Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

  I dash to my office, double-check my game face, then I dial my grandmother’s number for a video chat.

  She answers on the seventh ring. She’s in her private jet, and she has the pursed-lip look of annoyance that should warn me not to push my luck.

  “Where’s Remington?”

  “With West. You know. Your favorite grandson.”

  “Were I to get to choose my grandchildren, Mr. Jaeger would not be my first choice.”

  “No? Because you didn’t have a fit about him telling you we got married.”

  “I don’t have fits.”

  I study her closely.

  She studies me right back.

  Something wrong is going on here. My grandmother doesn’t get attached to people outside the family—not people she hasn’t hand-picked herself, anyway—but while she was frosty as Antarctica in that video Tiana showed me of West facing her down the day I had my allergic reaction, she also hasn’t ordered him out of my life.

  My grandmother is freaking playing me.

  And he probably is a spy. “Sure. Anyway, I’m calling to let you know I’m going back to work tomorrow.” I have to. I need to. I can’t work from home and do my job effectively, and more, I can’t work here alone all day with a non-verbal dictator who’s adorable and fascinating and perfect, but a dictator nonetheless.

  “No.”

  “Granerella. What kind of example are we setting if women can’t work with babies? I can take Remington with me. There’s a daycare center two floors beneath my office. And it’s not like I’m breastfeeding or recovering from childbirth. I’m perfectly capable of doing my job and raising a baby too.”

  I’m actually not, but I’m not about to admit that to her.

  I get things done because people think I know what I’m talking about.

  I don’t.

  I’m a total and complete fraud. I barely graduated high school. I only graduated college because my father made friends with half my professors and bribed them. And my grandmother only hired me into the family business because of a massive risk I took that could’ve fallen apart at any second, but didn’t, mostly because she put her stamp of approval on it, thus negating any reason for anyone to fear I was bullshitting them.

  And now, she’s studying me like I’ve actually made a solid point.

  So I do what I always do, and I forge ahead. “The sooner we can demonstrate that I’m balancing a career with being a good mother to Remington, the more likely it is all the Rodericks’ legal challenges will go up in flames. Plus, Carter International Properties will be seen as a leader in the changing world of working mothers. I mean, I can’t promise you the cover of Time again, but…”

  She leans back like she wants to cross her arms and glower at me, but her pupils dilate, and I know I’ve got her.

  She fucking loves being on magazine covers.

  “You’re not traveling overseas for business anytime soon,” she informs me.

  Dammit. That’s the other thing I miss. But I’ve been weirdly too busy to think about the mini-vacation in Bali that I can’t make anymore either, which is also a sign that my life is way out of whack. “Babies can travel.”

  “I sincerely doubt any judge will approve Remington leaving the country when his guardianship is in question.”

  Oh. Fuck.

  Didn’t think about that.

  “How many private detectives do you have working on digging up blackmail dirt to get the Rodericks to back off? They’ll be done within a week.”

  “They will never back off.”

  I bite my tongue, because Oh. Right. Because you wouldn’t either is probably not the best thing to say right now.

  Also, I sort of might have missed mentioning that part to West, and thank fuck he’s not standing in my doorway overhearing this conversation right now.

  “You have a home office,” she adds. “Use it.”

  “I have a personal connection to my staff, and they’re more motivated when they see me.”

  That, I know is true. I haven’t actually done the dealing in my grandmother’s real estate company in several years. Instead, I’ve empowered the people who work for me to do it in her name, and I just give them what they need to succeed.

  Whether that’s a wall of frozen yogurt in the break room for morale, an ear to listen while they vent about a coworker or a project hitch, or a suggestion of which part of the real estate world we should conquer next—expanding from just office buildings to hotels, spas, and wineries was my idea, but implemented by my staff until they needed someone at the VP level to sign off—I’ve basically been the person making sure they all have what they need to get their jobs done.

  She frowns deeper. “Two days a week in the office to start. Otherwise, you’re at your house. No parties. No more animal photo shoots, and no questionable activities of any kind. Nothing to give the Rodericks any firepower or any hint of a suggestion that you’re doing anything beyond balancing motherhood and a day job. And do not endanger Mr. Jaeger’s position in your household. He’s currently the only thing making you look legitimate.”

  I. Am. So. Fucked.

  No small part of me wants to flip her off and walk out the door.

  But…working for Carter International Properties isn’t just a job.

  It’s the first thing I’ve ever been proud of.

  I love having fun. Love partying. Love meeting new people. Love shopping and yachting and skydiving and skiing. But watching my employees utterly light up when a deal they’ve worked so hard on all falls into place? Being there when they tour a new hotel under construction and see firsthand what their hard work is leading to?

  That’s a part of my life I can’t see giving up either.

  And it’s not like I can just walk into another real estate office and offer to be a vice president.

  Who would take me seriously?

  No one.

  “Fine,” I agree. “Two days a week. But just so you know, I’ll be back to five days a week and traveling within a month. The Rodericks are going down. And I’m going to rock motherhood like it’s never been rocked before.”

  “No pictures with Remington on the internet either, Daisy. He’s the next generation in this family. Always remember that.”

