Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,57

The Dame’s castle—I mean home—toward her office in the east wing. Framed paintings of flamingoes, monkeys, crocodiles, and poodles—don’t ask—line the opposite wall and watch me like they know I’m a total poser.

You only have money because you have your family name behind you, the flamingo mocks.

You’re going to fail this baby test, the poodle sniffs.

And here I thought I got lots of sleep last night.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need less sleep so the animals in the portraits won’t talk to me anymore.

I knock once at the massive double doors then twist the wrought-iron handle. “Evening, Grammykins. We need to talk.”

Except my grandmother isn’t in her office.

“Miss Daisy?” One of her security team peeks into the room behind me, and I school my features behind one of my normal smiles, like everything’s just fine.

“Barry. Hi. How’s the baby?”

His dark face splits in a grin, and he whips out his phone to flip through a slideshow of the second most adorable baby on the planet.

“Aww, look at those curls! Mimi recovering okay?”

“She’s amazing.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. Do you happen to know where my grandmother is?”

“On her way to Japan, Miss Daisy.”

Oh, fuck. I forgot about Japan.

And there goes a mini panic attack in my stomach. It feels like there’s a jousting match going on between my liver and my appendix.

I should be on that plane to Japan, because I can’t even change a diaper and feed a bottle right.

How the fuck can I raise a baby?

Barry smiles knowingly. “That lack of sleep gets you every time, doesn’t it? They’re worth it though.” He claps a meaty hand to my shoulder and squeezes, and for a split second, I want to ask if he wants two babies.

Which of course I won’t. Because there’s another entirely different swell of panic rising at the thought of not seeing that gummy smile ever again.

I’m a total mess.

And I need people. And work. And for someone else to hire a nanny. And preferably for me to not have to have West around to witness my complete and utter failure at this motherhood thing.

Because I realized something today.

My grandmother didn’t call me to chew me out about West telling her we were married.

He’s my grandmother’s spy.

I smile at the security guard. “Thanks, Barry. You let me know if the Gramigenarian isn’t paying you enough.” I wink, he chuckles, and tells me to take my time and snag a nap here before I go home if I need it.

I might actually need it, but more, I need to talk to my grandmother.

It’s a long drive back to my house. Alessandro, who normally keeps his cool during everything, flips off three drivers and cuts six more off in the horrible Miami traffic, like maybe he’s channeling my mood. He tells me he’s not getting the spy vibes off West, but he could be wrong. But finally, with just barely enough time before I’m due for my next shift with Remy—god help me—we get back to my house.

I dash to my office, double-check my game face, then I dial my grandmother’s number for a video chat.

She answers on the seventh ring. She’s in her private jet, and she has the pursed-lip look of annoyance that should warn me not to push my luck.

“Where’s Remington?”

“With West. You know. Your favorite grandson.”

“Were I to get to choose my grandchildren, Mr. Jaeger would not be my first choice.”

“No? Because you didn’t have a fit about him telling you we got married.”

“I don’t have fits.”

I study her closely.

She studies me right back.

Something wrong is going on here. My grandmother doesn’t get attached to people outside the family—not people she hasn’t hand-picked herself, anyway—but while she was frosty as Antarctica in that video Tiana showed me of West facing her down the day I had my allergic reaction, she also hasn’t ordered him out of my life.

My grandmother is freaking playing me.

And he probably is a spy. “Sure. Anyway, I’m calling to let you know I’m going back to work tomorrow.” I have to. I need to. I can’t work from home and do my job effectively, and more, I can’t work here alone all day with a non-verbal dictator who’s adorable and fascinating and perfect, but a dictator nonetheless.

“No.”

“Granerella. What kind of example are we setting if women can’t work with babies? I can take Remington with me. There’s a daycare center two floors beneath my office. And it’s not like I’m breastfeeding or recovering from childbirth. I’m perfectly capable