Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

  Daisy’s no lazy slouch.

  She works hard.

  And she’s turning a sly grin my way. “Sort of like how you wouldn’t be nearly as hot without the Jaeger name behind you. Be honest. How many women mistake you for Tyler and just drop their panties right there?”

  And there’s the distraction. “Is your grandmother crashing the visit with the social worker next week?”

  “She’ll try. I suspect Alessandro will be doing a periodic security exercise that involves locking the house down about the time we get the call that she’s at the Bluewater gate though.”

  “Or you could tell her to stay the fuck away.”

  “I don’t like my life to be miserable, and I’d really like to not be disinherited. Party girl isn’t an official title anywhere else in the world.”

  I shake my head and screw the lid onto the peanut butter jar. Family’s complicated. Mine are all relatively normal—yeah, Mom goes on tour and uses all of us as fodder for her stand-up routine, and my sisters all have their quirks, and Tyler’s a special case all by himself—but none of us are so intimidated by any of the rest of us that we avoid conflict at all costs.

  Except Daisy doesn’t avoid conflict with her grandmother.

  Not all the time.

  Just selectively.

  “You completely avoided my question about why you date single mothers,” she says through a mouthful of peanut butter and chip sandwich.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “You deflected.”

  “Says the master deflector.”

  “Am I technically a single mother now?”

  “You’re complicated.”

  She snort-laughs, and my heart stops for a half a second. We don’t need choking part two tonight.

  Or ever.

  “That,” she tells me after she steals another drink of my root beer, “was the most accurate thing you’ve ever said. High five, big guy. Nailed it.”

  I oblige the high five.

  And twenty minutes later, when she yawns and stretches, I reluctantly shoo her out of the kitchen and take over Remy duties.

  She’s a mess. Nothing at all like the women I’m usually attracted to. But every little nuance I discover in her personality makes me want to know more.

  And I can say as friends all I want, but I’ve never been good at lying to myself.

  Twenty-Eight

  Daisy

  Unlike my highly organized vagillionaire friends, most mornings, I hit the snooze button until I can’t any longer, which inevitably results in me rushing through a shower, ignoring the clothes Tiana laid out for me the night before and grabbing something brighter or darker or shorter or longer depending on my mood. I spend thirty minutes too long on hair and makeup, which means Alessandro, Tiana, and I roll through Carbs ’n Coffee on our way to the office for me to scarf down fried deliciousness and caffeine before I wreak havoc on the world.

  At least, ideally, that would be my usual morning.

  There’s a lot less havoc-wreaking and a lot more fire-extinguishing—of the metaphorical variety—now that I’m a responsible businessperson. I haven’t actually wreaked regular havoc in years, and now, as Remy’s primary caretaker, I’m even less inclined to leap up and light the world on fire.

  The good kind of fire, naturally.

  But this morning, I get up before my alarm goes off, because there’s a ball of anxiety that’s making sleep impossible. I need to be on my A-game for the social worker—especially since the Rodericks are now claiming I keep rabid animals on-site and that Remy’s in immediate danger—so I surf the internet for random Go Fund Mes to donate a few million dollars to, then treat myself to some pampering before I have to be on for the day.

  I’m stretched out in my zero-gravity water chamber in the home spa off my bedroom, cucumbers on my aching eyes, eucalyptus candles burning, audiobook playing softly. Technically, I should be meditating or soaking up the peace and tranquility of being in a sensory deprivation chamber, but I’m actually hanging on to every word of Fake Royal Bride, this awesome romantic comedy written by the coffee author from Drag Queen Brunch. I snagged the audiobook as soon as I overheard that it was available with Teddy Hamilton narrating, because I clearly have a problem.

  Two, actually, because I suddenly realize I’m not alone.

  I lift the lid and bolt upright, tossing the cucumbers aside and making salt water slosh onto the floor while Teddy narrates Rock Ludlow dirty-talking the innocent princess on their fake wedding night. “Who’s there?”

  “No one who’s planning on saying that to you,” comes a familiar voice from the bedroom as Rock asks if he can lick the princess’s pussy. “Can you shut that off? We have a problem.”

  It takes me a minute of fumbling to shut off Teddy’s voice and the princess suggesting she needs Rock to stroke his hard member while he eats her out, which would normally be fine, but West and I have been getting along amazingly well since the choking incident a week ago, sharing breakfast and dinner most days, and we even hung out together at the pool half the weekend, where I flirted with him without overtly flirting with him, and I think he actually flirted back. So I don’t want him to think that all I ever think about is sex.

  Plus, he said the word problem.

  “What? What is it?” I throw on a sparkly unicorn robe for his sake and dart into my bedroom. “Is Remy sick? Did the social worker get here early? Oh my god, the cats ate his face. Did the cats eat his face?”

  West lifts a single brow, telegraphing that I’ve clearly lost my mind, and holds his phone out to me.

  Headlines assault my eyeballs.

  Playgirl Heiress Drops Baby On Head!

  Daisy Carter-Kincaid’s Nanny Tells All!

  The DICK’s New Marine Boy-Toy Actually A Woman!

  “This is the problem?” I ask. “Tabloid stories?”

