Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

She lifts a silver brow. “I don’t believe sitting there impersonating a guppy will produce the desired results.”

  “Grandma—”

  “This is not up for debate. The tabloids are already reporting that you took Remington to a party last night after taking custody of him.”

  No point in arguing, because they’ll say what they want. It’s a fact of being covered by the gossip sites. You get used to it. “And we have how many witnesses that will attest to that not being true?”

  “Partial witnesses.”

  And again with the no point in arguing. One of the luxuries of being rich is that you can get away with so, so much.

  Not that I do, for the record. I’m an heiress, not a troublemaker. “So we file restraining orders and make them look bad.”

  She sniffs like I’ve insulted her, and I realize her attorneys are already probably on it. Actually, she’s probably also already talked to Emily’s boyfriend, who runs a business cleaning up reputations. I like to say I’ve known him longer—he did some work for me after I was framed for shoplifting a few years ago—but after Emily’s own desperate need for some reputation cleaning almost six months ago, she definitely knows him better.

  And she’s far more satisfied with his performance.

  “Gram-gram. We’re Carters. We’ll get through this.”

  “We’ll get through this far more efficiently with Mr. Jaeger’s help. Get him back.”

  I don’t often get headaches, but when I do, my grandmother is involved. “Give me one week, and I’ll be the most picture-perfect guardian you’ve ever seen.”

  “Get him back by dinnertime, or you’re disinherited.”

  This isn’t the first time she’s threatened to disinherit me, but I suspect it’s about to be the last. The gig’s up. She knows.

  She knows I’m going to fuck this up. My heart is racing. My throat is dry. And panic is making the tips of my fingers go numb.

  “Mr. Jaeger has an extensive family and far more experience with children than you do. Get him back. Learn from him. Use him to re-cement your reputation now that your situation has changed. Also, I’ve canceled your trip to Japan.”

  “What?”

  “Leaving the country without Remington so soon after taking custody of him is exactly the sort of behavior the Rodericks are expecting, and exactly the sort of behavior that suggests you don’t put his interests first. God only knows why Julienne put you in her will, but until we’ve resolved the legal issues, your first and only job is being Remington’s new mother.”

  I mentally curse in six different languages, but it doesn’t help the gnawing fear now growing in my gut and the sudden realization that Bali isn’t happening either. But I also jut my chin up, because if I’ve learned anything in working for my grandmother for well over a decade, it’s that she actually respects a backbone. “I’m still coming to work next week.”

  “You’re staying home.”

  “If West is here—” Fuck, what am I saying? That I’ll go get him? I can’t have him here. He’ll see right through me in two seconds, and it won’t be the Rodericks we’re fighting.

  It’ll be the man who stood in this office last night and told my grandmother to gird her loins, because he was coming for her great grandbaby.

  Is it possible to be utterly terrified and utterly turned on at the same time?

  Because I think I’m there.

  My grandmother watches me expectantly.

  I swallow and start again. “If Mr. Jaeger is here, then Remy’s covered, and there’s no reason for me not to go to work. Or, I can take him to the daycare at the office.”

  “There’s a large amount of uncertainty in your plans,” she says dryly. “Get Mr. Jaeger back here by dinnertime and convinced to stay through the legal proceedings. Learn how to take care of Remington. And then perhaps we can discuss your return to the office.”

  “The Cairo deal—”

  “I have it covered.

  “And the Sydney spa—”

  “Your employees will bring me up to speed.”

  Dammit.

  And it’s not just the projects. It’s checking on Anita in accounts payable, whose daughter is undergoing chemo treatments. It’s delivering cupcakes to human resources because Janette’s boyfriend broke up with her, but she doesn’t want to talk about it, so cupcakes are second best. It’s catching up with Juan in hospitality to make sure he’s taking his vacation time, because the guy’s basically brilliant at his job, but he’s prone to burnout if someone—namely, me—doesn’t nag him to use his vacation days and escape and refresh.

  Who’s going to do all that while I’m out?

  My grandmother rises. “Dinnertime, Daisy. Clock’s ticking.”

  You wouldn’t know she was eighty-two years old by the way she carries herself out of my office.

  But it lends more weight to my theory that she’s one of the undead.

  Also, she doesn’t realize it, but she did leave me with a large amount of wiggle room. She didn’t specify which time zone for dinner, or even explicitly say today’s dinnertime.

  Still, I’m grateful for Alessandro always being able to read my mind when he pops his head into my office almost as soon as she’s gone. “Problem?”

  “We need to track down West Jaeger and beg him to move in for a while.”

  He smirks.

  Not frowns. Not growls. Not cusses.

  Alessandro once scared the piss out of a landscaper who was supposed to be here simply by raising an eyebrow. He’s done the same to a few of my weekend flings. He vets every name on the guest list for every party or business meeting I have at home, and when he met Jude, Cameron’s approved-by-the-government-at-levels-so-secret-we-shouldn’t-even-know-he-exists fiancé, they had a staring match that lasted seventeen minutes without either of them blinking.

  He doesn’t like having new people around.

  But at the mention of West moving in?

  He’s smirking.

