by Grant, Pippa
It’s Daisy’s, and I’m just trespassing temporarily until she’s overcome the legal challenges presented so she can keep Remy.
And getting more and more attached to the little guy every day.
He found his hands this week. Spent hours watching himself flex his fists, then more hours trying to grab a parrot hanging on the play mat someone sent as a gift.
Overall, he’s a happy kid. And I fucking miss him.
When I finally pull up to the D mansion, the sky is fading from dusky rose to deep purple over the palm trees. I was supposed to get Remy thirty minutes ago, and my phone has been blowing up in my cupholder the entire ride.
I’m already late, so I check the messages I’ve missed.
Mom: Westley, enough is enough. I’m booking a flight to come see you.
Tyler: Aw, Ma, you just want to soak up the Miami rays and have an excuse to hang around long enough to see me play there weekend after next, don’t you?
Allie: Yeah, she wants to be there to hug you and tell you it’s okay when you wipe out and lose.
Keely: Solid burn!
Britney: Nice, but not productive. West, Mom’s right. You can’t treat this like it’s Sierra Part Two and you’re trying not to get attached. You legally inherited a baby. You’re retired and not moving. And even if god forbid something awful happens, WE’RE YOUR FUCKING FAMILY and you don’t have to protect us. It’s OUR job to protect YOU.
Tyler: Wow. That was deep.
Mom: I also read that Daisy Carter-Kincaid was caught getting trashed at a brunch the other day.
Dad: I want to lick your pussy.
Dad: Tyler is my favorite child.
Dad: I AM GOING TO BANANA-RAMA-JAM-JAM YOU, Tyler is my favorite child.
Allie: NICE on the text replacement prank, Mom.
Mom: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Tyler’s always reprogramming your father’s phone, not me. Westley, where are you? Do I need to call?
Britney: He’s probably stuck in Miami traffic. Or dead. Their drivers are worse than Chicago drivers.
Mom: *gif of angry yelling cartoon mom*
Dad: *gif of Tyler tripping and sliding on the ice into Ares Berger’s ass*
Britney: *gif of woman spitting drink*
Allie: *gif of baby falling over laughing*
Keely: *eye roll emoji* I’m calling *dragon emoji* and we’re booking tickets, because while you yahoos are having fun, WEST IS DEALING WITH A SERIOUS BABY ISSUE, and SOMEONE needs to be there for him.
Mom: *gif of a chastised woman*
Britney: *gif of cute cat asking for forgiveness*
Allie: *gif of embarrassed dog saying sorry*
Dad: *gif of an iguana farting in a bathtub*
Dad: Whoops. That was supposed to be I AM NOT WORTHY TO LICK THE FEET OF THE GREAT MAY ELLA JAEGER.
Dad: I AM NOT WORTHY TO LICK THE FEET OF THE GREAT MAY ELLA JAEGER.
Dad: *middle finger emoji*
The texts stop, and I realize I’m sitting here half-smiling at my insane family, despite not wanting the reminder of Sierra nor all of them to come meet a baby that won’t be in my life long. But Keely’s threat to call The Dragon, aka Staci, our non-texting sister, means things are serious.
I shoot them a quick message telling them I haven’t died in Miami traffic, and that they should hold off on making plans until after the social worker comes to check us out next week. Who knows if Daisy will still need me after that?
Odds are good it’ll go amazing, because Daisy’s rocking this parenting thing, and the social worker will tell the judge that the will should stand as is.
And then I’ll be gone.
My stomach dips.
After another quick text to Daisy telling her I got stuck in traffic and I’m on my way, I climb out of my truck and trudge up to the now-familiar huge oak double doors. I barely notice the curved glass staircase, the slate floor, the four cats that dash out to check on me, and the arched windows that I pass on my way to my bedroom.
But I notice what’s waiting for me in the sitting room.
Daisy, leaning back in the round hot pink chair that vaguely resembles a strawberry, her feet propped up on the glass coffee table next to her phone, Remy resting against her thighs while he holds her thumbs and she covers his face with his fists, then pulls them away, whispering, “Peekaboo!” and making him giggle, which in turn makes her giggle.
Over. And over. And over.
Her hair’s light purple now. And shorter. And hanging loose around her face, which is only lightly covered with makeup. Mascara and lipstick and nothing else.
She’s in red stilettos, leopard-print leggings and a black tank top that don’t go at all with Remy’s little sailor outfit, and everything about this picture is so fucking natural that the damn muscle in my chest that I’ve been keeping cooped up gives a big, loud, powerful thump.
I never thought I’d see the day when I’d call purple hair and leopard print leggings natural, but on Daisy, they are.
That’s who she is.
Bright.
Unpredictable.
Crazy.
And just so Daisy.
I swallow hard, because I can’t deny it anymore.
She’s not a vapid party girl.
She’s a smart businesswoman who works hard and plays hard and loves hard, no matter the wild front she puts out to the world. There’s no faking that shine in her eyes when Remy giggles. It’s the same shine I’ve seen time and again on my sisters’ faces when they’ve brought home all their babies—the biological and the adopted.
Love isn’t about blood.