  “They have pictures of my family.”

  He’s not breathing fire out his nose or stomping his foot like an angry bull, but I realize this calm façade is exactly that—a façade.

  His magic eyes are the color of pissed-off headstrong alpha male with all protective instincts activated, and it’s making that omnipresent pull in my nether regions stronger this morning.

  I’m debating between reminding him that his mom is a celebrity—anyone with a Netflix show qualifies in my book—and offering him use of my legal team when he continues.

  “Bad pictures.”

  And now I’m intrigued. “Like snorting coke with drug lords bad, or like this kind of bad?” I half-close one eye, tilt my head, and stick my tongue out and try to lick my nose while scrunching one cheek and shoving a finger into my ear.

  When I blink back to normal, he’s closed his eyes and is taking a long, deep breath.

  Huh.

  He’s not wearing a shirt.

  That’s lovely. And it’s a testament to how good of a friend and mother I am that I didn’t notice before now.

  Okay, I’m lying.

  I noticed.

  I just didn’t get a chance to look closely at all the intricate inkwork until he closed his eyes.

  “The second,” he grits out.

  Is he—oh. My.

  He is.

  He’s sporting morning wood in those gray sweatpants while fuming about tabloid stories.

  Despite my best bad photo face.

  Or because of it?

  The many facets of Westley Jaeger are fascinating.

  I snap my focus back to his face before he opens his eyes and claims this is my one chance to hit on him today. “Where’s Remy?”

  “Having breakfast with Alessandro.”

  I fling open my balcony doors and step outside to drop into the fluffy butter-yellow love seat by the wide window overlooking Biscayne Bay and tuck my legs underneath me, then pat the cushion beside me where I’d normally stretch my legs out. The ever-present sound of rolling waves greets me like an old friend, as does the scent of salt water and flowers. We’re due for a nasty
storm tonight—borderline tropical strength—and the wind’s heavier, the sky darker than normal. “Sit. Relax. I can solve this.”

  He follows me out. “I’m not having Remy grow up with his pictures plastered all the fuck over trash rags.”

  If he doesn’t stop talking, I’m not going to stop swooning. “Sit.”

  He glares, but he sits. Glances around quickly. His eyes linger on my bed just inside the door, with the covers tossed willy-nilly everywhere behind the gauzy bed curtains because I am so not a make-your-bed type person.

  Which probably annoys the hell out of him, except when he snaps his face back to the bay, there’s something more intriguing than irritation in the way his Adam’s apple bobs.

  I shift on the love seat until I’m right next to him, then go up on my knees and settle my hands on his shoulders. “Relax. Being pissed never solved anything.” I knead my thumbs into the tight muscles, which tighten even harder before he gives up and lets his shoulders slump.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” he says gruffly.

  “I shouldn’t help you relax before the social worker gets here? Because angry bull in a china shop is exactly the attitude you want her to see, right?”

  “They have a picture of you in the ER from your shrimp reaction too.”

  “Like anyone in the world hasn’t seen me in a bad picture. Please. I own the hell out of the shitty photos. They’re my gift to the people in the world who are having a craptastic day.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  Possibly because I’m digging my thumbs into a huge ball of tension behind his right shoulder blade.

  “I’m calling and making you an appointment with Tiny as soon as you concede that I’m right and everything is going to be fine,” I inform him.

  “Tiny?”

  “My massage therapist. She’s six feet of pure magic when it comes to working out kinks.”

  “I’m not using your massage therapist.”

  “Shh. Trust me. It’ll change your life.”

  “My life’s changed enough lately. And those pictures of you in the ER are going to be used to call into question how sober you were and if you put Remy in danger.”

  “Westley. Quit being more difficult than you have to be. The ER drew blood. I can prove it was an allergic reaction, which could happen to any parent.” Oh, god. It could, couldn’t it? Will we lose Remy because I’m allergic to shellfish?

  Wait. No. That doesn’t make sense. If being allergic disqualified you as a parent, then my mom couldn’t be a parent either.

  Except her allergy developed as an adult too.

  Fuck. Fucksticks.

  Okay. Not going to worry about it.

  I knead deeper, because his head is lolling to one side, and one of us needs to be relaxed in a couple hours.

  It clearly won’t be me. “And I’m on baby duty tonight. Tiny can be here anytime I ask her to. And it’s not like you have plans after work, so take the fucking massage and say thank you.”

  “Is this supposed to be making me relax?”

  “Don’t even pretend it’s not working. I can feel your rock muscles becoming merely bouncy ball muscles. I might not be as strong as Tiny, but I have magic fingers, and you can’t deny it. You want more. You know you do.”

  “Not even seven AM, and you’ve hit your one come-on for the day.”

  Dammit. “That was not a come-on. That was an opportunity of a lifetime. Do you know how many people Tiny can see in a day? Six. Maybe eight if she skips her workout routine and tosses back a double Red Bull. Which means you’re like eight out of the three hundred million people in the country who could see Tiny today. You’re blessed, Westley. Still waiting on that thank you.”

  “Do you ever stay focused?”

  “Nope.” And that’s exactly why no one ever thought I’d succeed.

