Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,78
which I shouldn’t do, but I can’t help myself.
I want her. Plain and simple.
But first, I need to convince the social worker that Daisy’s a solid parent to Remy. Because once she doesn’t need me, then we can both acknowledge what we actually want.
I’m pacing in the parlor at five minutes to ten, with two cats pacing behind me but no Daisy or Remy in sight yet. The room is at the center of the curve in the D, with party rooms off the wings on either side and a wall of windows overlooking the courtyard pool. A round indoor gas fireplace is inset in the center, with tropical plants decorating every nook and cranny around some fancy-ass furniture.
Basically, it’s a nightmare for a mobile baby.
Fire. Poisonous plants. Bookshelves not screwed to the walls and decorated with glass and stoneware artwork that could cause a head injury.
There’s nothing childproofed in here at all—right down to me not knowing exactly how many cats we still have in the house, although the food bowls in the kitchen are always empty when I get up each morning, and this is where we’ll be convincing a state official that we can be good parents.
Not a problem, I tell myself. I’m a fucking handyman. I can fix this.
I eyeball the sunken couches and built-in gas firepit again.
Probably. I can probably fix this.
“Oh, wow, you look like a groomsman,” Daisy says suddenly.
I turn to the sound of her voice, and what the ever-loving fuck?
She’s in a fifties housewife dress, right down to the pantyhose with a seam up the back and discreet low-heeled shoes. Her purple hair is gone, and instead, it’s brown and tied back in a simple bun. Her makeup is light and tasteful, and she’s sweeping into the room with Remy in one arm and a stack of books tucked under the other.
I swipe my hand over my eyes and look up at the ceiling two stories above, hoping to find some answers to this insane one-eighty in her appearance, but instead, I realize the chandelier overhead is shaped like a dick.
It’s a dick with dick pendants hanging from it.
And…an artistic spurt coming out the tip.
My jaw unhinges and my nuts crack up.
I’ve been here how many weeks and never noticed this before?
“Huh. Hope the social worker lady has a sense of humor,” Daisy says cheerfully. “Can’t argue that if we talk about body parts more often, they lose their stigma though, don’t you think?”
The clicking of her shoes against the Italian marble floor stops beside me. “Though the glitter spurt is probably unnecessary. Tiana, could you send me a note to update the chandelier?”
“About time,” Daisy’s assistant murmurs.
I take one more deep breath, then look down at her. “What did you do?”
She grins. “It’s a wig. And I watched one of Luna’s YouTube tutorials on putting on a business face. Like you can talk. Hello, handsome in a suit. Could you roll up your sleeves though? You have such nice forearms. It’s a shame to cover them up.”
Her cleavage is fully covered by the pink gingham dress, which goes all the way to her neck and flares down below her knees. She’s wearing a light white cardigan over the whole ensemble, and I don’t like it.
It’s not Daisy.
Trumpets blare like a royal assembly is announcing the arrival of a king in a cartoon movie, and Daisy twirls toward the door. “Oh, good. She’s here.”
“What was that?” I ask.
“Doorbell,” Alessandro supplies with a grunt. “Stay,” he orders Daisy.
She rolls her eyes—which are a soft brown now, matching her hair and making her seem as tame and harmless as a country mouse.
“I would’ve had Cristoff prepare lunch, but I didn’t want to look like I was bribing her,” she murmurs to me. “I’m not offering mimosas either. You’re welcome.”
“I hate your hair,” I tell her. “And your eyes.”
“But you like the pantyhose, don’t you?” She grins, which is the only thing authentic about her, and turns her leg to show off the seam. “Admit it. You’re having housewife fantasies right now.”
“I’m having a heart attack at the idea of Remy finding the controllers for that fireplace.”
She looks at the built-in fireplace, surrounded by a round couch inset in the floor as well, and frowns, then frowns at the baby, who scrunches up his face and lets loose in his diaper with a grunt that’s drowned out by the trumpet in his butt that could out-trumpet her doorbell.