Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,3

wiping the table with a disinfectant cloth from her stash in her bag.

Is she perfect?

No, but what woman is? What person is?

Thought I found perfection once before, and I couldn’t have been more wrong.

But I’m pushing forty. Ready to move past the heartbreak—and military commitment—that’s hamstrung me the last several years, settle down, and live the rest of my life with what makes it worthwhile.

Family.

I grab extra napkins from the ketchup stand and weave through the beach bums and locals waiting in the rustic shack to the yellow-painted picnic table for two at the window, my heart ticking up a familiar rhythm.

Anticipation.

Except this isn’t anticipation for a military mission, which is something that faded over the years too.

Now, it’s anticipation for my life.

I set the tray on the table and climb onto the bench seat, my pulse steadily ramping up. Despite the view of the beach sunset, Becca’s bent over her phone, her strawberry blond hair lifting in the light breeze coming off the bay, her delicate fingers scrolling quickly across the screen. “Oh my god, West, did you hear about Judgy Julie?”

“Who?” I tell my heart to chill. Becca’s a safe choice. Attractive. Stable. Probably doesn’t want any more kids, and that’s okay. Can’t have everything in life.

“Judgy Julie. Julienne Carter-Roderick. The woman who one-starred you for refusing to take a wall out to put that giant marble fountain in her baby’s nursery?”

“Ah. Right. Judgy Julie. She one-star her husband or something?” Guy gave me all the dicknugget vibes, even if he did overrule her on the fountain. Mental note: I will not be a dicknugget to Becca.

“She died.”

I pause with a burger extended to her and tilt my good ear toward her. “She…died?”

Well, fuck.

How am I supposed to pop the question now?

Forge ahead, Marine! my balls bark at me, because they’ve been feeling neglected since I retired. Don’t pussy out now!

“They both did. She and her husband. Apparently fairly tragically. Smells like karma. I didn’t follow her—not after that horrible thing she said about your hammering skills not being able to arouse a gender-confused monkey, which was just rude—but I accidentally saw a review she posted of a baby sling last week where she tore it to shreds because it didn’t make her baby feel like he was sleeping on a pillow of clouds and the fabric was a shade too teal for anyone to not want to puke after looking at it. Who says stuff like that?”

“Unhappy people.”

She puts her phone down and takes the burger and drink. “I guess. She was just so awful to everyone. How long before she would’ve one-starred her own kid for being a kid, you know?”

Take charge and get her warmed up for the question, Marine! my nut sack orders. I clear my throat and unwrap my own burger. “Sunset’s pretty.”

Becca smiles. “Okay. Moving on. Got it. Do you know every time we’ve had burgers here, it’s always been insanely crowded, and there’s always been an open window seat?”

That’s more like it. “Meant to be. Obviously.”

Ooh-rah! You got this now! my balls cheer.

She bites into her burger.

And then she moans.

On a scale of my leg just got blown off to porn star orgasm, this moan ranks at a this burger just made my panties wet.

And I’m intrigued by Becca with wet panties. Let’s be honest here. The thought of regular sex definitely plays into taking the leap back into real relationship waters for the first time in six years.

It’s time. Time for the question.

I set my burger down.

Suck in a heavy breath.

And wait until she meets my eyes over her hamburger.

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

She coughs, her brown eyes go wide, and a hunk of cheeseburger flies out of her mouth and lands squarely on one of the extra napkins.

I quickly wrap it up and hand her the next napkin while she thumps her chest and rasps out a wheezy breath.

“Gesundheit,” I say while I reach around to pound her—gently—on the back.

She lunges for her milkshake and sucks the straw, making her cheeks hollow in.

“Water?” I ask when she comes up for air. I’m already halfway out of my seat to grab a cup from the soda fountain.

“Jesus, West, warn a girl before you make a joke,” she finally says.

Aw, hell. My mother’s a comedienne. I know the art of timing. I also know the art of bombing.

Becca freezes. “You…weren’t joking.”

And I thought it was hot working on that gym renovation without air conditioning this afternoon. I clear my