Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,63

for being a horrible parent and if I’m going to utterly flunk this parenting test and if my grandmother will disown me and if I’ll end up living in a cardboard regatta boat in the Everglades while panhandling with the crocodiles and pythons and raising the next Tarzan the Everglade Jungle Man. Is that a napkin or a pillow? I need a pillow. And for Anthony and Margot Roderick to disappear and drop this ridiculous challenge to the will. And for our meeting with the social worker to go amazingly well. And a pancake. Cam. How did you know pancakes sound sooooo good right now?”

“Can I oh, honey her again, or is that too much?” Luna whispers.

“Shh!” Emily hisses, and I bolt straight upright and open my eyelids as far as they’ll go, because I know that shh.

That shh means my second favorite part of Drag Queen Brunch has arrived in the form of four romance authors that we low-key stalk here every month.

Related: I have a secret library full of all of their books, though I prefer to listen on audiobook, because I can do that on a plane, or in the car, or in the shower, or while I’m pretending to be on a conference call when my grandmother pays her weekly visits to my office.

Also related: my grandmother thinks I’m working on a deal in Monaco with a man named Salvio who’s having personal problems, but that’s actually part of the one author’s long-running series that I cannot get enough of.

Plus, Teddy Hamilton narrates the books, and his voice is to die for.

“Did you meet your deadline?” the one in the taco shirt asks the one with the big blue glasses.

“I said fuck it, wrote three blow jobs, and called it a day,” she replies.

“Speaking of saying fuck it,” the one in the stained unicorn shirt and sloppy half-bun says while they scoot into the booth beside us, “my third-grader asked me the other day if a cunt is the same thing as a vagina.”

The other three romance authors that we eavesdrop on at Drag Queen Brunch for the last forever all suck in shocked breaths.

My three friends and I all suck in shocked breaths.

Even me.

And I’m hard to shock.

But I’m suddenly seeing my future.

Remy, sitting down to dinner, asking if his penis is normal and what he’s supposed to do if it stands up in the middle of him giving a presentation on elephants in sixth-grade science class.

I somehow don’t think own it, big guy will be the right answer.

The woman in the Coffee is the answer T-shirt leans forward and grips unicorn author’s hand. “Did you tell him the truth?”

“I told him to go ask his father,” she wails. “I write romance novels, but I can’t talk to my children about vaginas!”

“You should say vagina ten times a day until the word loses its mystique,” the author in the blue glasses says.

“And then take him out to tacos for the talk-o,” the fourth author chimes in.

“Penis,” I whisper to myself. “Testicle. Balls.”

Wait.

I don’t have this problem. There’s very little I won’t say. I can even say—well, something that’s not appropriate even for me at Drag Queen Brunch.

“Shh,” Cam whispers. “I feel like I need to take notes. In case Jude and I ever have babies.”

“I don’t care about Salvio in book five anymore,” I announce. “I need life advice. I need parenting advice.”

Three sets of hands grab me before I can slide under the table and attack the authors.

“Daisy! If you go over there, you’ll scare them away, and our men can only work so fast at stalking to find out where they go instead, since it’s technically illegal,” Emily hisses. “We can handle this. We’re the vagillionaires, remember? We’ll get you through Remy’s baby years.”

“I don’t know what Julienne was thinking when she wrote her will. And there were witnesses. She and Rafe had to at least be able to fake being sober. No one leaves me a baby. An eleven-year-old who can brush his own teeth and whose biggest problem is deciding which flowers to send his—no, probably not an eleven-year-old. Okay. People can leave me teenagers who need spectacular life advice—huh. No. Probably not that either. Wait. I’ve got it. People can leave me twenty-eight-year-olds who need dating advice and some coaxing to get out, party a little, try the go-karts, and definitely go skinny-dipping with a woman in The Dame’s pool.”

Emily laughs. “You’re going to be fine, Daisy. You love people.