Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,79
look up at the very stern woman in a business suit so buttoned-up she makes Daisy’s housedress look like a Playboy Bunny outfit.
“Oh, forking shirt,” Daisy whispers through a smile.
“Ms. Carter-Kincaid?” Tall, Skinny, and Scary says as she descends the two steps to the sunken sitting room. “And Mr. Jaeger?”
I suddenly like Daisy’s eyes more, because hers look like chocolate, whereas Ms. Anacosta’s brown eyes look like judgmental holes to the hellmouth.
This is going to be fun.
I step forward. “Westley Jaeger. Nice to meet you.”
“You’re the appointed guardian unrelated to the child?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And how did you come to be named in the deceased’s will?”
“Made a good impression when I remodeled their nursery for them, I suppose.”
Daisy slides to my side. “Hi, Louise. I’m Daisy. Remy’s mother was my cousin.”
“I’m aware of your relation to the deceased,” Louise replies in a way that makes me wonder if she ever got one-starred by Julienne for anything.
But Daisy doesn’t let the cold answer deter her. “Welcome, and thank you for coming.”
Remy screws his face up again and grunts while he adds to the mess in his diaper.
Louise peers down at him over her half-moon glasses, and she smiles. “Well, you certainly sound healthy.”
She’s a completely different woman when she smiles, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I’ll get him,” I tell Daisy.
“Oh, no need. We set up a changing station in the corner.” She smiles brighter at Louise. “Water? Soda? Lemonade?
And the stiff, judgmental state official comes back. She taps a pen against the clipboard in her hand. “No, thank you.”
Daisy strolls easily to the sideboard at the edge of the room beside the windows, and my eyes almost fall out of my head.
Furniture isn’t my strong suit—I prefer tearing down walls and putting them back up to decorating—but I don’t think that thing was built as a baby changing station. It’s too carved, too polished, and too billionaire.
Daisy whips a changing mat out of the top drawer, then wipes and a fresh diaper from the next drawer down.
“You change diapers yourself?” Louise asks.
“Few times a day on workdays, few more on the weekend,” Daisy replies cheerfully. “We’ve gotten good at this in the last couple weeks, haven’t we, Remy? Yes, we have. Yes, we have.” She boops him on the nose, and he screams bloody murder like she poked him in the eyeball.
“Hates being dirty,” I say quickly.
“Abhors it,” Daisy agrees, though pink’s rising in her cheeks, and she’s not wearing enough makeup to hide it.
“Do you frequently change him on antique furniture without straps?” Louise asks.
“You’d be amazed what you can convert into a changing table. It’s so far to his room, and who wants to stew in his own poop any longer than necessary?”
Remy screams.
Daisy makes quick work of unbuttoning his dinosaur-themed onesie—he, at least, is dressed like a modern baby. She peels back the diaper, wipe in hand, as Louise steps closer to supervise, and—
And Remy wasn’t done.
An arc of liquid shoots out, spraying both Daisy and Louise.
Daisy shrieks and covers him back up with the dirty diaper.
Louise coughs and steps back, right onto Elvira, who yowls and takes a flying leap across the room, skirting the inset couches, landing in the middle of the fireplace—which is off, thank god—and then flying down a hall.
Six other cats shoot out from beneath furniture and out of the corners and yowl and hiss as they follow Elvira.
Louise stares off down the hallway, baby pee soaking her gray business jacket, her lips parted. “How many animals reside in this house?”
“About one for every five thousand square feet,” Daisy replies, but it’s not as quick and easy.
“I’ve got him,” I tell her, nudging her aside.
She whips two extra wipes out of the pack and turns to hand one to Louise, keeping one hand on Remy. “Healthy kidneys. Bet that’s not the first time a kid’s gotten you on the job, is it?”
“Not in the least,” Louise agrees dryly.
“He’s never done that before,” Daisy hisses to me. Her pulse is fluttering madly in her throat, butterfly wings in that hollow that I’d like to kiss and calm.
“I’ve gotten nailed by every one of my nephews at least six times each,” I murmur back.
“And you weren’t going to tell me?”
I grin.
Because no, I wasn’t going to tell her.
I might be boring, and I might want to kiss her again, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be funny. And I’m amused as hell.