchildren and adores babies, but also loves giving them back to their parents at the end of her days with them.
Apparently it’s the true joy of grandparenting. Or so she tells me.
In any case, by the time my doorbell chimes out its trumpet blast halfway through the afternoon, I’m on top of the world.
I am rocking this guardian thing.
But a few minutes later, the sour expression on my grandmother’s face suggests she doesn’t see it. She marches into my office, where I’ve finally sat down to catch up on work emails, and announces, “The Rodericks have form
ally filed a challenge to the will.”
“Wow.” I glance at my dick clock—one of my mom’s pieces of art, which hangs proudly opposite the wall of windows overlooking the beach. Three PM. “Took longer than I thought it would.”
“Where’s Mr. Jaeger?”
“He left. I got this.”
My grandmother peels her reading glasses off in that way that spells doom and tilts her chin down in a way that spells you are so fucked, Daisy.
“You do not got this,” she informs me in that voice that offers not even a sliver of a crack to weasel in an argument.
Like that’s ever stopped me. “Pretty sure I do. Remy’s sleeping. We have a nursery nearly all set up. Nannies lined up for interviews, and—”
“And you have a reputation that will not stand up in a court of family law.”
“Gram-gram. No judge anywhere is going to look at Anthony and Margot Roderick and see anything but a man who’d sell his own wife for partial ownership of a whiskey distillery and a woman whose idea of charity is looking the other way when she sees someone carrying a no-name purse while dressed in knock-offs of last season’s styles. We’ll just have Derek massage my reputation, and—”
“And Westley Jaeger is a decorated retired Marine running his own business who makes you look more legitimate, no massaging required. Get him back.”
I gape at her, because there’s nothing else to do in this situation.
My grandmother does not invite non-family people to family events.
Specifically, to the raising of Carter family children. Control freak, thy name is Imogen Carter.