  I rarely wonder why my mother gave my grandmother the bird, walked away from her own inheritance, and went into penis art. It’s pretty fucking obvious.

  Right now, I’m tempted to flip her the bird myself.

  But seeing as I can’t even change a diaper right, I’m in no position to pack Remy up and jet off to a private island where he can grow up wild and free to be whatever he wants.

  I hang up with the Graminator just as West knocks at my office door. “Ready? He needs a bath.”

  Fuuuuuuck. “Are you my grandmother’s spy?”

  He pins me with a look that says I’ve lost my marbles, and possibly that he’s insulted to boot. “Your grandmother is the Antichrist.”

  “She likes you.”

  “I’m not into cougars. Especially the undead ones.”

  It’s not often I try not to laugh, but I have this horrible feeling that letting him see how amused I am by his joke is a terrible idea. I can’t see him working for my grandmother either, but I do honestly believe she likes him, which is the most disconcerting thought I’ve had in my entire life.

  “You okay?” West asks.

  I reach for Remy, who’s squirming and making that pinched-up face that suggests he’s not happy about something, and it’s now my job to determine exactly how to make him happy.

  I want to make you happy, baby Remy. I do…

  I just don’t know how.

  “Totally fine,” I tell West. “Just missed this little guy.”

  It’s the weirdest truth. I did miss him.

  And I don’t know how I’m going to get through taking care of him all night tonight, but I’ll make it or fake it.

  It’s what I do.

  Twenty-Three

  West<
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  For the rest of the week, I only see Daisy at designated handoff times, which are usually first thing in the morning or right after office hours.

  She doesn’t send Remy through any of her staff, but instead, delivers him to me herself with updates about how fussy he’s been, how much formula he’s had, when he last napped, and what new legal proceedings the Rodericks have started.

  By mid-week, I start to understand how she’s so successful. There’s not a single handoff where I don’t feel like I’m not getting the better end of the deal—even the handoff late Friday where she informs me that social services wants to schedule an appointment to make sure we’re providing a safe, healthy environment for Remy—and she does it all with a smile that makes me feel like I’ve just been blessed by the sun.

  I finish the gym renovation job, and I try to not obsess over the fact that I cannot shake the image of her pulling off her wet tank top in the pool, while reminding myself that keeping things platonic between us is best for the baby.

  And for me.

  And for her.

  I have no idea if she obsesses over me while she’s there, because I can’t read minds, and even if I could, I don’t see her enough to try brain-reading.

  That’s what we’re doing.

  We’re living together, but separately, because she asked me to be here to lend credibility to her mothering skills.

  It’s fucked up, but we’re falling into a routine, all while I remind myself not to get attached and somehow miss her all at the same time.

  My family texts every day for updates. Becca texts once to ask if there’s anything else she can drop off for us.

  The Graminator—yes, I’ve started calling her that too—drops by late Friday. Or so I’m told by the housekeeper. Imogen Carter apparently doesn’t want to see me any more than I want to see her, and the more I think about it, the weirder I feel about Daisy’s assertion that Imogen likes me.

  Or her accusation that I’d actually work for her grandmother.

  I’m ignoring that and concentrating on what I need to do for Remy first. I swear he changes every day. He’s smiling more. Cooing more. Pooping more.

  His legs are losing that bow-legged look that my sisters tell me is a side effect of being folded up in the womb for so many months before birth, and his thighs are starting to chunk out.

  His hair is thinning in back, where he lays on his head for fourteen hours a day.

  Daisy took him to the doctor after finding his medical records and discovering he was overdue for his two-month checkup.

  And shots.

  Fuck, that was a long night.

  Hell, it’s a long week, and I’m not even doing most of the parenting.

  Daisy is.

  Which is also dangerously attractive.

  Who would’ve thought a partying heiress would take so well to instant motherhood?

  But she does. And I’m just going about my life trying to be nothing more than a guy enjoying a different beach house.

  I wake up Sunday morning to thunder outside and a perfunctory knock at the door.

  Shit.

  I overslept. And I told Daisy I’d take Remy this morning because she has a date.

  The thought makes me growl way more than I have any right to as I leap up, quickly straightening the covers because old habits die hard, and I’ve made my bed every day of my adult life. Basic training drilled it into me. Retirement doesn’t mean I can let it go.

  But instead of Daisy, three men I recognize by reputation and folklore walk into my bedroom.

  The shortest of the three—who’s still nearly as tall as I am—is carrying Remy.

  At least, I hope that’s Remy, and not another child I’ve unknowingly temporarily inherited.

  “Ah, good. You’re up,” he says with hints of a clipped British accent.

  “That’s good?” the blond tree trunk with a military buzz cut says.

  “Not good,” the blond tree trunk with the thick beard says. “I wanted to have the honors.”

  “Gentlemen, we’re giving him the benefit of the doubt for the moment. Also—” the dark-haired one holds the baby out to me.

  I reach for him automatically, and all three men put their fingers to their noses.

  “Forking shirt,” I mutter, because I’m trying to cuss less around Remy.

