Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,21
given how many guys Tyler knows in the whole hockey league who’ve had to do paternity tests—which is somewhere between more guys than I knew in the Marines who had to do paternity tests and the number of times I’ve already seen Daisy bounce up and down in excitement over something—I’m going to assume his lawyer contact is reasonably competent.
And probably expensive.
And very, very ironic.
The last time I tried parenting ended spectacularly horrifically.
But I had zero legal claim that time. I was just the boyfriend. Sierra didn’t want to get married—said she’d done that once and wasn’t doing it again. But when the military ordered me to move from South Carolina to California, I thought she’d change her mind.
That she’d realize I was worth moving for.
Except it turns out, she didn’t love me that much.
I would’ve stayed just for her kids at that point. But she kicked me out. Told me to eat shit and die. And then hit on my best friend.
Wasn’t in much of a place to be a solid father figure after that.
Probably could’ve stayed and fought for her, but at what ultimate price to her and her kids?
My phone dings, pulling me back to the present. Tyler’s sending contact info for a local family law attorney.
Almost a father once with no legal claim.
Now, I have all the legal claim, but no moral reason to stay. “Just love him,” I whisper to Daisy. “Love the shit out of him.”
I had my doubts when I got here.
I had my doubts overnight.
But that soft but overwhelmed smile that crept over her face when she finally took the baby and looked down at him in her arms?
That’s not something money can buy.
My gut says that kid’s going to get the only thing I thought I could offer him.
And so I tell my family I’m bowing out—that it’s for the best—put my truck in gear, and head back out the way I came.
Past all the mansions. A golf course. Condos. Palm trees. People in colorful clothes out for jogs or walks along the golf cart trails winding along the road. A group of ladies on a patio overlooking the miniature golf course, all gossiping and holding out their pinky fingers while they sip their coffee. Glimpsing a little row of shops beyond that carved rooster near the gate.
And I head back to what I’m supposed to be doing.
Getting my footing after the Marines. Fixing up an old gym. Living life on the beach.
And apparently not having a family anytime soon.
Nine
Daisy
If it wasn’t for Lucinda, I would be falling apart. But she bustles in two minutes after Alessandro escorted West out of my room, like she wasn’t up mere hours ago hunting down a rocking chair in the middle of the night.
She holds the baby while I shower quickly, and when I’m ready to face the day, he’s sleeping peacefully in a large basket lined with a soft but thin pillow.
And so I do what I do best—I dive into faking my way through this.
I call up a personal shopper I know, explain what I need, and she assures me she’ll have a nursery arranged before dinnertime, complete with a wardrobe to get a Miami baby through the holidays. Then it’s on to searching for nannies, which is new territory, but I’ve phone interviewed three nanny agencies before ten, and have in-person meetings set with the executive directors of my two favorites.
My personal assistant shows up mid-morning with crates of diapers, wipes, and formula, and by the time I’m done interviewing the two nanny services, I feel like I have everything under control.
It helps that Lucinda’s been playing babysitter.
She has four grandchildren and adores babies, but also loves giving them back to their parents at the end of her days with them.
Apparently it’s the true joy of grandparenting. Or so she tells me.
In any case, by the time my doorbell chimes out its trumpet blast halfway through the afternoon, I’m on top of the world.
I am rocking this guardian thing.
But a few minutes later, the sour expression on my grandmother’s face suggests she doesn’t see it. She marches into my office, where I’ve finally sat down to catch up on work emails, and announces, “The Rodericks have formally filed a challenge to the will.”
“Wow.” I glance at my dick clock—one of my mom’s pieces of art, which hangs proudly opposite the wall of windows overlooking the beach. Three PM. “Took longer than I thought it would.”