Chapter 17

He takes a shower while I lay completely sprawled and limp across the bed.

I stare up at the glamorous ceiling fan, never having realized the style was a “thing.” This one has a stunning, crystal, subtle-heart-shaped dome. The brackets on the cherry wood blades are ornate with a little bling that catches the golden light emitted.

Only Nick can distract me from the lovely sight. The vision of him, even the slight one out of the corner of my eye as he comes from the en suite, has me focused solely on him.

My head rolls to the side and I watch him strut back into the room, a towel slung low on his hips. Droplets trickle along the thick cords of his throat, one pooling in the indentation at the base, the others tumbling from his collarbone to his pecs.

I bite back a sigh, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

Oh, the pecs…

The swells are magnificently defined and so enticing. They give way to cut abs and tapered obliques.

My gaze continues to follow the beads of water left over from his shower, until the first few are absorbed by the plush material. Naturally, my eyes linger on the bulge between his legs. There’s a distinct tickle between mine as recollections of him taking me hard and fast, then slow and deep, riddle my mind.

I can’t help but smile. And draw in a long breath.

He grins as well and he reaches for the tucked-in end at his hip and yanks on it, dragging away the towel and tossing it toward the bench at the foot of the bed.

I’m burning up again.

He peels back the lux covers and repositions me so I can slip under them. He settles next to me. We’re both on our sides, facing each other.

“You’re spending the night?” I murmur, quite dreamily.

“If that’s all right with you.”

“No complaint here.” Definitely not. “Though I will confess… I’ve never slept with a man before.”

A ripple of concern runs through me. I’m not sure what to expect, or really how to act. Like, do I huddle at the edge so he can have most of the mattress, given his width and height?

Nick lays on his back and says, “First, you get a little closer to me.”

Okay, that’s helpful. And I didn’t have to vocalize my inane question.

I scooch toward him.

“Closer,” he sexily taunts.

He raises his arm and I snuggle against him. He drapes his forearm over my shoulders and literally locks me in place.

My head is on his chest, my body conforming to his.

It’s cozy and erotic at the same time. However, I’m a tad wary.

“Your arm is going to fall asleep before we do.”

He chuckles, the sensual sound ribboning around my soul.

“I promise, it’ll be fine,” he tells me. “Stay as long as you want.”

“Well… I am comfortable here.”

“So am I.”

He’s kind to put me at ease. And to make me not feel naïve for yet another romantic detail I have no experience with.

Admittedly, I’m thrilled he’s the one initiating me. And there is something incredibly alluring and reassuring as my cheek presses to his hard pectoral ledge, his warm skin caresses mine, and his steady heartbeats echo lightly in my ear.

I flatten a palm over his midsection, my fingertips grazing the corrugated grooves with a feathery touch. His pulse jumps and his muscles pull taut; then he seems to force himself to relax.

That I affect him so easily, so vehemently has me utterly euphoric.

I tilt my chin so I can brush my lips over his neck. He lets out one of those primal sounds that make my pussy ache for him.

“That’s going to get you into trouble,” he gruffly whispers.

“I like your type of trouble.”

Another rumble from within him has me nipping at his flesh.

But he’s not taking the bait. “I don’t want to wear you out, Bailey. You work long hours and I want you well rested.”

“You’re just so damn tempting.”

“And you’re outright irresistible.”

“Yet… Somehow, you’re managing that,” I tease.

“With much difficulty.”

This pleases me.

I deliver mercy, though, and nuzzle into him without further toying with him.

I love being cuddled up with Nick and inhaling his clean scent. Being surrounded by his heat and sinew.

It’s impossible not to be fully aware of the fact that I’m nearly splayed on top of him. But as his breaths turn soothing and regulated, hypnotizing, my eyelids drift closed. I’m suddenly drowsy, despite the tingles of exhilaration around the fringes.

I’m deliriously content…and out in a matter of minutes.

