Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,40

woke up yesterday.

Sixteen

Daisy

My face is the mushy part of an overripe seedless watermelon.

I know I’m only pretty because I’m rich. My eyes are too wide-set, my mouth too big, my nose too small, and my cheeks too round. I know this. I accept this. And because I have the personality to compensate for it, it never really bothers me.

Until times like today, when I feel utterly stupid for not seeing the warning signs sooner.

The last time I had shrimp, I caught a six-hour cold and thought I’d gotten stung by a honeybee on the lip when I wasn’t watching my drink carefully out on my boat.

The time before that, I caught a rash on my face that I attributed to uneven sunscreen distribution.

But now, my entire body has revolted to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that just like my mother, I’ve developed a shellfish allergy in adulthood.

“I’m not an adult,” I whine to Alessandro while he drives us across the final bridge to my humble abode. “I’m a twelve-year-old with the mental capacity to handle business and the physical capacity to handle alcohol and this desperate need to know that Julienne’s baby is okay. But I have at least seventy-three more years before I qualify as an adult. For the record.”

He humors me with a grunt of agreement.

At least, I’m calling it agreement.

He’d probably call it frustration.

“Thank you for saving my life,” I add. “And I’m still mad at you for not letting me go show Pixie that I’m just fine.”

“Tiana took care of it.”

We turn down my seashell drive, and I frown. My eyes are still a little blurry from all the swelling and tears, but there’s definitely a big black truck parked under my porte-cochère. “Who’s here? Is that Becca?”

“That’s Mr. Jaeger’s truck.”

“Oh. Right.” Relief I didn’t know I needed floods through my limbs.

He’s still here.

Probably with Remy.

I hop out of my car as soon as it slows to a roll.

“Stop,” Alessandro orders. “You want a smashed nose to go with the rest of it?”

“I’m fine,” I retort. “And I need to check on the baby.”

I need to check on the baby.

Who am I?

It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours, and I’m all…motherly.

I fling open the door, and seven cats shriek, meow, and dart at me.

“Aaahh!”

“Mrow!”

“Meow!”

“Yaaaarrrooooo!”

I gape at the tortoiseshell cat, because is he bungee jumping from the stairs or something?

But no.

He just has a weird meow.

“What the fuck?” Alessandro says behind me.

“Oh, shit, it’s Saturday,” I whisper.

“What’s Saturday? Who authorized this? What the fuck’s going on?”

I don’t answer, but instead dash past my sunken sitting room and down the hall toward my lounges.

You can’t keep a reputation for being an epic party-thrower without having themed lounges.

Plus, I get bored easily. And I like variety when I’m hosting friends.

Acquaintances.

Same thing.

Also, I wouldn’t normally be upset about seven cats wandering around my house—we’d catch them all eventually, and if one got out, it would be very well cared for in Bluewater—except I don’t know how cats are with babies.

Or how babies are with cats.

And if this didn’t get cleared off my schedule, who else can sneak into my house?

Shit.

I need to get more responsible. Now.

“Is this like the exotic bird thing?” Alessandro says while I race toward the end of the curved hall.

“I told one of Luna and Beck’s friends who runs a cat shelter that they could do a photo shoot. What better way to find the poor sweeties their forever homes than with professional photos of cats looking adorable?” I swing into the last room, my current favorite party room, which is basically one huge room of interconnected trampolines with ball pits lining the black walls, and instead of dozens of cats bouncing on trampolines, there’s a single chubby calico meowing plaintively from the center trampoline while Luna’s boyfriend, Beck, tries to crawl carefully out to get her.

And there’s a photographer happily snapping away as the big blond bearded biker dude tries to not scare the single cat left on the trampoline.

I hold up a hand to stop Alessandro. The poor kitty looks terrified. If anyone can reach her, Beck can, but only if we don’t scare the piss out of her first.

We back out of the room, because my face could scare a shapeshifting vampire wildebeest today.

“How many cats were coming today?” my bodyguard asks.

I shrug. “Somewhere between eight and thirty?”

“Fifteen,” a breathless Tiana answers as she bustles in from the courtyard. I owe her overtime for coming in today. “We’ve caught one, if you