  “He soiled himself after we relieved Daisy of him,” the ringleader says. “In case you’re tempted to blame her. Derek Price. Pleasure to meet you. Finally.”

  “I’d shake, but my hands are full,” I say dryly.

  “Not as full as they’re about to be,” Beard says. “Beck Mason.”

  Beck—he’s the one who works with animals. “The cats?”

  “All Daisy’s now.”

  “I’ve noticed.” The gray tabby—Elvira—sleeps on my bed most nights.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Not at all. I love having cats watch me shower and trip me on my way to take a piss.” That’s Twinkle Toes. The previously puking cat that Daisy’s housekeeper tells me is now on a special sensitive stomach diet.

  “Weird, but if that’s what you like,” Mysterious Military Man says. “Jude Ellis. Don’t piss me off.”

  I carry Remy to the changing table in the next room. Even though this is temporary, it’s set up like it’s permanent. Crib, changing table, baby swing, play mat—twin to everything Daisy has in her quarters.

  I tell myself it’s where the nanny will eventually go, because I need to remind myself I’m temporary. A few months, Daisy says. Maybe shorter if she gets enough positive press about what a great guardian she’s become.

  The men all follow me into the baby’s room.

  “I have four sisters,” I tell them. “Go on. Get the inquisition over with so we can go have a beer.”

  “No inquisition,” Derek assures me. “We’ve already checked your background thoroughly.”

  “And tailed you to work,” Jude adds.

  “And interrogated the cats about how you act when no one’s watching,” Beck chimes in. He doesn’t blink.

  Or crack a grin.

  But he does crack a knuckle.

  I have a moment of honestly believing he can communicate with felines. And I don’t trust Twinkle Toes to not tell lies about me.

  Shit.

  I need more sleep. I haven’t even been pulling most of the overnighters, but I still need more sleep.

  “What can I do for you three this morning?” I ask while I prep for diaper duty.

  “We merely wanted to get to know you better, since it appears you’ll be in Daisy’s life for a while,” Derek says.

  Clearly the smooth-talker of the group, and this storyline of you’ll be in Daisy’s life for a while is making my shoulders hitch. Every day, I get a little more attached.

  Every day, I start to believe a little more that Daisy wants help.

  From me.

  Even when she’s being perfectly cheerful and professional—not a word I would’ve pinned to her that first night, or even the second—there’s this look in her eyes.

  Like she’s not entirely certain she’s doing it right.

  “You know Daisy well?” I ask.

  “Helped her out of a jam a few years back. Jude and Beck are newer friends, but it doesn’t take long to fall in love with Daisy.”

  “Your ladies know you’re interested in their friend?”

  “She’s like a sister,” Beck informs me.

  “Sometimes annoying, sometimes awesome, always lovable,” Jude agrees.

  “Unless she’s skinny-dipping.”

  “In Cam’s pool.”

  “Caught her in Luna’s too.”

  “I found her in Emily’s shower,” Derek says.

  All three of us look at him.

  “She was taking photos of the showerheads to show a contractor at some condo complex what sort of fixtures she wanted. Emily has such exquisite taste in showers. And showerheads. And showering companions.”<
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  “Are you talking about yourself, or about watching Emily shower with Daisy?” A week of diaper duty has made me a pro, so I’m already picking Remy up off the table as I ask the question.

  Self-preservation.

  None of them will punch me for the question if I’m holding a baby.

  But all three of them pause thoughtfully, as though it wouldn’t surprise them to find Daisy showering with any of their girlfriends, and they’re not opposed to the idea of watching.

  “You all have issues,” I tell them.

  All three crack grins.

  “You might be okay,” Beck says.

  “More okay if you get us tickets to the Florida-Thrusters game,” Derek muses.

  “Hockey tickets? That’s your price?”

  “That and a cheeseburger,” Beck agrees.

  “And a full run-down of your intentions toward Daisy,” Jude adds.

  “I intend to be a good co-guardian to Remy. Period. Dot. End of story.” At least, as much as I can say of the story. Not really my place to rat her out to her friends if they want to believe I’m the kind of guy who’d stick around for eighteen years for a kid that I don’t actually have a legit claim to.

  Except I’m starting to think I would.

  Derek cocks a brow at me. “Fairly boring story.”

  “She not pretty enough for you?” Beck asks.

  Jude folds his arms over his chest. “You believe all that crap about her reputation?”

  I shrug. “Don’t care what she does, unless it impacts Remy.”

  At least, in an ideal world I wouldn’t care.

  The truth is more complicated, and it involves asking these three the secret handshake to getting in on scaring the fuck out of anyone who’d look at her wrong.

  I’m no slouch. I still work out, because I’m not old until Tyler can out-bench me, and I refuse to get old for at least forty more years.

  But I’m also not stupid, nor am I the biggest guy in the room. Both Beck and Jude have some inches and some girth on me.

  In height and muscles.

  My cock can hold its own here, I’m positive.

  Point is, I could probably not embarrass myself in an arm-wrestling match with any of them individually—including Derek—and I could handle any of Daisy’s potential boyfriends just as well as they could, but four of us teaming up would weed out the real jackasses quick.