Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,55
happily. “Win like we did last night, it’s party central all night long. Morning skate’s gonna be a bitch.”
I smile. Miss the little fucker. “What you get.”
“Dude. Level with me. You okay?”
“Just fine.”
“What’s Becca think of all of this?”
My shoulders hitch, but I make them relax and wave to a lady out for a jog along the perfectly landscaped Bluewater golf cart trail. “Becca’s dating someone.”
There’s a beat of silence. Doesn’t take much to picture my little brother smothering a not-surprised laugh.
Our sisters like to tell me I’m romance novel fodder—but, West, usually it’s the GIRL who has all kinds of bad dates.
“Ah, fuck her,” Ty finally says. “Shit. Shit. West. Dude. Tell me you’re not falling for Daisy. Don’t go there, man. You know better. Fuck. We’re not in Miami for another couple weeks. I can’t come kick your ass. Fuck.”
“I’m not falling for Daisy.” On purpose.
She’s hard to not like. Even when I’m frustrated with her for any number of things, she’s so—so—fun.
If there wasn’t the complication of Remy, I could honestly see myself letting loose and having fun with her.
But ultimately, I want to settle down. She never will.
“Westley.”
“I’m not falling for Daisy,” I repeat. “The legal situation—I shouldn’t have ever been named in that will, and everyone knows it. But dude—that kid—his parents died. His paternal grandparents are nutcases who think he’d be a possession, not a person. His great-grandmother is—Daisy jokes she’s an immortal dark being, which doesn’t feel too far from the truth. Best I can tell, she’s his most sane immediate relative. Daisy Carter-Kincaid. She’s the sane one.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t get attached, West. Don’t do it. Actually, you know what? Walk away. Fucking walk away. People like Daisy—she can get all the help she needs. She doesn’t have to break you in the process.”
“She’s not going to break me.”
“You should’ve moved up here with me. The guys—lots of sisters. Lots of bunnies. We’d get you hooked up, find you a normal girl. Normal’s basically overrated, but we’d get through the awkward first date, settle down, and have kids of your own. Get you past Sierra—”
“I’m fucking over Sierra.”
“Mara,” he tosses out.
“Didn’t know she had a kid, only went out with her twice.”
“Becca.”
“Shut up.”
“Daisy.”
“Not falling for Daisy. That would be crazy.”
“Dude. I’m not saying abandon the kid, but I am saying you don’t have to wear the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore. You’re retired. You’re single. Go have some fucking fun—with someone who’s not Daisy, which is a fucking shame, because she’s basically the most fun you can have legally outside of skydiving in go-karts—and don’t apologize for it.”
I’m gripping the steering wheel too tight. The ocean view, the palm trees, the Miami skyline—none of it is soothing and tropical and relaxing right now. “How do you know Daisy’s fun?”
“I read the gossip rags. Berger got me hooked on them. Fucker’s a celebrity gossip junkie. Also, Mom’s booking a ticket to fly down.”
“No.”
“You need someone there to protect you from yourself.”
“I’m not getting attached.”
“Sure. If you say so.”
I’d be pissed that he’s calling me a liar if I didn’t know he was right. “And there’s no reason for Mom to get attached. This legal stuff—”
“Go on and keep telling yourself that’s your reason you don’t want us there. But that’s what family’s for. For being there when the shit hits the fan.”
“There’s no shit. Swear to god, there’s no shit. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Worried about you, bro.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Except all day, while I’m working, I keep thinking about Remy.
His wide yawn. The way his dark eyes cross as he’s falling asleep on a bottle. The way he shouts when he waves his fist in front of his face, like he’s telling it to go somewhere but can’t figure out where. Those moments when he stares into my eyes like he’s trying to tell me something, and he wants me to confirm that he’s right.
And then I think about Daisy.
Her legs wrapped around me. The smile on her face when she’s talking to Remy or looking at him. Her confession about how she was raised, which was less about her parents and more about how it affected her.
What would a woman with as big a personality as Daisy’s do if she believed in love?
I shake my head, because it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I’m effectively a temporary babysitter for a woman who’s emotionally unavailable.
If I let myself believe anything more than that, I’m going to get burned.