And blood isn’t always about love.
But Daisy—she loves that baby. Not because she has to. But because how could she not?
Hell, who am I kidding?
I don’t recognize the glow because of my sisters. I recognize the glow because of me. I’m fucking glowing just watching the two of them. Standing here grinning like a sap. Getting a little choked up when she pulls his fists to her lips and kisses them.
Yeah.
I’m a little attached.
“Who’s the most perfect baby in the whole wide world?” she coos.
Remy shouts a big ol’ “Aaaaoooooaa!”
“That’s right. My Remy’s the very most perfect baby in the whole world.”
My eyes get hot.
She doesn’t need me. She’s got this.
Fuck.
“Oh, hey, West. You wanna try some three-way peekaboo? You’re going to lose, just so you know, because Remy is the peekaboo champion. I already ordered his trophy too, so you basically have to lose, because I’m not re-doing it to put your name on it.”
I clear my throat. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”
“Ha! So you admit Miami drivers aren’t all angels. Finally, he sees the light. Miami drivers are shirt-heads, aren’t they, little man? Yes, they are. Yes, they are. Peekaboo!”
Remy squeals.
Daisy laughs.
And my heart twists and soars at the same time.
This is a dangerous, dangerous path. But it’s not one I can resist.
It’s not one I’ve ever been able to resist. “You mind sitting here another few minutes while I grab a shower?”
“Stealing a few more minutes with the most perfect baby in the whole wide world? Torture. Utter torture.”
She boops Remy on the nose, he coos, and she laughs again. “Go on, stinky butt. You’re polluting the air.”
Her smile is the last thing I see before I step out of the sitting room, and it’s making me hard as rebar.
I tell myself it’s just a side effect of seeing a woman with a baby—clearly, they’re my kryptonite—but when I step in the shower, I’m not picturing Daisy with Remy.
I’m picturing Daisy in the pool. Tossing her swimsuit top onto the cat. Draping her arms around me. Gripping my hips with her thighs.
Christ.
She’s snuck into my brain, and I don’t know how to get h
er out.
We can’t get involved, because when it ends—and it will, because I’m rules and straight lines, and she’s chaos and heart-shaped bubbles floating in the sky—I’ll be facing the same path I’ve walked too painfully before.
I can walk away from a woman.
I can’t walk away from a kid. Not again. Kids don’t deserve to pay the price for adults not being able to work shit out.
That’s why I avoided Becca’s kids before asking her if we could date. So none of us would get attached.
I don’t miss Sierra. Time heals wounds, and in retrospect, it’s easy to see where the cracks were in our relationship. But her kids?
There’s still a hole there.
Nina would’ve graduated eighth grade this past May.
Baxter’s probably taking his ACTs and SATs and talking about where to go to college.
And it’s none of my fucking business anymore, because all I was, was the man who dated their mother for two years. It didn’t matter how many times I picked them up from school. How many band concerts I went to. How many lines I helped rehearse for the school play.
I wasn’t their father.
I was the guy who got orders across the country, and the guy who didn’t mean enough to their mother to justify uprooting everyone to go with me.
Or even enough to wait for me.
I was the one who left.
My boner’s creeping away on its own, which is good, because Daisy’s the kind who’d pop into the shower here, and the last thing I need is her catching me rubbing one out.
She’d think I was thinking about her.
She’d be right.
And we’d be headed for disaster.
But there has to be a happy medium. A place where we can be friends, without being anything more.
And since I told her to back the fuck off, it’s up to me to set the stage to get us there.
Can’t hurt.
Especially with a social worker coming next week to make sure we’re good parent material.
Yep. We can be friends.
We should be friends.
This attraction? It’s a fluke because of stress, and the fact that Daisy is an attractive woman. It’ll pass.
And if it doesn’t, I’m still a Marine at heart.
I’ll fucking make it pass.
Twenty-Six
Daisy
Remy’s gnawing on a board book and looking sleepy when West emerges from the bathroom in gray sweatpants and a black Marines T-shirt that’s hugging his chest in all the right places.
I stifle a sigh that he’s so intent on having nothing to do with me, because we really could both use some frustration relief, and he’s sexy as fuck basically twenty-four hours a day.
“You had dinner?” he asks gruffly.
My mood goes from sad panda to leaping llama in a flash. “Just cotton candy and the crushed dreams of ever getting enough sleep again.” And a donut from Carbs ’n Coffee, because today was my monthly buy-everyone’s-coffee-and-donuts day, which didn’t feel like enough, so I also sent sub sandwich platters to all of Miami’s elementary schools for the teacher lounges.
His lips quirk again in more of a smile than I’ve seen since he moved in. “I had road exhaust and a pack of peanuts.”
“Cristoff left egg rolls and chicken bacon avocado paninis in the fridge.”
His nose wrinkles. “Got any bread?”
“Probably. Alessandro is a total bread freak and I have to keep him fed if I want to stay safe.”
“Peanut butter?”
“Hello, peanut butter of the month club subscription.”
“Potato chips?”
“Westley Jaeger, you need to stop talking dirty to me if you’re not interested.”