~ * * * ~

We shift together in the middle of the night. I wake up on my side, with Nick’s arms and body wrapped around me from behind.

We are fantastically melded together and one of his hands is even palming my breast, caressing faintly, delicately.

Arousingly.

I cover his other hand, at my stomach, and direct it downward. His fingers glide over my folds, instantly slickening them. He rubs my clit, slowly, seductively. And then he’s entering me and pumping feverishly, and I can’t hang on for long.

Neither can he.

Later, we shower, and while I’m fluffing the blowout I’ve given myself and he’s shaving at the dual sink farther down the vanity, he says, “I had Claire make us brunch reservations at the yacht club.”

My head snaps his way. “I’m sorry… What?” I’m certain I’ve just turned a ghastly shade, too pale to be human.

He gives me his casual grin. The one meant to smooth the jagged edges he senses when I’m thrown from my element.

“It occurred to me that you really ought to check out more than just dinner at the club,” he explains. “See how they do up all the meal services and the cocktail hour in the lounge. Might give you some ideas for dos and don’ts, allow you to pick up some crucial details.”

“That’s precisely what I need,” I concur. “I’m just…” I raise my hands in the air, briefly at a loss for words. Then I quietly add, “Not exactly yacht club material.”

“I beg to differ.” He dries his face and swoops in to kiss me before saying, “You’re spectacular. And you’ve already got a great handle on high-end hospitality from school. For practical application at the crab shack, however, you can likely benefit from observing the staff and sampling the food at a starred establishment.”

“Without doubt.” I have no valid argument. It’s actually precisely what I want.

I’m only hesitating because I’m not mentally prepared for something this momentous.

Though… I remind myself I have an entire dressing room full of designer clothes and accessories. If I can only walk into the prestigious yacht club like I truly do belong there, I stand a good chance of gleaning tons of golden nuggets that will be advantageous as I’m nailing down all the particulars, micro and macro, required to define my new restaurant and help us to cater to discerning tastes and a more refined clientele.

Thus, I inhale and exhale in measured paces until I’m calm enough to nod at Nick and tell him, “I really appreciate you thinking about all of this. For getting me the membership. For securing the reservations. Everything.”

He winks. And it’s sexy as hell.

He kisses me once more and contends, “I just send the texts to Claire. She does all the heavy lifting.”

“Don’t sell this short,” I seriously say.

He’s strolling away, but halts and glances at me over his broad shoulder. He’s only wearing a towel again and it is a miracle I’m not the one whisking it away this time.

“I want you to be successful,” he affirms, with identical intensity. “I want you to feel confident that you know what you’re doing, Bailey. I want everyone working with you and frequenting your restaurant to know you’re in complete command of what you’re doing. I can’t be more certain you’re going to be amazing from start to finish, every single day. If I can assist in any way… I’m fully committed to doing that.”

Emotion swells in my throat. Around it, I assert, “You don’t have to be that invested, Nick. You’ve fulfilled your end of the deal. I have what we agreed upon, the entire restaurant venture. You’re going so far above and beyond, and—”

“Bailey.” He returns to me. He clasps my hips through my midnight-blue silk robe. “I’m getting a lifetime gift. That deserves my full dedication, well past our initial contract. Your endeavor is equally important to you and therefore… It’s important to me. I realize our terms are centered on the financial aspect of your business. But I consider it a holistic undertaking—one I’m willing to support. Even above and beyond what’s outlined on paper.”

My heart melts.

He’s good at making that happen. Damn good.

My blood basically liquifies when he touches me, when he’s inside me, when he’s speaking to me, when he’s doing nothing more than traipsing through my mind. And surely when he’s being so incredibly sweet. Encouraging. Caring.

I earnestly tell him, “You’re the ultimate—in every way.”

He really is.

His head lowers and his lips nibble flirtatiously at mine, but he doesn’t go for a searing liplock. My guess is he knows where that will land us. In bed. And we do have brunch reservations.

