Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

  “You ready for this?”

  “Are you kidding? I was born ready.”

  He chuckles again, and I nod to Lady Raquel, who stops in the middle of the dining room and claps her hands. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. We have a special brunchtime entertainment for you today,” she announces.

  My soon-to-be-sisters-in-law all go wide-eyed and squeal, turning their attention to West and me as we scoot out of the booth. He takes Remy back from Beck, who’s just as natural with babies as he is with dogs.

  My mom dabs her eyes.

  West’s mom does too.

  Other than the romance novelists and our families, the only other patrons here today are residents of Bluewater, which I’m not sure they all realize, but it’s utterly perfect.

  “Y’all thought you were coming for brunch, but turns out, you’re here to witness a wedding,” Lady Raquel continues. “Daisy, girl, bring that handsome man and that baby over here and get up on this table so we can do this right.”

  I follow directions, stepping onto a chair, and then onto a table, West helping me and hopping up too while my security team gathers around us, just in case. We are standing on a table with a baby, after all.

  I’ll let them get their boxer briefs in a bunch over me standing on a table. But just this once.

  Lady Raquel steps up onto a chair—those heels are seriously fabulous, and they put her at eye level with me, anyway—and begins the ceremony to officially make the three of us a real family in front of our friends, family, and favorite romance novelists.

  I might tear up a little, but when it’s time for the vows, I look up into West’s eyes, those magic color-changing eyes that are on the sea green side today, and I don’t want to be at a party, or off on my yacht, or in Bora-Bora, or at a club.

  I want to be right here. With this amazing man who’s helped me find inside of myself so much of the acceptance and belonging I was always looking for with the hundreds of acquaintances I’ve made over the years.

  I still love a good dance party. And I adore people. And I’ve gone back to Carter International Properties temporarily to make sure all of my former employees will be well taken care of by whoever replaces me.

  But I don’t need to be popular to know I’m loved. Or that I’m worthy.

  And I’m supposed to say my vows to this perfect man, but all I really want to do is kiss him.

  And so I do, because what’s Lady Raquel going to do?

  Refuse to continue the ceremony?

  West is smiling as I pull out of the kiss.

  “I love you,” I tell him.

  “Now that’s the kind of vow I’m talking about,” Lady Raquel says while everyone around us claps and cheers.

  We say our I do’s, kiss again, and everyone cheers.

  Except Remy.

  He poops his pants. As babies do.

  And Emily isn’t cheering, but she’s dashing for the bathroom with her hand over her mouth like she’s going to puke. Poor thing. Pregnancy isn’t agreeing with her all the time yet.

  Music pumps through the speakers, and the staff clears away a few tables for a dance floor. The grandmas fight over Remy, and as West pulls me into his arms for our first dance as woman and husband, he also holds up a manila envelope.

  I sway my hips into his and we rock to the music. “What’s this?”

  “Adoption paperwork. To make our little family official. Because you and Remy need each other just as much as I do.”

  My eyes sting. My throat burns. And I leap onto him, my legs going around his waist while I attack him with kisses.

  I might not be the classiest woman in the world.

  But I’m loved. So, so loved.

  And I’m going to spend the rest of my life giving back every last bit of all the love I have for them.

  Thanks for reading! Want a bonus epilogue sneak peek at Daisy and West's adventure into expanding their family, plus some of Daisy’s diary entries? Click here to register for the Pipster Report, and I’ll send them to you! If you’re already a subscriber, check your last issue - the link to all bonus content is always at the bottom of every email from me!

  If you’re the awesome type of person who likes to leave reviews, here are quick linkies for you to Amazon and Goodreads. And keep reading for a sneak peek at Master Baker, along with a chance to see more of those hockey players Tyler hangs out with. Hugs and cookie kisses!!

  Pippa

  The Bluewater Billionaires Series

  The Price of Scandal by Lucy Score

  The Mogul and the Muscle by Claire Kingsley

  Wild Open Hearts by Kathryn Nolan

  Crazy for Loving You by Pippa Grant

  Pippa Grant’s Hockey Books

  The Pilot and the Puck-Up

  Royally Pucked

  Beauty and the Beefcake

  Charming as Puck

  For Pippa’s most up-to-date complete book list, CLICK HERE.

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  Are you caught up?

  Did you miss a Bluewater Billionaires novel?

  Emily has a billion-dollar deal that’s falling apart and a naked stranger in her bathtub who says he can make all her problems disappear in The Price of Scandal by Lucy Score.

  Cameron is reluctantly saddled with an overprotective bodyguard in The Mogul and the Muscle by Claire Kingsley.

  Luna loses the public’s adoration after a corporate scandal and there’s only one man—a big, bearded, dog-rescuing biker—who can help her save it all in Wild Open Hearts by Kathryn Nolan.

  Sneak Peek at MASTER BAKER

  Love dirty-talking bakers, small town rivalries, and falling back in love with the one who got away? Read on for a sample of MASTER BAKER!

  Grady Rock, aka a master baker who’s man enough to handle any jokes about his nickname, but still unprepared for today’s gossip hour

  “That’s right, baby,” I whisper as I ease deeper inside into her creamy depths. She’s tight. So full already. “Oh, yeah, just like that. You feel that? Is that good for you too?”

