Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,92

getting nooky again, my balls sigh.

They might be right.

Considering we spend the rest of the night awake, by the time morning rolls around, I can’t even think of getting it up without groaning at the energy it would require for my body to function.

The storm’s slowly abating about dawn, and Remy’s finally fallen asleep when Daisy stirs on the bed. She’s still topless, lying sideways with her soft pants on, and she blinks twice before her sleepy gaze lands on me.

And that little smile turning up the corners of her lips—it melts me.

Completely.

And utterly.

I’m done.

Gone in a way I’ve never felt.

“Ohmygod, why did you let me fall asleep?” She leaps off the bed without a hint of self-consciousness.

I put a finger to my lips, then point at Remy, who needs to be moved, but fuck, if I move him, I swear he’ll wake up.

“West.” She shakes her head, then wraps an arm around my ears and pulls my head to her bare breast. “You crazy man. You should’ve woken me up.”

“One of us needs sleep.”

“Your turn. Bed. Go.”

“Rough night.”

“You are in so much trouble for not waking me up. Hand me the baby. And go to sleep. Now. Before I call my mother and grandmother in here to visit.”

The semi-hard-on that I apparently do still have in me shrinks back.

“C’mon, Mr. I Can Do Everything. You can go to bed.”

She pulls Remy out of my arms, and he fusses, but not for long.

She freezes. “Oh, god. This is totally inappropriate, isn’t it?”

I study her, bare-chested, with a baby tucked against her skin, then gesture to my own bare chest. “Babies like skin. Helps them bond.”

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

She cuts off my view by pointing to the bed again.

I rise, but I grab her hand and pull her along with me.

Because if I have to sleep, I want a pillow.

A Daisy pillow.

She wordlessly climbs onto the bed with me, one-handedly fluffs a pillow, and then lets me wrap my arms around her legs while she sits with Remy.

And then Daisy—party heiress Daisy—sings me pop songs until I fall asleep.

Thirty-Four

Daisy

Remy is in a mood.

I don’t know if it’s the change in atmospheric pressure after the storm, or having my grandmother on the premises, or realizing that my mother is easily manipulated, but he won’t sleep more than fifteen minutes at a stretch.

Grandma Helene claims to be up to the task of making him happy, and she makes it a solid two hours before marching into my office, where I’m arguing with The Dame about a prospective new development in Australia.

“He doesn’t want food. His diaper’s clean. I gave him a bath, which he hated. Reading to him is like having a demon sprout off his forehead and spew terror all over everywhere. He screamed so loud that he scared the cat. And don’t ask which one. All of them. Just assume he scared all of them. I’ve lost my touch with babies. Daisy. How did this happen? It was just yesterday that you were a baby, and now I can’t soothe this one.”

My office door opens, and a dark-haired older woman I’ve only seen on Netflix strolls in. “That’s because he needs his other grandma,” she announces.

Oh.

My.

God.

I had this woman’s son’s dick in my mouth just a few hours ago.

“He knows who’d fly through a tropical storm to get here, doesn’t he?” she coos at Remy, who momentarily stops screaming to look at her.

“Who are you?” Gramalicious demands, rising to her full five-foot-one-inch height, since being immortal doesn’t exclude her from the effects of gravity.

“Oh. Oh! Are you Westley’s mother?” Mom’s whole face lights up. “We have so much to talk about. Like how wonderful your son is. And how much you’re going to adore Daisy. And how quickly we’re going to get you away from my mother, because that’s in everyone’s best interest. Are you hungry? Thirsty? You want some frozen yogurt?” She points to my wall. “Daisy. What flavors do you have this week? The coconut is the best, especially if you swirl it with the chocolate.”

May Ella Jaeger finally looks up from making faces at Remy to glance at my wall of froyo.

“I’ll take chocolate,” a voice says behind her.

“Coconut for me,” another voice says.

“Get out of the way, you Amazonian. You and your big head are blocking my view.”

Three—no, four other women tumble into my office, with Alessandro on their heels.

“They were on the list,” he says with the same level of exasperation generally reserved for venting after The