Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,41
count the one still in the trampoline room with Beck. I let them in because they were cleared by security.”
I keep waiting for the day that they both get frustrated with me and leave, but so far, I have yet to drive them to drink or quit. It helps that when my grandmother insisted I hire a security team, I picked my own head bodyguard instead of letting her have a say.
“Cute idea to photo shoot them on trampolines,” she adds. “They got some really adorable shots. At first. Until West decided to see what needed babyproofing around the house. He opened the door, and the cats took off.”
“Where is West?”
She finally looks straight at me, gasps, and she stumbles back half a step. “Maybe you should go take a nap and let us deal with the cats.”
I touch my face. “It’s still bad, isn’t it? Or is this because you don’t want to tell me where West is?”
“He’s around here somewhere. With the baby. Security’s basically been trailing him to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. And you probably shouldn’t go near the photographer again if you don’t want to end up in the National Enquirer with their proof that you’re actually an alien. He might be cleared by security, but that picture would go for a fuck-ton of money. Also, your calendar’s clear tomorrow. I can get you scheduled with Mirabella for a facial if you want.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Yes.”
Clearly, I don’t pay her to lie to me. I wince, which makes my skin hurt. “You think it’ll be better enough by tomorrow?”
“If not, Mirabella will know what to do. Even if it’s to tell you to take a few more days off. Or Emily and Luna. Someone. Somewhere. We’ll make sure you have your game face back by Monday.”
I don’t need my game face.
I need to find West and the baby.
But they’re not in any of the lounges. Nor in any of the sitting areas.
I cover the entire hump of the D of my house, all three levels.
The courtyard, where a cat has settled onto a floatie and is sunbathing in the center of my pool.
I head to my private wing, because I’m still in stilettos and I don’t feel like stilettos when my face is sore and my hands are starting to shake from the amount of Benedryl and adrenaline still pumping through my system and this niggling fear over not being able to find West.
Why haven’t I programmed his number into my phone yet?
Also, if I’m going to have to lead a search party to find Julienne’s baby and my co-guardian, I want my face to match my clothes.
In other words, I’d like to be scary as hell when I find him, so he knows he damn well better never take that baby anywhere without telling me again.
What if he hopped a boat and they capsized too, just like Julienne and Rafe?
What if they went wandering through the enclave and didn’t realize that Steve’s house is for an alligator, not a dog, and tried to get into the fence to the lagoon to pet him?
I don’t think Steve likes human as much as he’s developed a taste for chicken since we adopted him and gave him his prosthetic leg, but I don’t know that for sure, because I don’t feed humans to the alligator.
I’m working myself into a panic as I race through changing into hot pink tiger-striped yoga pants and a unicorn tank top offering to bake you some shut the fuckupcakes—it’s battle armor—and then search my bedroom, home spa, closets, secret library, and office, just in case he’s snooping.
But he’s not.
He’s nowhere in my private wing, not even in the rooftop gardens.
I spin in a slow circle, squinting in the sunshine at the palm trees dotting the landscape in Bluewater beyond my house, the roofs of the village, the condo buildings, the thickets of saw palmettos and hibiscus on the paths to Luna, Emily, and Cam’s houses, and the bay, and as I’m finishing my circle, movement at my scrotum pool makes me pause.
There he is.
Pacing in front of the pool house, phone to his ear, which hopefully means Remy’s with him in the building.
I head down the back staircase that leads to the shortcut to my second pool. West’s voice travels down the short pathway, and I freeze.
“Yes. Daisy Carter-Kincaid. Yes. The heiress. No, I’m not some creeper trying to spy on her, I need to know if she’s—dammit.”