  The donut doesn’t answer, but she does grunt under the strain of all the pudding I’m stuffing inside her.

  Or possibly that was my pastry bag burping.

  “You can take a little more,” I murmur while my kitchen door opens. “I know you can. And then I’m going to eat you so good—”

  “Ugh, you are so disgusting,” my sister announces as she breezes in.

  I smile at the donut. “Don’t listen to her. You’re beautiful.”

  “You realize if you ever bothered to talk to a woman like that, Pop wouldn’t be trying so hard to set you up with every single woman in Virginia.”

  “Don’t forget about the northern half of North Carolina too.” I brush a thumb over the top of the donut—smooth and firm, just like she should be—and move on to filling the next donut. “You ever seen a batch of donuts so beautiful?”

  “You say that every morning.”

  “The trick to life is getting better every day. You should try it sometime.”

  Tillie Jean angles into my lair and makes herself comfortable on the spare stool across the metal worktable in my bakery kitchen.

  My rolling racks are half full of all of the deliciousness I’ll sell out of before the day’s over. My ovens are baking muffins and scones. My mixing bowl is waiting for tomorrow’s donut dough. And my sink is overflowing with dirty dishes.

  Just the way I like it.

  If my bottom line would just start reflecting what my kitchen does—prosperity and productivity—life would be perfect.

  I’m selling out almost every day. Hired an extra baker. Has to happen soon.
/>   Or maybe never, because no matter how good I feel about what I’m selling every week, as soon as I sit down to trudge through my books on the weekends, I realize I’m still just barely breaking even.

  Not like I can increase my clientele in a small town like this.

  “You see Pop yet today?” Tillie Jean asks.

  “It’s five AM.”

  “Yep.”

  “On a Tuesday.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s sex in the shower day. We won’t see Pop or Nana for at least another four hours.”

  She doesn’t answer. Not to tell me I’m disgusting again, or to sigh and hope out loud that when she’s eighty, she’ll be married to someone who still wants to do her in the shower.

  Suspicious.

  Especially since she’s never out of bed before five AM either.

  I finish the last of the donut filling and glance up at her.

  She has this pensive look tightening her eyes and pursing her lips that I don’t see often, but that always manages to inch my pulse up and make me want to stick my head in the sand.

  Or maybe whip up a batch of macarons, because those take time and concentration and are an excellent distraction.

  Not to mention delicious, and they particularly like it when I compliment their smooth, perfect mounds.

  None of which Tillie Jean seems to be thinking about.

  “What?” I ask while I reach back to grab the donut glaze.

  She blinks and shakes her head. “What flavor today?”

  “Mascarpone and Nutella. Why do you look like you’re about to tell me my goat died?”

  “Like you’d be sad if Sue died.”

  “Avoiding the question, Tillie Jean. What’s got you in here before the sun on a Tuesday talking about Pop?”

  Her lids close over her blue eyes, and I can see her fighting to keep from just blurting out whatever’s eating at her when the back door opens again, this time with a slam.

  Georgia Mayberry, my second-in-command, marches in with a flier in hand and outrage in her brown eyes. She’s so mad that the braids at the ends of her cornrows are standing up and hissing too.

  “Did you see this?” she demands indignantly, flapping the paper around.

  Tillie Jean leaps up and grabs it from her. “No, he has not,” she says on a high-pitched whisper, “and we’re going to ease him into it, okay?”

  “Ease me into what?”

  “Freaking Duh-Nuts advertising all over Shipwreck!” Georgia announces. She snorts and marches to the fridge, where she starts yanking out butter and eggs. “Couldn’t keep it in Sarcasm like they should’ve. Oh, no. They have to come over here to Shipwreck and try to steal our customers. The nerve of those—those—those donut holes.”

  “The nerve,” I agree, because agreeing with Georgia keeps her happy, and keeping Georgia happy keeps her employed here without asking for a raise, and her blueberry muffins are better than mine, which is saying something.

  Am I worried?

  Of course not. Duh-Nuts has already gone out of business once since I bought Crow’s Nest. They’ll go out of business again.

  But my blood pressure still spikes.

  Logically, I know the vast majority of my limited customer base would never voluntarily set foot in Sarcasm—and yes, that’s really what they call their town down the road. But it’s still competition, and my profits aren’t where I want them to be.

  Not even close.

  Plus, she said Sarcasm.

  I used to know someone from Sarcasm. A long time ago.

  Tillie Jean’s bedhead swivels back in my direction, and—huh.

  She’s still in her pajamas. Are those—they are. They’re dancing lips with little stick arms and feet. Cute.

  And also possibly why she’s still single.

  I make a mental note to remember this the next time Pop tries to talk me into going on a date with a woman he’s hand-picked.

  Just because it’s been a couple—several—fine, many months since my last casual girlfriend doesn’t mean my goat and I need someone right now, and if I can persuade him to concentrate on Tillie Jean’s love life instead of mine, bonus.

  “Grady,” she says quietly.

