Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

  I nod. And hesitate in handing him over, holding him close instead of moving toward her outstretched arms, because I don’t like what I need to do today.

  Namely, leave.

  Not a good sign. Don’t get attached. Don’t get attached. Don’t get fucking attached, you idiot.

  “Yeah. I need to…” I trail off, gesturing to the door.

  “Of course. Go on.” She bends over him, trying to take him again, but once more, I can’t quite let him go. “Aunt Daisy has this. Don’t I, you adorable little heartbreaker?”

  Remy coos at her.

  “We’re going to have so much fun! Tummy time and reading books and taking naps and eating bottles! And maybe we’ll even go take a stroll through the village, but not eat any shrimp. Won’t we? Yes, we will.”

  “Great. Thanks. Here.” As I’m about to finally surrender the baby, his lips part, then twist. His eyeballs cross, and a moment later, an unmistakable sound explodes from beneath his butt that I can feel clearly in the palm of my hand.

  He shifts like he’s really grinding into it, and another butt-plosion rockets against my hand.

  Daisy freezes, but she also grins. “Let it all out, dude. Gas like that can’t feel good. We all get it.”

  “He’s not passing gas.”

  “We’re all humans here. I pass gas. You pass gas. The baby can pass gas if he wants to pass gas. No judgment. This?” She circles her hand around her office, and I notice the paperweight on her desk is also a crystal penis. “This is a judgment-free zone.”

  I put my finger on the tip of my nose.

  “Exactly,” she declares. “Judgment-free zones are important.”

  “Not it,” I reply.

  “Not it?”

  Shit. Now I’m being a shithead. But if she’s serious—if she wants to raise this baby—then it’s about time she gets a real taste for what she’s in for. “He didn’t pass gas, and I’m not it.”

  “What are you—” Her lip curls and her nose wrinkles as the scent of a baby’s finest byproduct finally hits her.

  I still haven’t taken my finger off my nose, because this is a time-honored Jaeger tradition that started when my first niece was born thirteen years ago. “Like I said, not it.”

  “Oh my god, what is that?” She flies to the window and flings it open, waving a hand as the cool breeze off the ocean rolls into the room.

  “Apparently the kind of diaper you haven’t had to change yet.”

  She’s still fanning her nose, her eyes—which are a brilliant green today—wide and twitching at the edges. Either she’s trying to force them into submission to telegraph that she has this under control, or the scent coming out of Remy’s diaper is about to kill her.

  “This explains everything.” She inhales, coughs, and fans her face again. “He’s the chosen one. He has the power. His butt is a bioweapon, and my grandmother wants to harness it for the power of taking over the world with her undead army.”

  Despite not wanting to, I grin. I can’t not. She’s hilarious. “My sisters tell me breastmilk poop is different than formula poop.”

  “Don’t take this from me, Westley. He’s the chosen one. His butt hath declared itself so. I bow before greatness. Remington Nathaniel Roderick, I am your humble servant. Please be kind and merciful, sir.”

  Utterly outrageous. I choke back a laugh. “Congratulations, Aunt Daisy. You’re up.”

  She straightens and squares her bare shoulders. “Damn right. Hand him over.”

  In those stilettos, she’s almost as high as my chest. There’s no evidence of the lingering rash from her seafood reaction the other day, which either means she has killer makeup, or she has magic fast-healing skin.

  She’s also really fucking hot when she’s marching into battle.

  We’ll slay for you, your holy sexiness, my balls crow.

  She leans into me again, her hands brushing my arm and chest. My cock twitches. My mouth goes dry. And no amount of foul diaper in the world could keep me from wanting to touch her cheeks to see if they’re as soft as they look.

  But she’s off-limits. I told her so, and she’s not trying to hit on me this morning, and the only reason she’s next to me is to pick up Remy.

  Whom she’s pulling close despite the diaper that’s overflowing. “Thank you. I’ve got him from here. See you around six.”

  Fuck.

  I’m dismissed.

  By a woman who’s braving the diaper of doom, which is the last thing I’d expect from the Daisy Carter-Kincaid of the tabloids.

  This woman—she has more layers than I want to admit. Than I should admit.

  I brush a thumb over Remy’s forehead. “Later, kiddo. Be good for Aunt Daisy.”

  Leaving is the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. But I have to.

  Noooooo, my nuts wail as I head out to my truck. I need to get over and check on the beach house, plus grab a few more things before hitting the gym for what will likely be my last week on the job there.

  My phone rings as I’m firing up the engine. I’ve been ignoring most of the family group texts—other than to reiterate that none of my family should fly down, that we need “time to adjust” before they invade—but I can’t ignore phone calls.

  And though there’s over a decade between Tyler and me, he’s still the only brother I have.

  I answer through the truck’s speaker system and hit the road. “What are you doing up this early?”

  “Haven’t been to bed yet,” he replies happily. “Win like we did last night, it’s party central all night long. Morning skate’s gonna be a bitch.”

  I smile. Miss the little fucker. “What you get.”

  “Dude. Level with me. You okay?”

  “Just fine.”

  “What’s Becca think of all of this?”

