Crazy for Loving You

by Grant, Pippa

  It’s a hello, so that’s who you are.

  It’s a nice to meet you.

  It’s a yes, actually, I do like you and I could spend all morning kissing you from every angle to learn what you like and what you don’t.

  And right now, he seems to like pulling me into his lap so we can tackle this kiss head-on.

  Best way to tackle a problem, if you ask me. And it’s definitely a problem that I haven’t yet been able to test for myself exactly what these bulgy biceps feel like.

  “We—should—” he starts.

  He’s going to say stop, and I don’t want him to, so I rock in his lap against the hard ridge pressing into my hip.

  Seriously, just look at us getting along so well right now.

  We should kiss all the time.

  His grip tightens on my thigh, and I slip my tongue into his mouth, gliding against his while he groans and matches me stroke for stroke.

  A seagull swoops by with a cry that sounds like warning, warning!, but I ignore it, because who wants a seagull warning when I’m practically naked and he’s showing off his morning salute and he’s kissing me like he would’ve died if I’d died choking on that carrot last week?

  He wrenches back. “Daisy.”

  Fuck.

  I sigh and drop my forehead to his shoulder.

  His nice, round, solid, dependable, highly-lickable shoulder that I can’t bite right now, because I know that tone.

  It’s the we can’t do this tone.

  “See?” I say, pretending I’m not breathless and sorely disappointed in places I don’t get disappointed—like that little muscle in my chest. “Every morning is better when we get along. Go on. Get dressed. We’re gonna knock that social worker’s socks off so she’ll go tell the Rodericks to pound sand and get the fuck out of the court system.”

  Belatedly, I remember that getting out of the court system means he leaves. I plant a kiss on his neck as I slide off his lap, because I can’t help myself, and I don’t want to think about him leaving. “Meet you in the salon in twenty!”

  It’s rare that I want to find my sanity. I prefer life without it.

  What’s life without the fun?

  But fun isn’t all I have to live for anymore. I have to be a responsible, dependable person, and it’s not even that I can’t parent Remy alone.

  My grandmother could cut me off tomorrow, and I could give away ninety percent of my bank account and still die a rich woman. I can afford all the help in the world.

  But money can’t buy what I want from West more and more every day.

  He’s figuring out my secrets. He’s seen me choking, having allergic reactions, and falling in love with a baby.

  He’s seeing me.

  And he’s staying.

  I can’t deny Remy the opportunity to have that kind of dependable, family-is-what-you-make-it, people-are-more-than-their-accomplishments-and-bank-balance example in his life.

  Life isn’t simple. It’s complicated and messy. No matter how much I try to believe that it’s just a big party with a side of hard work to make the partying possible, there’s still heartbreak and tough times and loneliness.

  All three of my very best friends in the entire universe have gone through hell this year. And all three of them have come out on top, and in love with amazing men to boot.

  But I don’t do love.

  It lies. It cheats. And it hurts.

  So West and me?

  We’re going to be friends. Hopefully friends who are close enough that he’ll agree to still be part of Remy’s life after all the legal challenges are over.

  Part of my life.

  But only as friends. And that little voice inside me asking for more can shut the fuck up.

  Twenty-Nine

  West

  I don’t know what happened in Daisy’s room this morning with that kiss, but I know it won’t be the last time.

  Watching her panic last week, worrying she’d hurt Remy—she wasn’t faking.

  She loves him.

  And that changed everything.

  This past week, waking up in her house, seeing her every day, talking to her every day, joking with her, just hanging out with her—it’s been a glimpse at a woman I very much want to know more.

  Falling for her now would be like falling into the same trap all over again. Single mother. Kid who doesn’t have another solid father figure. Circumstances that make it seem right.

  And then it all gets blown to fucking hell.

  Even knowing how this will end can’t stop me from going in though. I don’t know if she needs me, but I believe she wants me, and there’s more power in want than in need. I’ve never been someone’s choice. I’ve been their convenience.

  And I know that’s how we started. She said as much. She needs me to make her look good.