  I start dipping the donuts in the Nutella glaze and lift a yes? brow at her.

  She holds out the flier for me to scan it.

  Duh-Nuts Grand Re-opening and Homecoming! it says proudly.

  But that’s not what makes my nuts suddenly retract.

  Nope.

  That’s the next line.

  Now I get why Tillie Jean’s lurking around at this hour of the day.

  My smile leaps off a cliff, I drop the donut in the glaze, and I feel like someone’s been shoving pudding up my ass.

  “Thinking they can be all oh, come to our second-rate town for a grand re-opening of a donut shop that made bad donuts, it’s so exciting!” Georgia mutters with a snort while she slams flour and sugar onto the smaller worktable. “Sarcasm assholes. Who gives a chocolate chip that some chick came home?”

  “So Duh-Nuts over in Sarcasm is re-opening. So what?” I try to keep my voice level and unafflicted while I fish the donut out of the glaze bowl, but I don’t quite make it, because I read that second line too, and I know who’s home.

  “Grady—” Tillie Jean starts, but Georgia plows her over.

  Verbally, I mean.

  “They’re trying to steal our customers. Right here. In our own town. Like they didn’t steal half our tourists last month with their freaking unicorn festival. We’ve had the pirate festival every second week of June since the dawn of time, and they think they can just suddenly put a competing festival the same week?”

  I let her rant while I watch Tillie Jean watching everything in the kitchen except me.

  “So she’s back for good?” I ask.

  My sister not looking at me is answer enough.

  Annika Williams is back. Back back.

  Annika Williams, who couldn’t bake her way out of a paper bag.

  Annika Williams, who spent high school counting the days until she could leave our little slice of the Blue Ridge Mountains behind, but still promised me once she’d come back one day and be my business manager when I opened the best bakery on this side of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  Annika Williams, who took my heart with her when she left.

  She’s back.

  Opening her own damn bakery.

  Trying to steal my customers.

  I thought I’d already felt everything I was ever going to feel about Annika Williams.

  Turns out, I was wrong.

  Get your copy of MASTER BAKER today!

  Sneak Peek at THE PILOT & THE PUCK-UP

  Want to know more about those hockey players that Tyler hangs with?

  If you love big, bad, spider-fearing hockey heroes, tough-as-nails heroines hiding her soft side, and one night stands gone sideways, read on for an excerpt of The Pilot and the Puck-Up…

  Chapter 1

  Zeus Berger (aka the biggest, baddest, most spider-fearing mother pucker in the NHL, except for maybe his twin brother)

  Coconuts are itchy. I should’ve gone for the watermelons.

  But it was a bitch and a half getting that last-minute private fitting at Madame Cosette’s anyway, and the woman probably would’ve had to stitch three bras together and then nailed the damn contraption to my shoulders to get it to hold without losing a melon, so coconuts it is.

  Besides, it’s the heels that are gonna be the bigger problem. Damn good thing I have ankles of fucking steel.

  And my minidress is stretched to max capacity over the coconuts anyway. It’s also in danger of showing my other coconuts, if you catch my drift. And there’s definitely a drift—or is that a draft?—on my other coconuts.

  A wolf whistle echoes through the swanky private clubhouse where I’m strolling in with my twin brother on one side and my brother from another mother on the other. A passing server drops a tray of champagne. Convers
ation stops. And a bunch of stuffy golf pricks gape at us like we’re a mutant alien circus freak show crashing their million-dollar wedding reception.

  We’re three dudes with more money than God, more muscles than all the Kardashians’ bodyguards combined, and more fun than cotton candy and roller coasters.

  And this is no wedding reception. It’s a chance for pretentious rich asses to brag to each other about who gave more money to whatever foundation is sponsoring this Pro-Am golf tournament for charity.

  Ares is scowling, squinting around the room like he’s looking for the dumbass prince who was stupid enough to bet me ten grand I wouldn’t show up tonight dressed like a chick. Chase is on his phone, snickering like he’s not half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than me and Ares are.

  I swipe his phone from him and shove it between my coconuts. “Quit sexting my sister in public.”

  “I was posting that picture of you getting dressed to Facebook,” he replies. “Ares, fetch the phone.”

  Ares grunts. “Shut your face,” he tells Chase.

  I slap my brother on the shoulder. “Lighten up, bro. I make this shit look good.”

  “Hate to break it to you,” Chase says, “but your sister actually makes a better woman.”

  “You saying you wouldn’t tap this?”

  “Saying she gives a better blow job.”

  He easily ducks my fist, because the fucker’s known me too long. Plus, my heart isn’t in taking him out. Chase is good for my sister, and he’s a damn good friend to boot. Not that I’ll ever tell him that to his face. Again.

  Ares quits scowling enough to snicker too. “Girls don’t hit,” he tells me.

  “You gonna let him talk about Ambrosia like that?”

  “I know where he sleeps.”

  People think Ares is dumb because he doesn’t talk in big words. But he’s one of the smartest fuckers I know, in his own way.

  Only dude in the world as big as me too, but in these heels—special ordered Mablanoks something or others—I’ve got him by four inches.