Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(6)
Julienne Carter-Roderick. Judgy Julie. What the hell? “What kind of issue?”
“Just a small note. I’m sure we can clear it up quickly.”
“If she’s saying I still owe her work because of that statue—”
“No, sir. All’s well. Relatively speaking. You’ve been named as…well. Considering the sensitive nature of a will of this size and the relative fame of the recently deceased, I’d prefer to speak in private.”
“You couldn’t send a letter?” I don’t know shit about legal stuff beyond what my commander suggested I do for my own will back when I was a gunnery sergeant, but this feels off.
“There’s a time factor involved. You can follow me in your own vehicle if you wish.”
“To where?”
“Daisy Carter-Kincaid’s house in Bluewater on Key Biscayne, sir.”
Daisy Carter-Kincaid.
I know that name.
Why do I—aw, hell.
Daisy Carter-Kincaid is a rich party girl. Which probably means my baby brother—the hockey star who runs in high-profile social groups—is punking me.
Or coming through with that rich girl who needs a lube job! my nuts cheer.
They’re hopeless.
“Daisy Carter-Kincaid’s house,” I repeat.
“Yes, sir.”
I gesture him toward the row of beach houses. My baby brother knows things. And I’m pretty sure he’s tricking me into going to a party.
Bring it on. “My truck’s parked down the way. Let me get it, and I’ll follow you.”
Three
West
On the drive out to Key Biscayne, all the traffic lights turn green for me, nobody flips me off or cuts me off, the guard at the private Bluewater community entrance gate on Tiki Bar Drive is polite as a butterfly in his tropical floral print shirt, and even the eight-foot carved rooster just beyond the gate seems happy to see me.
I’m being escorted through a gorgeous private community that billionaires and superstars call home, at twilight, in a part of Miami that most people will never see other than in the spread of a magazine.
When my brother does something, he goes all in.
I have a moment of doubt, because sending a dude in a suit to pick me up isn’t Tyler’s style, but after driving past a bunch of pristine lawns with mansions tastefully tucked in beside palm trees, then across another bridge, and past three more mansions, the car in front of me finally pulls into a long, crushed seashell drive lined with Porsches, Teslas, Jaguars, and chromed-out Escalades, which is Ty’s style.
This is definitely a party.
Hell, maybe Mr. Chihuahua is the “lawyer”’s stripper name, and Ty’s signed me up to be his sidekick.
If so, he’s getting mayonnaise in his stocking for Christmas.
Mr. Chihuahua leads me up to the porte-cochère of the massive, curved-front hacienda mansion and blocks two cars in, then gestures for me to do the same.
This porte-cochère?
It’s really freaking cool. I’ve seen pictures of the house, because my sisters are all into the gossip rags and love texting me stuff, especially after Tyler got me set up to do that nursery renovation job for Julienne. Apparently she and Daisy are cousins, if I’m remembering all of my Daisy Carter-Kincaid trivia correctly.
I ignore most gossip—especially after some of the things Ty’s been quoted as doing in magazines as his hockey career has taken off—but I couldn’t ignore this house and its spread in How The Rich Live magazine.
Daisy has something like a half-dozen party lounges inside, all with different themes, from Under the Sea to a trampoline bar. Her guest suites are all named after tropical drinks, and rumor has it a certain rock legend and his wife asked if they could stay in the Sex on the Beach suite for an entire month while they tried to get pregnant, and when it didn’t work the first month, they asked to stay another.
Her home office has a wall of frozen yogurt dispensers. Her bedroom is the stuff of little girl princess dreams. She had her bathtub—a marble basin shaped like a rose—imported from Italy. And the whole house—the entire thing—is in the shape of a D with the copper roof modified to glitter and sparkle where it’s not lined with solar panels, with a shooting star porte-cochère branching off the top.
Seriously.
The overhang shoots out to a star-shaped building that I assume is for security, though it’s not manned right now.
Fuck yeah, we’re partying tonight! my balls cheer.
I pretend they’re talking to my bad ear. One-night stands were how I got through my last several years in the military, and I don’t want to be that guy forever. I want stability. A home. A family.
I want what I thought I had before Sierra crushed my heart six years ago.
And how’s that going for you, sucker? my nuts ask.
They might have a point. I might not ever get what I really want in life.
I take stock of everything from the security outpost to the tasteful tropical landscaping to the cars around us to the house with its massive double oak doors and arched windows following the curve of the building, because I haven’t been out of the military long enough to lose that desire to have situational awareness at all times.
Mr. Chihuahua leaps out of his car and gestures for me to follow him. We don’t head to the front door, but instead, steer around the curved side of the building along a path beneath palm trees and alongside hibiscus bushes, curiosity and suspicion growing with every step.