He drops his head with a wry grin. “Fair enough. I’m gonna go fix something. Welcome to join me if you want.”
“So very kind of you to think of the poor starving heiress putting a temporary roof over your head. I accept.” I lift Remy and kiss his cheek. “C’mon, little man. Let’s go torture you with all the food you can’t eat yet.”
He whimpers when I take the book away, but I pop a pacifier in his mouth, and he settles in with a hand resting on my boob and his forehead pressed to my neck as I stand.
West’s eyes pinch like he’s in pain, but he turns and opens the door, gesturing us out, and whatever was there a minute ago is gone. “Lead on. Watch out for the cats.”
Lead I do.
With an extra swing in my hips, while I toss questions back to him about how work’s going, if he’s explored Bluewater at all, and how bad Derek, Jude, and Beck’s inquisition was of him on Sunday while I was off brunching and breaking down.
Which I don’t add, by the way, because he doesn’t need to know that. Plus, I feel like I’m getting my feet back under me, like I can do this.
I’m not surprised when he gives me short answers and turns the questions back to me. “Take over the world at work yet?” he asks while he picks through my peanut butter collection in my bright, cheery kitchen. He’s standing under copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling over the white marble island, making quick work of dismissing the fancier peanut butters I’ve laid out for the simpler organic crunchy versions.
He does the same with the bread, passing over the rosemary focaccia in favor of cracked wheat—which even I’ll admit makes sense—but when he pops open a bag of Lays and crumbles the plain potato chips over the layer of peanut butter on the bread, my eyes go wide.
“What are you doing?”
“Making the best peanut butter sandwich in the universe.”
“That—that—that’s sacrilege.”
“Thank you. By the way, major points to you for having Lays. I thought you’d have gold-crusted organic potato chips made of rare exotic potatoes.”
“Original is best.” Remy fusses on my shoulder, so I rise and bounce him until he drifts back to sleep. “And I’m serious. You can’t do that to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“Peanut butter and honey.” He lifts a jar of local honey too. “Can, did, and would do it again. The rule-breaker objects to rule-breaking? What’s going on here, Ms. Carter-Kincaid? Are you secretly craving order? Say it isn’t so.”
He’s laughing at me now, which I’ll allow, because he’s fucking gorgeous when he lets that smile loose.
Eyes crinkling. They’re honey-brown tonight, and if licking eyeballs was a thing, I’d be tempted. All of his dark stubble parts to reveal straight white teeth. Even his damp hair seems happy. And when he’s smiling, his shoulders relax, his grip on the peanut butter knife loosens, and I get a glimpse at the man he could be if he’d let go of whatever it is that’s keeping him from embracing the beauty of the unexpected.
“Fine,” I declare. “I’ll try your monstrosity, but I won’t like it.”
“Bet you one overnight shift you’ll never eat peanut butter sandwiches without chips in them again.”
“You’re on.”
I hold out my free hand, and when he takes it to shake, a warm zing slides from my fingers to my elbows.
Zings are bad news.
Not when I’m overseas, I mean. Zings signify solid potential for a fun fling when I’m at least two thousand miles from home, operating under a fake name with no chance of my mother getting ideas or my date getting attached.
But I can’t fling with West. Pretty sure he’s an all-or-nothing man, and we need to get along for the social worker next week. Or at least prove we’re independently capable of caring for a baby, along with not being dysfunctional when we’re together.
Especially since this is temporary.
I drop his hand and grab one of his peanut butter abominations.
I know, I know. Daisy, you’ll do anything! What’s wrong with a peanut butter-potato chip sandwich?
I don’t like my food to touch. Okay?
Gravy goes on potatoes and porterhouse, but not on the green beans.
I chomp into the crime ag
ainst peanut butter—I mean, the sandwich—fully intending to hate it, except…
Huh.
The salt and the honey work well together.
And the crunch is—it’s like crunchy peanut butter, except…dammit.
Except better.
I narrow my eyes.
He smiles broader. My heart pounds a little faster. And I decide that if a pout will make him smile even bigger, then I’ll do it.
“I suppose it’s edible,” I sniff. “But it’s no fluffernutter, bacon, and Nutella sandwich.”
If he smiles any harder, he’s going to break his cheeks.
I flip my phone out of my cleavage and snap a pic before it disappears. “Ha! Gotcha being happy.”
“Victories are always worth celebrating.”
He doesn’t try to wrestle my phone away to delete the photo, but instead digs into his own sandwich.
His eyes slide closed, and a different smile flits across his face.
I wonder if that’s what he looks like as he’s drifting off to sleep after a sweaty romp in the sheets. Happy. Glowing. Satiated.
I set the phone aside and grab a carrot stick from the vegetable tray we found in the fridge, chomp into it, and promptly inhale too quickly and choke.
And not like fake-choke either.
I’m talking carrot lodged in my throat, dripping carrot crumbles into my lungs while I try to pound myself on the breast bone without hitting the baby.
Oh, god.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to choke on a carrot and die before I get to see Remy grow up. He’ll have to live with the heartbreak of knowing that every woman who ever tried to love him died too soon.
One killed by horny dolphins.
The other felled by a vegetable.