  Except she doesn’t, and nothing about this last week has been about putting on a show.

  It’s just been two people coming to appreciate each other’s quirks, strengths, and shortcomings.

  It’s the kind of comfort I’ve been craving.

  And the only thing missing is more of that kissing, which I shouldn’t do, but I can’t help myself.

  I want her. Plain and simple.

  But first, I need to convince the social worker that Daisy’s a solid parent to Remy. Because once she doesn’t need me, then we can both acknowledge what we actually want.

  I’m pacing in the parlor at five minutes to ten, with two cats pacing behind me but no Daisy or Remy in sight yet. The room is at the center of the curve in the D, with party rooms off the wings on either side and a wall of windows overlooking the courtyard pool. A round indoor gas fireplace is inset in the center, with tropical plants decorating every nook and cranny around some fancy-ass furniture.

  Basically, it’s a nightmare for a mobile baby.

  Fire. Poisonous plants. Bookshelves not screwed to the walls and decorated with glass and stoneware artwork that could cause a head injury.

  There’s nothing childproofed in here at all—right down to me not knowing exactly how many cats we still have in the house, although the food bowls in the kitchen are always empty when I get up each morning, and this is where we’ll be convincing a state official that we can be good parents.

  Not a problem, I tell myself. I’m a fucking handyman. I can fix this.

  I eyeball the sunken couches and built-in gas firepit again.

  Probably. I can probably fix this.

  “Oh, wow, you look like a groomsman,” Daisy says suddenly.

  I turn to the sound of her voice, and what the ever-loving fuck?

  She’s in a fifties housewife dress, right down to the pantyhose with a seam up the back and discreet low-heeled shoes. Her purple hair is gone, and instead, it’s brown and tied back in a simple bun. Her makeup is light and tasteful, and she’s sweeping into the room with Remy in one arm and a stack of books tucked under the other.

  I swipe my hand over my eyes and look up at the ceiling two stories above, hoping to find some answers to this insane one-eighty in her appearance, but instead, I realize the chandelier overhead is shaped like a dick.

  It’s a dick with dick pendants hanging from it.

  And…an artistic spurt coming out the tip.

  My jaw unhinges and my nuts crack up.

  I’ve been here how many weeks and never noticed this before?

  “Huh. Hope the social worker lady has a sense of humor,” Daisy says cheerfully. “Can’t argue that if we talk about body parts more often, they lose their stigma though, don’t you think?”

  The clicking of her shoes against the Italian marble floor stops beside me. “Though the glitter spurt is probably unnecessary. Tiana, could you send me a note to update the chandelier?”

  “About time,” Daisy’s assistant murmurs.

  I take one more deep breath, then look down at her. “What did you do?”

  She grins. “It’s a wig. And I watched one of Luna’s YouTube tutorials on
putting on a business face. Like you can talk. Hello, handsome in a suit. Could you roll up your sleeves though? You have such nice forearms. It’s a shame to cover them up.”

  Her cleavage is fully covered by the pink gingham dress, which goes all the way to her neck and flares down below her knees. She’s wearing a light white cardigan over the whole ensemble, and I don’t like it.

  It’s not Daisy.

  Trumpets blare like a royal assembly is announcing the arrival of a king in a cartoon movie, and Daisy twirls toward the door. “Oh, good. She’s here.”

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Doorbell,” Alessandro supplies with a grunt. “Stay,” he orders Daisy.

  She rolls her eyes—which are a soft brown now, matching her hair and making her seem as tame and harmless as a country mouse.

  “I would’ve had Cristoff prepare lunch, but I didn’t want to look like I was bribing her,” she murmurs to me. “I’m not offering mimosas either. You’re welcome.”

  “I hate your hair,” I tell her. “And your eyes.”

  “But you like the pantyhose, don’t you?” She grins, which is the only thing authentic about her, and turns her leg to show off the seam. “Admit it. You’re having housewife fantasies right now.”

  “I’m having a heart attack at the idea of Remy finding the controllers for that fireplace.”