  Showed them, didn’t I?

  Here I am. Succeeding. Behind my grandmother’s name. Panicking over raising my cousin’s baby. Going to the office every day because I’m better at faking business than I am at faking mothering.

  Hashtag success.

  The social worker lady is going to see right through me and we are doomed.

  I wasn’t actually kidding about living in a cardboard box out in the Everglades, and it’s not because I don’t own my house outright—I do—and it’s not because I didn’t put a clause in my contract giving me twenty-five percent share in every property I help my grandmother develop—I did.

  It’s because I’ll be mortified when people discover the truth about me.

  West tilts his head back to look at me, and I dig a thumb deeper into that tight muscle in his shoulder.

  He grunts, and his eyes slide closed. “Social…worker…need…talk…”

  “Step one: relax. Step two: conquer the world. Or the social worker. Whatever.”

  That earns me a smile. And it’s one of those I-don’t-want-to-be-smiling-but-can’t-help-it smiles that makes my heart give a big ol’ fist pump. He lets his head fall forward again while I attack all the tension he’s carrying, and I smile to myself.

  I’ll win him over. Sooner or later. Probably sooner, because I’m irresistible when I want to be.

  I like having him around. And not just because he’s good with Remy.

  He’s good with me.

  It’s weird.

  What’s weirder is that I like it. I don’t actually want him to leave.

  Ever.

  Which is an extra weird feeling to have when I consider that we haven’t slept together.

  Not that I don’t want to. My vibrator and my fingers have gotten quite the workouts lately with West’s face and body as inspiration. Not that I’ll tell him that, because I save my one inappropriate comment every day for things that I suspect will amuse him.

  The guy needs to relax more.

  “Believe it or not, I have an entire wardrobe appropriate for meeting social workers,” I tell him, which helps calm me down too. “I also have a script Emily’s Derek wrote for me back before he was Emily’s Derek, when he was just a guy I hired to make me look good after I got framed for shoplifting—which I was cleared of, by the way, so that shouldn’t be a problem today. I also know how to paint the paparazzi as the bad guys. Plus, we have you with your impeccable credentials. No one’s taking Remy from us today.”

  No one’s taking Remy from me today. Another day, possibly, but not today.

  West, though? They’d never take him from West.

  He’s a solid, dependable dreamboat, and I’m honestly starting to wonder if my grandmother’s plan isn’t to pay him to raise Remy, because he’s the only reason I’m semi-competent at taking care of the baby myself.

  Either he’s inspiring me to not want to fail, or he’s inadvertently teaching me something.

  “Daisy?” he says on a sigh.

  I knead deeper and wish I wasn’t getting a lady hard-on from touching his bare skin. “Yes?”

  “That feels amazing. Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  He tilts his head back to look at me again. “You’re not who I thought you’d be.”

  “Aha! He admits he thought about me.”

  “After I met you.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been boring to inherit a baby with anyone else?”

  His eyes are twinkling in the soft dawn light, pure green mischief, and oh my god, mischievous West is everything.

  “I don’t know. I might’ve preferred inheriting a baby with a Kardashian.” He smiles at me, tilting his head back so I’m looking at him upside down.

  I mock gasp. “Are you saying I’m not outrageous and outspoken enough for you? That’s it. Neighborhood pool party tonight. Come naked except diamonds covering the jewels and bits.”

  He hasn’t shaved since he got here, and his beard is thick and dark, and I can’t resist stroking the rough growth. Holding his head so it’s nestled against my breasts.

  Have I ever had a guy friend?

  I don’t think I
have. And I like it.

  And I don’t.

  I don’t want to be his friend. I want to kiss him. I want to explore every inch of his body, trace his tattoos and caress the ridges of his muscles. I want to strip him out of his sweatpants and straddle him and ride him until we both fall off the cliff into satisfied oblivion.

  I drop my hands and start to move, because I promised I’d respect his boundaries.

  I fucking hate boundaries.

  But I’ll do this for him, because he’s done so much for me, and my family, and I owe it to him to not push.

  Except when I start to shift away, he reaches behind us and settles his hands on my head, then tilts his face, and suddenly his lips are brushing mine, tasting like coffee and temptation, his rough beard tickling the sensitive skin around my mouth and sending my nerve endings into hyperdrive, and all of my good intentions fly out the window.

  This.

  This kiss is everything I shouldn’t want and can’t have, but fuck if I can stop myself.

  I slide a hand down his chest, and a low growl rumbles deep under my fingers before he pushes deeper into the kiss.

  Lips parting.

  Tongue tasting.

  His mouth claiming me like I’m a gold-dusted caramel pistachio truffle that needs to be savored.

  I don’t glide into kisses.

  I leap headfirst into the deep end without actually verifying it’s the deep end, because I’m into kissing because I like kissing, but more because I want the grand finale.

  I want to toss my clothes over the balcony and get hot and sweaty and see how many different paths I can take to the land of the grand O.

  But normally, I’m seizing the moment before the moment ends. Before my weekend is over, before the party breaks up, before I have to go back to my normal life.

  West is my new normal.

  He’s every moment.

  And this kiss—it’s different but perfect.