  I lift a brow—just like my grandmother would—and play it cool. “What?”

  “You could tell her to pound sand.”

  I don’t answer that.

  Mostly because I don’t have a good response.

  So I do the only other thing I know to do. “And get me a bucketload of quarters. Like half a truck full. We’re spreading some joy to some laundromats today, okay?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Laundromats, huh?”

  “Clean clothes make people happy. Free clean clothes make them happier.”

  He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re gonna be just fine, Daisy. Both you and the little guy.”

  One can only hope.

  Ten

  West

  I manage to only think about everything that went down last night and into this morning approximately seven billion times while I’m working on the plumbing in the gym all day Friday. Blaring music helps. Watching YouTube videos of soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines having surprise homecomings helps. Texting a few old buddies about random bullshit helps too.

  By the time I’m washing up in the now-running sinks in the locker room, I know I’m going to be okay. There’s still legal crap to deal with—I need to get a copy of the will, but the attorney Ty recommended tells me it’s pretty cut-and-dried to step down.

  So I’m moving on.

  In all aspects of my life.

  I’ve just downloaded a dating app when my phone rings.

  Becca?

  Aw, shit. She probably reads TMZ too.

  I almost let it go to voicemail, but I’ve never been a chickenshit. “Hello?”

  “West! Hey! I just saw the weirdest news,” she says way too brightly.

  Mayday! Mayday! my balls shriek, because the last time I heard Becca that overtly and fakely happy was the night her ex-husband called to tell her his plans had changed, and he’d be taking their girls to his mother’s house for a week, where she knew they’d be plied with cotton candy and daytime soap operas and get to listen i
n on screaming matches between the mother-in-law and her neighbor, who’d been fighting since approximately the dawn of time, though no one could remember why.

  “Yeah?” I stroll through the gym, looking at the painted cinderblock walls, the boxes of weights and equipment ready to be unpacked next week. I’ll have to hire short-term help to get it done, but I will, and then it’s on to the next job.

  Whatever that job is.

  It’ll land in my lap. Usually does.

  “You inherited Judgy Julie’s baby?” Becca half-whispers.

  “I—yeah.”

  “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me after last night, but I just thought if I could help out any—”

  “No. Yeah. I mean, we’re good. And sure. Help is good.” Fuck. I can take down a man one-handed, but I can’t tell a woman to fuck off.

  Probably because I was an idiot. I still think safe relationships are best, but who am I to decide that for anyone else?

  Or maybe this guy is her safe relationship, and I’m chopped liver.

  In any case, I don’t tell her I’m not hanging out day to day with Daisy, raising a new baby with an insta-family.

  “Good. And yay! I love baby stuff. I mean, if you want help. You don’t have to take it. If you don’t want.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Ambiguous is good, right?

  “Of course! My pleasure. Seriously. I got the impression you’re not at home, so I thought you might need some things dropped off?”

  “I’m covered.” Because I am about to head home. “But thank you.”

  “Hey, that’s what friends are for. Oh, and I went through Julienne’s blog when I heard, because I know you know a ton about kids, but I thought it might be helpful to have a list of the brands she used. I mean, babies are sensitive to changes with diapers and formula—assuming he wasn’t breastfed—so I thought…”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s great. Thanks.” Why can’t I just tell her to buzz off?

  “I’ll text you the list. Or I can go get some for you? Whichever. Whatever’s most helpful. And if you need a babysitter, you know where to find me. Or I could come to you. Just let me know.”

  “I—yeah. I’ll let you know.”

  “I really value you as a friend, West, and I know you’re probably going through some really weird stuff with the baby, so I just wanted you to know I’m here for you. Despite…last night being a little…unexpected.”

  “Yeah. We’re good. Thanks, Becca.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  I thank her again, tell her the baby’s crying, and hang up the phone. Then I lean against the nearest wall, drop my head back, and sigh.

  I should’ve just told her I wasn’t in the kid’s life. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Yep, rejected by another family, thanks for asking.

  The whole fucking world is upside down.

  “Problems?” Daisy asks.

  I jump and turn, and there she is, in the gym’s doorway in a bright yellow sleeveless one-piece jumper thing, pulling a stroller inside.

  “No,” I say curtly as my heart leaps and my balls perk up. Friendly nooner? We’re down! “What can I do for you, Ms. Carter-Kincaid?”

  “Ideally, or realistically?” She grins.

  I don’t.

  And then she sighs. “You weren’t nearly this kind of a killjoy when we both thought you were a stripper.”

  If only life could’ve stayed that simple. I’d still be hitting some dating apps today—women like Daisy don’t see me as anything other than the same temporary distraction she would’ve been for me—but at least there would’ve been a happier end to a sucky night.

  “Okay, Mr. Straight Shooter, here’s the deal. Do you know anything about Anthony and Margot Roderick? Remy’s paternal grandparents?”

  I just watch her, waiting, because I know it won’t take long for her to tell me what I already know.