  She looks at the built-in fireplace, surrounded by a round couch inset in the floor as well, and frowns, then frowns at the baby, who scrunches up his face and lets loose in his diaper with a grunt that’s drowned out by the trumpet in his butt that could out-trumpet her doorbell.

  “Ms. Louise Anacosta,” Alessandro announces.

  Daisy and I both look up at the very stern woman in a business suit so buttoned-up she makes Daisy’s housedress look like a Playboy Bunny outfit.

  “Oh, forking shirt,” Daisy whispers through a smile.

  “Ms. Carter-Kincaid?” Tall, Skinny, and Scary says as she descends the two steps to the sunken sitting room. “And Mr. Jaeger?”

  I suddenly like Daisy’s eyes more, because hers look like chocolate, whereas Ms. Anacosta’s brown eyes look like judgmental holes to the hellmouth.

  This is going to be fun.

  I step forward. “Westley Jaeger. Nice to meet you.”

  “You’re the appointed guardian unrelated to the child?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And how did you come to be named in the deceased’s will?”

  “Made a good impression when I remodeled their nursery for them, I suppose.”

  Daisy slides to my side. “Hi, Louise. I’m Daisy. Remy’s mother was my cousin.”

  “I’m aware of your relation to the deceased,” Louise replies in a way that makes me wonder if she ever got one-starred by Julienne for anything.

  But Daisy doesn’t let the cold answer deter her. “Welcome, and thank you for coming.”

  Remy screws his face up again and grunts while he adds to the mess in his diaper.

  Louise peers down at him over her half-moon glasses, and she smiles. “Well, you certainly sound healthy.”

  She’s a completely different woman when she smiles, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I’ll get him,” I tell Daisy.

  “Oh, no need. We set up a changing station in the corner.” She smiles brighter at Louise. “Water? Soda? Lemonade?

  And the stiff, judgmental state official comes back. She taps a pen against the clipboard in her hand. “No, thank you.”

  Daisy strolls easily to the sideboard at the edge of the room beside the windows, and my eyes almost fall out of my head.

  Furniture isn’t my strong suit—I prefer tearing down walls and putting them back up to decorating—but I don’t think that thing was built as a baby changing station. It’s too carved, too polished, and too billionaire.

  Daisy whips a changing mat out of the top drawer, then wipes and a fresh diaper from the next drawer down.

  “You change diapers yourself?” Louise asks.

  “Few times a day on workdays, few more on the weekend,” Daisy replies cheerfully. “We’ve gotten good at this in the last couple weeks, haven’t we, Remy? Yes, we have. Yes, we have.” She boops him on the nose, and he screams bloody murder like she poked him in the eyeball.

  “Hates being dirty,” I say quickly.

  “Abhors it,” Daisy agrees, though pink’s rising in her cheeks, and she’s not wearing enough makeup to hide it.

  “Do you frequently change him on antique furniture without straps?” Louise asks.

  “You’d be amazed what you can convert into a changing table. It’s so far to his room, and who wants to stew in his own poop any longer than necessary?”

  Remy screams.

  Daisy makes quick work of unbuttoning his dinosaur-themed onesie—he, at least, is dressed like a modern baby. She peels back the diaper, wipe in hand, as Louise steps closer to supervise, and—

  And Remy wasn’t done.

  An arc of liquid shoots out, spraying both Daisy and Louise.

  Daisy shrieks and covers him back up with the dirty diaper.

  Louise coughs and steps back, right onto Elvira, who yowls and takes a flying leap across the room, skirting the inset couches, landing in the middle of the fireplace—which is off, thank god—and then flying down a hall.

  Six other cats shoot out from beneath furniture and out of the corners and yowl and hiss as they follow Elvira.

  Louise stares off down the hallway, baby pee soaking her gray business jacket, her lips parted. “How many animals reside in this house?”

  “About one for every five thousand square feet,” Daisy replies, but it’s not as quick and easy.

  “I’ve got him,” I tell her, nudging her aside.