  My shoulders hitch, but I make them relax and wave to a lady out for a jog along the perfectly landscaped Bluewater golf cart trail. “Becca’s dating someone.”

  There’s a beat of silence. Doesn’t take much to picture my little brother smothering a not-surprised laugh.

  Our sisters like to tell me I’m romance novel fodder—but, West, usually it’s the GIRL who has all kinds of bad dates.

  “Ah, fuck her,” Ty finally says. “Shit. Shit. West. Dude. Tell me you’re not falling for Daisy. Don’t go there, man. You know better. Fuck. We’re not in Miami for another couple weeks. I can’t come kick your ass. Fuck.”

  “I’m not falling for Daisy.” On purpose.

  She’s hard to not like. Even when I’m frustrated with her for any number of things, she’s so—so—fun.

  If there wasn’t the complication of Remy, I could honestly see myself letting loose and having fun with her.

  But ultimately, I want to settle down. She never will.

  “Westley.”

  “I’m not falling for Daisy,” I repeat. “The legal situation—I shouldn’t have ever been named in that will, and everyone knows it. But dude—that kid—his parents died. His paternal grandparents are nutcases who think he’d be a possession, not a person. His great-grandmother is—Daisy jokes she’s an immortal dark being, which doesn’t feel too far from the truth. Best I can tell, she’s his most sane immediate relative. Daisy Carter-Kincaid. She’s the sane one.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t get attached, West. Don’t do it. Actually, you know what? Walk away. Fucking walk away. People like Daisy—she can get all the help she needs. She doesn’t have to break you in the process.”

  “She’s not going to break me.”

  “You should’ve moved up here with me. The guys—lots of sisters. Lots of bunnies. We’d get you hooked up, find you a normal girl. Normal’s basically overrated, but we’d get through the awkward first date, settle down, and have kids of your own. Get you past Sierra—”

  “I’m fucking over Sierra.”

  “Mara,” he tosses out.

  “Didn’t know she had a kid, only went out wit
h her twice.”

  “Becca.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Daisy.”

  “Not falling for Daisy. That would be crazy.”

  “Dude. I’m not saying abandon the kid, but I am saying you don’t have to wear the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore. You’re retired. You’re single. Go have some fucking fun—with someone who’s not Daisy, which is a fucking shame, because she’s basically the most fun you can have legally outside of skydiving in go-karts—and don’t apologize for it.”

  I’m gripping the steering wheel too tight. The ocean view, the palm trees, the Miami skyline—none of it is soothing and tropical and relaxing right now. “How do you know Daisy’s fun?”

  “I read the gossip rags. Berger got me hooked on them. Fucker’s a celebrity gossip junkie. Also, Mom’s booking a ticket to fly down.”

  “No.”

  “You need someone there to protect you from yourself.”

  “I’m not getting attached.”

  “Sure. If you say so.”

  I’d be pissed that he’s calling me a liar if I didn’t know he was right. “And there’s no reason for Mom to get attached. This legal stuff—”

  “Go on and keep telling yourself that’s your reason you don’t want us there. But that’s what family’s for. For being there when the shit hits the fan.”

  “There’s no shit. Swear to god, there’s no shit. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Worried about you, bro.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Except all day, while I’m working, I keep thinking about Remy.

  His wide yawn. The way his dark eyes cross as he’s falling asleep on a bottle. The way he shouts when he waves his fist in front of his face, like he’s telling it to go somewhere but can’t figure out where. Those moments when he stares into my eyes like he’s trying to tell me something, and he wants me to confirm that he’s right.

  And then I think about Daisy.

  Her legs wrapped around me. The smile on her face when she’s talking to Remy or looking at him. Her confession about how she was raised, which was less about her parents and more about how it affected her.

  What would a woman with as big a personality as Daisy’s do if she believed in love?

  I shake my head, because it doesn’t matter.

  What matters is that I’m effectively a temporary babysitter for a woman who’s emotionally unavailable.

  If I let myself believe anything more than that, I’m going to get burned.

  Twenty-Two

  Daisy

  I am in so over my head.

  Remy cries for two hours straight after West leaves. He doesn’t want a bottle. He doesn’t want tummy time. He doesn’t want to read a book or take a nap or rock or go in a baby carrier or the stroller or sit on my lap.

  It’s not until I change his diaper again and see the red marks on his little waist that I realize I wrapped his diaper too tight around him, and I break down in tears knowing that I hurt him, which makes him sob harder too.

  We both get through it—him with a bottle, me with frozen yogurt since the baby books say you shouldn’t drink while alone with a baby—and I manage to get a little work done, as well as interview three nannies, none of whom I like.

  They’re all perfectly lovely, but apparently I’m having some control issues, and I’m not ready to trust anyone else with my baby if I don’t click immediately.

  Which is another conversation I need to have with myself. Or perhaps a therapist.

  Remy and I also don’t get out to stroll through the village and visit with Steve the Alligator and see people, because I’m weirdly too exhausted to contemplate packing up his stroller and how I’ll handle it if he poops in public.