  Sure enough, not even three seconds pass before she’s talking again. “They’re basically dicks in human packaging, which means sometimes they get feelings. And currently, their feelings are hurt, as is their pride, so they’re contesting Julienne’s will. You’d think it would be a good thing that multiple family members would want the little guy, but the truth is way more complicated. Anthony Roderick thinks that having money means he should own everything he sees, and that blood means ownership, which means he thinks Remy here should be his, except he raised Rafe, who was a douche, and yes, I’m being polite because you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But the point is, if Anthony Roderick raises this baby, he, too, will turn out to be a worm, which is totally preventable, because look at this sweet face. As for Margot, without Remy, she’ll lose her will to live. Which in theory would mean that we should save her life by giving her the baby, except it’s not Remy’s responsibility to be someone’s reason to live. It’s his responsibility to be a fucking baby and grow up and test limits and be himself, rather than the mold of his dead father that his grandmother would want to turn him into. Except it’s possible all she wants him for is a vial of blood so she can take his DNA to a mad scientist to have Rafe recreated.”

  I scowl, because this is ridiculous, except I don’t miss that she said we.

  Merely a legal formality, I tell myself. That’s all she’s here for. Expedited paperwork.

  Also, did she even take a breath through all of that?

  She tilts her head. “Dude. You don’t have to like the truth for it to be the truth.”

  “So the grandparents weren’t named in the will as guardians for a reason.”

  “They did get fifty dollars to buy themselves a few sacks of manure. Not sure if you read far enough to see that part.”

  “So you need paperwork,” I supply.

  Her brow furrows briefly, then her eyes fly wide. “Oh! No. Not at all. I mean, yes, my lawyers want you to sign a non-disclosure agreement about last night and everything I’m about to tell you—they get so pissed when I forget this stuff—but actually, I want you to move in with me.”

  Twenty years of military training is the only thing keeping me from choking on my own spit. Also, I don’t believe for a second that she forgets non-disclosure agreements.

  “I don’t know if you follow the tabloids, but I tend to show up in them. A lot. Most of the time depicted as…well, actually, fairly accurately. I work hard, so why shouldn’t I play hard too? But, as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s not exactly the best look for the guardian of a baby, whereas—”

  I cut her off with a low, growling grunt as I realize where she’s going. “You need me to make you look good.”

  “I—yes.” Her yellow outfit doesn’t seem quite as bright when her shoulders slump. “I can make it as painless as possible. We have a helicopter so you can avoid Miami traffic to get as close to job sites as possible. I’ll take overnight shifts with the baby. And my chef can make any food you need. I know you still have a month left for house-sitting on the beach, but I can have one of my staff take over and keep an eye on things. Also, I know a lot of people who—”

  “How long?” Fuck. I just asked that. Also, she knows too damn much about me.

  “Oh, not that long! I mean, what’s a few months in the grand scheme of things? And you were going to need a new place to live soon anyway, so this way, you can just chill in one of my guest suites until you find a new place. I have plenty of room, plus a private beach, plus there’s golf and watersports and the most amazing little village of shops in the Bluewater enclave. You’d have access to all of it.”

  “A few months.” Nope. Not buying it.

  She smiles, and I realize her eyes are blue today. A bright, sparkling, lively blue that makes me think of dancing Caribbean ocean waves. “Maybe a wee bit longer?”

  “What kind of dirt do they have on you that you need a total and complete stranger’s help to make you look like the better option?”

  “I don’t do anything I won’t own in public. And even if I’d ever planned on having kids, I still wouldn’t apolo
gize for living the hell out of my life. But not instantly knowing how to do all this caretaking stuff doesn’t mean I can’t learn it. It just means I appear to have weaknesses and vulnerabilities in a court case until I look as competent as I feel. I know this is about as cluster-fucky as cluster-fucks can be, but I just need a little bit of temporary help. Remy needs a little bit of temporary help. And he’s such a sweet little orphan baby.”

  That’s the only argument she could make that will make me bend, and I think she knows it. Except there’s that look again—that softness in her eyes that says she’s not calling him a sweet little orphan baby to manipulate me, but because she feels it too.

  That urge to protect and defend a helpless infant who’s already lost both his parents.

  I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, because I know what I’m going to say.

  I don’t want to say it. Saying it means getting attached.

  But what’s the alternative?

  “I need to talk to my lawyer,” I tell her gruffly.

  She claps her hand. “I thought you might. I called him. He’s outside.”

  I think I’ve just been outplayed.

  And I’m afraid it won’t be the last time.

  Eleven

  Daisy

  When I was growing up, no one ever accused me of being a genius. It was all Daisy’s so pretty and Daisy’s so nice and I hope Daisy develops some marketable skills, because pretty and nice won’t get her very far.

  Nice guys finish last, right?

  Depends on what you consider last.

  I’ll never win awards for my charity work—not that I don’t do it, I simply don’t do it where everyone’s watching. And why waste money on an award for giving money?

  Just give more money to the people and causes that need it. Duh.

  My grandmother sold her soul to stay immortal and at the helm of Carter International Properties for all eternity, so being CEO is off the table. Not that it was ever on the table. Some days, I really don’t know why I’m still employed, but I keep doing my best, and encouraging the staff under me to do their best, and the pieces keep falling into place.