  She whips two extra wipes out of the pack and turns to hand one to Louise, keeping one hand on Remy. “Healthy kidneys. Bet that’s not the first time a kid’s gotten you on the job, is it?”

  “Not in the least,” Louise agrees dryly.

  “He’s never done that before,” Daisy hisses to me. Her pulse is fluttering madly in her throat, butterfly wings in that hollow that I’d like to kiss and calm.

  “I’ve gotten nailed by every one of my nephews at least six times each,” I murmur back.

  “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

  I grin.

  Because no, I wasn’t going to tell her.

  I might be boring, and I might want to kiss her again, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be funny. And I’m amused as hell.

  “I am so mad at you right now,” Daisy says under her breath.

  But her lips are tipped up in a familiar curve, and I have zero doubt she’s both impressed and plotting revenge.

  I can’t wait.

  “Go on. Get cleaned up.” This time, she lets me nudge her out of the way, and she takes a wet wipe for the streak that arced from her shoulder to her belly, and while I tackle the diaper, she stands just inside my peripheral vision and strokes her boobs.

  Dammit. That’s not at all making my cock notice. Or my balls offer up some randy suggestions. And think about her in my lap. Stroking her tongue against mine.

  While I’m supposed to be playing the role of good parent figure.

  Not horny asshole who wants to jump the heiress.

  “Can I show you the house, Louise?” Daisy says brightly.

  “That would be—”

  “Daisy! Daisy! Oh, my poor baby, I’m here! Everything’s fine! Mama’s here now!”

  I jerk my head up.

  Remy screams.

  Daisy mutters something I don’t catch with my bad ear, but it’s clearly a complex profanity.

  Louise’s eyes flare wide as she turns toward Daisy’s unexpected guest—a tall, busty blonde in a shrink-wrapped neon green dress and heels up to a normal woman’s knees. Her eyes are familiar. So are her lips. And her nose.

  “Why didn’t you radio the yacht? I would’ve been here in an instant.” She has
at least eight inches on Daisy, which I assume means four or five when they’re both barefoot, and she grabs Daisy and smushes her face to her breasts. “I never prepared you for motherhood. I’m a failure, and now I’ve set you up for failure.”

  “Mom. Stop. You’re not a failure.”

  “Daisy’s not failing,” I add.

  “I certainly hope that’s true,” Louise says.

  Daisy’s mom looks up and frowns. “Daisy. Did you replace Tiana? And who’s this handsome drink of water?”

  Louise frowns deeper. “I’m Louise Anacosta, Department of Children and Family Services, and I’ll thank you to not call me a handsome drink of water.”

  I’d think Louise had a wicked sense of humor, but she doesn’t crack a smile while she delivers the line.

  Daisy’s gaze flies to mine, and I have to look away, because I’m going to crack a smile if I don’t, but in the process, I make eye contact with her mom.

  “Oh! The stranger. You’re the stranger Julienne named in her will. Oh, that poor baby. Are you pinching him? Is that why he’s crying?”

  And no more smiles. “He’s hungry.” Or possibly stressed at all the changes in his life and at Daisy being stressed and me being stressed and two more strangers waltzing in the door. “Daisy—”

  “Helene,” Louise interrupts. “Helene Carter-Kincaid, yes? You’re concerned about your daughter and this man being caretakers for this child?”

  She finally seems to realize she needs to shut up.

  At least for half a second.

  “Well, they certainly can’t be worse than his biological parents were. Can you imagine having your childhood one-starred by your mother while your father sleeps with half the neighborhood? Don’t believe all those stories you see about Daisy in the news. She’s the most loyal, loving, amazing woman in the world, and I’ve never seen her fail when she’s given a task. All of my insecurities about her parenting skills are a reflection of my own insecurities and failures, but she’ll be fine. I don’t know anything about him, but I imagine that’s what your background checks are for. How did you get put in that will again?”

  “That’s a question for another day.” If Daisy gets any perkier, she’s going to topple over and land on her face in a pile of reality. “Mom, I need to give Louise a tour of the house. Can you please go find Tiana and ask her if she’ll meet me in the situation room at two?”