Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,71
romantic ADD so much better.”
“You’re making awful generalizations about people right now.”
“And it sounds so much more exotic to say I spent the weekend with a Greek god than it does to say I spent the weekend with a farmer in Iowa.”
She’s so full of shit. “If you’re not a big enough person to confess to having commitment issues, just say so.”
Her cheeks go bright pink, and there’s that overwhelming urge to hug her again. But it’s accompanied by a need to google a therapist for her.
“Fine.” She throws her hands up. “I’m not a big enough person to confess to having commitment issues.”
I bite into a carrot and chew it slowly, watching the blush fade behind a growing scowl, like I’m intentionally showing her how to eat a carrot without choking and she doesn’t appreciate it.
This is so much like being home. And I’m also relieved her embarrassment is fading. She’s welcome, though I’ll probably never tell her so.
I swallow and go back to fixing her sandwich. “Single mothers are the only people I’ve ever survived a first date with.”
“Oh, please.”
“High school prom. I asked my little sister’s best friend. Year younger than me. Cute. Nice ass. She asked if we could double-date with another one of her friends. Turned out her friend was the girl who stole her boyfriend, who was the fourth person in our party, and she spent the entire night trying to make him jealous with me while her friend tried to talk me into slipping out the back door for a quickie.”
“High school doesn’t count.”
“Two years into the Marines. Met a woman at the gym. Asked her out. She said she’d only say yes if I could out-bench her. So we start benching, and she’s keeping up rep-for-rep, up to like one-fifty—”
“Hate to tell you, but that’s a sign she didn’t actually want to go out with you.”
“Yeah. Figured that out when I crashed at two-thirty and she kept going to two-fifty, then told me to try again when I grew a pair. She’d just been dumped by a guy who was on the bodybuilding circuit, who she trained with for like three years before that. Went on to be a pro wrestler and married this guy who looks like Santa Claus.”
“No.”
“Yep.”
“Talk about opposites attracting.”
I nod while she steals my root beer glass and tips it to her lips.
“Her wrestler name was The Mrs. Clausinator,” I add casually.
Daisy spews root beer out her nose.
And I mentally thank my mother for teaching me the art of timing.
“A while later,” I continue, refusing to be embarrassed, because my family has already helpfully relived these moments for me enough that I don’t care anymore, “my buddies set me up with a drag queen.”
Her scowl is instant behind the napkin she’s wiping her face with. “That’s not funny.”
“It was awkward for a few minutes, but we ended up shutting down the county fair, shoving our faces with funnel cake and winning this giant stuffed sloth in the ring toss. Had a fucking awesome time. Good lady. Still keep in touch—she’s a paralegal for a human rights attorney in LA now, still does drag shows on the weekends, and I kicked my buddies’ asses from here to Saskatchewan for embarrassing her.”
She’s eyeballing me like she’s not certain that was enough punishment, and that’s exactly the problem.
She cares about so much more than just herself. But she gets painted as nothing more than a fun-loving waste of oxygen.
“Why do you always tilt your head like that when you’re listening to someone?” she asks.
Huh. Didn’t realize I was doing it again.
I tap my right ear. “Mostly deaf. Too close to an improvised explosive one time in Kabul.”
Her frown isn’t going away. “Is that your worst injury? From the Marines?”
“Pretty much.”
“You have nightmares?”
“Used to. Rarer now.”
“Therapy?”
“Yep.”
“Ever consider a hearing aid?”
“That would be admitting it’s a problem, and it’s not.” I pass her another sandwich. “Why do you work for your grandmother?”
And there goes the battle armor. It’s subtle, but her blue eyes shift from the color of the sky to the color of flame, and the ever-present smile goes brittle at the edges. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I gesture to the gourmet kitchen that opens to an outdoor kitchen by her pool, and by extension, the massive mansion we’re standing in. “You could afford to quit. Must like the job.”
“It keeps me entertained.”
“Not like partying in Rio would.”
“Gotta pay for my lifestyle somehow. Working for Gramalicious means a big payday for little work.”