Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,1
a svelte black Caroline Herrera that shows off her cleavage without being too much, her makeup perfect, her hair demure, her expression sad but not weepy.
I look just like her, except the part where her chicken legs are actually chicken legs, whereas mine are compressed since I’m six inches shorter than she is.
Damn paternal genes.
“I severely dislike funerals,” she says. “Even though they were both horrible people, I’m still sad they’re gone. All those years they could’ve found their souls on earth, and now they’ll never get the chance to redeem themselves.”
“But if you had to go, having horny dolphins chase your sailboat into the path of an oncoming pirate tourist ship is pretty epic.”
“I will disown you if you die early on me in a freak accident involving horny anything and pirate anything else.”
“Ditto. Also, I promise that when it’s your time, I’ll have you laid to rest in a dick casket, just to watch The Dame’s eyeballs pop out of her head.”
A smile teases her lips, and her blue eyes crinkle at the edges while she touches her phallic diamond earrings.
My mother loves penises. She’s made a fortune in penis art since she divorced my father twenty-five years ago. Which is good, because The Dame disinherited her for marrying my father in the first place.
“For the lack of nice things said about Julienne and Rafe, there are a remarkable number of people here,” she says.
“It’s sweet of so many people to come for Grandma and the Rodericks.” I’m well aware that most people are here only to schmooze with The Dame, or that the many enemies Julienne made with her snark blog wanted to be here to pan her funeral, or that Rafe’s three mistresses are actually in mourning because none of them knew he was married and a dickhead and they all loved him in their own way.
Or that there would probably be more people here, except the Rodericks—Rafe’s parents—don’t have many friends in their social circle who would show up to a funeral.
Actually, they don’t have many friends at all. Not of the friendly variety, anyway.
Probably because Anthony Roderick is a dick who tries to blackmail people into doing business with him.
Firsthand experience there, and even though it’s been four years, the memory of him at Julienne’s wedding, cornering me and leering and demanding that we do a deal together since we’re family now still makes me shiver.
A local congressman steps up to us in line. “I got calls about Julienne and her opinion columns on a daily basis. My phones will be quieter with her gone.”
“So eloquently put,” Mom tells him.
“Thank you. My speechwriter and I worked on it for an hour last night.”
He moves on, and Mom looks down the row again. “Thank god. Your grandmother’s breaking rank. This must be about the last of them. How do you feel about politicians? The congressman is cute. You should ask him out.”
We head for the nearest waiter, because canapés. Yum. “Too close to home.”
“You and this ridiculous obsession with European men… Where did I go wrong?”
“Have you ever dated an Italian or a Spaniard?”
She frowns. “I don’t think I have.”
“Trust me. You should try it sometime.”
“I haven’t studied European penises up close…”
“Borrow my plane. Or take the yacht.”
“Oh, a week on the yacht would be lovely. And inspiring. Can I bring a pool boy?”
“You know I’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t.”
“And then when I get back, we can talk about you calling the congressman.”
“Mom.”
“What? I have to mom you until you finally settle down.”
We pass Alessandro, my bodyguard, who smirks at me.
I let him, because he’s one of my favorite people in the world.
“I have too much living to do to settle down,” I declare.
“Yes, yes, sow your wild oats. You’re only young once. But, Daisy, you’re in your mid-thirties now. You’ve been living like this for nearly half your life. And you’re my only hope for grandchildren.”
“I’m sure there’s a grandmotherless family somewhere in Miami who would love to be adopted by you and your alimony checks, but you might have to hide your jewelry. It’s inappropriate, Mother.”
“Daisy Imogen Carter-Kincaid.”
I grin.
She tries not to grin back, but she fails, and instead sips her mai tai again to try to hide her amusement over my suggestion. We both know she’s going to have her assistant look into a grandmotherless family as soon as this funeral party is over.
She makes enough money on her own that she can spare the alimony checks my father