  Also, he spends the last two hours of the evening fighting a bottle, then fighting a nap, and generally wailing his heart out. Lucinda comes in to check on us, points out that the nipple’s plugged on the bottle, tells me I’m doing a good job, and disappears like perhaps my grandmother has threatened to fire her on my behalf if she doesn’t make me learn this motherhood thing myself.

  I’m going to freaking put a wooden stake through her heart and end this undead hypnotizer of the world thing she has going on.

  When West gets back early evening, I somehow find it in me to force a smile and tell him we had the most fabulous day together, and wait until he sees what Remy picked out during our shopping spree.

  Which didn’t happen, but it’s what West expects to hear, right?

  Plus, it makes me sound like a vapid shopaholic with no redeeming qualities, which I’m sure helps him immensely since he’s tilting his head the way he does when he’s concentrating and looking at me like he’s concerned about me as a person, and we can’t have that. He and I need to get along on superficial terms.

  Not on Are you okay? terms.

  Are you okay? terms are dangerous for the heart. And connections. And he’s made it clear I’m not welcome in the heart region.

  Fine by me. I don’t let anyone in my heart region either.

  He was completely and totally right when he said we needed to not get involved, and I owe him this much.

  Besides, I have a bigger issue to worry about.

  Namely, how the fuck I’m going to actually do this mothering thing.

  As soon as West and Remy disappear, I fly up the stairs to my room and change into body armor.

  Also known as my ivory business suit.

  I hate the ivory business suit. It’s so…so…so much like what The Dame wears every day.

  But it’s necessary. So are the pearls. The diamond brooch from my paternal great-grandmother. The pantyhose. Pantyhose. I’m wearing fucking pantyhose and the boring-ass please-don’t-ever-fuck-me pumps.

  Seriously.

  They’re more effective than a chastity belt.

  I also call Emily and beg her for Derek to do my hair. She declines—politely, which of course I expected, since Derek only does her hair—but she also gets me an emergency last-minute appointment with Maxim, her other favorite stylist who’s actually a real stylist, and not just a trained-at-home dude who uses his skills to seduce his woman.

  My friends’ significant others are all super hot in super weird ways that I never would’ve expected, and I love them all, which I can do, because it’s friend-love, and not love-love.

  I take a selfie and send it to Cam—queen of the business suit, whose ass I will never be able to compete with—and she assures me that once I’ve had my hair done, I’ll look so professional that even the professionalist professional wouldn’t realize my favorite pastime is doing body shots off baseball players.

  I text Luna just because there’s something about her that always makes me feel one with the earth, and I need to borrow some of her pure, awesome Luna energy.

  And two hours after I hand off Remy, I’m strolling across the velvet carpet lining the marble floor of the high-windowed gallery in The Dame’s castle—I mean home—toward her office in the east wing. Framed paintings of flamingoes, monkeys, crocodiles, and poodles—don’t ask—line the opposite wall and watch me like they know I’m a total poser.

  You only have money because you have your family name behind you, the flamingo mocks.

  You’re going to fail this baby test, the poodle sniffs.

  And here I thought I got lots of sleep last night.

  Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need less sleep so the animals in the portraits won’t talk to me anymore.

  I knock once at the massive double doors then twist the wrought-iron handle. “Evening, Grammykins. We need to talk.”

  Except my grandmother isn’t in her office.

  “Miss Daisy?” One of her security team peeks into the room behind me, and I school my features behind one of my normal smiles, like everything’s just fine.

  “Barry. Hi. How’s the baby?”

  His dark face splits in a grin, and he whips out his phone to flip through a slideshow of the second most adorab
le baby on the planet.

  “Aww, look at those curls! Mimi recovering okay?”

  “She’s amazing.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it. Do you happen to know where my grandmother is?”

  “On her way to Japan, Miss Daisy.”

  Oh, fuck. I forgot about Japan.

  And there goes a mini panic attack in my stomach. It feels like there’s a jousting match going on between my liver and my appendix.

  I should be on that plane to Japan, because I can’t even change a diaper and feed a bottle right.

  How the fuck can I raise a baby?

  Barry smiles knowingly. “That lack of sleep gets you every time, doesn’t it? They’re worth it though.” He claps a meaty hand to my shoulder and squeezes, and for a split second, I want to ask if he wants two babies.

  Which of course I won’t. Because there’s another entirely different swell of panic rising at the thought of not seeing that gummy smile ever again.

  I’m a total mess.

  And I need people. And work. And for someone else to hire a nanny. And preferably for me to not have to have West around to witness my complete and utter failure at this motherhood thing.

  Because I realized something today.

  My grandmother didn’t call me to chew me out about West telling her we were married.

  He’s my grandmother’s spy.

  I smile at the security guard. “Thanks, Barry. You let me know if the Gramigenarian isn’t paying you enough.” I wink, he chuckles, and tells me to take my time and snag a nap here before I go home if I need it.

  I might actually need it, but more, I need to talk to my grandmother.

  It’s a long drive back to my house. Alessandro, who normally keeps his cool during everything, flips off three drivers and cuts six more off in the horrible Miami traffic, like maybe he’s channeling my mood. He tells me he’s not getting the spy vibes off West, but he could be wrong. But finally, with just barely enough time before I’m due for my next shift with Remy—god help me—we get back to my house.