He murmurs, “Do me a favor and remember you graduated with honors and you’re a champagne whiz—worthy of being a snooty one, at that. You can probably run circles around the servers at the yacht club and even school their sommelier. Don’t think about anything else, Bailey. Concentrate on your expertise and what you’re devoted to achieving.”

This incites more emotion within me. I hear him loud and clear. This morning, he wants me to close myself off to my past. To not dwell on where I come from and the obvious point that I’ve never been a member of anything, not even a gym. To not let my meager bank account and my previously limited closet and my sad-sack cottage make me falter, make me feel inferior.

I latch onto this, because in a really huge respect, he’s right… I have all this knowledge and this acute ability to employ it, to capitalize on these strengths, regardless of the intimidation factor.

He doesn’t want me to be intimidated.

His lips tangle with mine a few moments more, and then he says, “Pick out something to wear that’s empowering. But know you’re going to turn heads no matter what. You honestly are that stunning.”

I stare into his eyes. He doesn’t blink.

This man believes in me.

And I’m going to prove… He has every right to believe in me.

(While I fall hopelessly in love with him.)

I do as he says, selecting the right outfit, the right shoes, the right accessories.

We arrive at the yacht club in high style, with the valet opening the back door of Nick’s sleek, silver Jaguar limo.

The exterior of the club is striking. The inside? Even more so. I take it all in, breathlessly. Rich paneled walls. Gorgeous sconces and chandeliers. Gleaming hardwood floors. Cream-colored roses in tall vases. Lit votive centerpieces. Gold-trimmed china with gold flatware and white linen napkins and full-length tablecloths.

So regal and elegant and…

Hmm. My brain takes an unexpected whirl as I survey every square foot—and discover I’m not sure what to make of this prestigious venue.

I spare a glance at Nick, who’s walking alongside me, his palm at the small of my back (where I like it) as the maître d’—dressed in grey tails with gloves—escorts us to the table Claire has reserved for us against the wall of windows that overlooks the marina.

I’ve chosen a satiny sapphire, slightly off-the-shoulder sheath with complementary platform shoes that have Swarovski crystals embedded in the five-inch heels. I’m carrying a sparkly silver triangular clutch with a diamond-encrusted ring handle. Forgoing a necklace, I instead found the perfect pair of flashy diamond-and-platinum dangling earrings and a matching tennis bracelet in my new jewelry wardrobe.

Gazes follow us and I can overlook how unsettling that is, simply (and quite easily) by convincing myself eyes are locked on Nick Angelini. He’s wearing a sharp black Armani suit with a dove-grey dress shirt and silk tie. He’s chic and edgy and the grey brings out the color combination in his irises. Beyond that, he is a man who possesses a commanding presence and is impossible to ignore or dismiss. Being on his proverbial arm is enough to make me hitch my chin a notch and feel a sufficient surge of much-needed confidence.

We reach our designated spot. There is a wide deck on the other side of the glass panes, but there’s no seating out there. Not that it’s unavailable to us; there’s no seating at all. A totally wasted opportunity in my book, especially on such a gorgeous day. As they mostly all are in this cove.

Nick takes the liberty to pull back my chair—a stately mahogany creation with a thick, bronze leather cushion and fat, sturdy legs. The maître d’ ceremoniously presents the menus and explains in his haughty tone that we can order directly from it, or select the buffet that includes carving, omelet, crepe, and seafood stations. Of course, he makes a big production out of giving our origami-styled napkins a shake and then placing them in our laps. Then he leaves us.

Before the server swoops in to take our drink order, I lean toward Nick and whisper, “This place is so… Sedate.”

Truly, I almost feel as though I’ve unintentionally intruded upon a wake, or some other sort of memorial.

There’s no conversation from the patrons that rises above the soft clinking of forks on plates as they’re stacked onto trays while tables are efficiently bussed, or the delicate tickling of the ivories and the accompanying harp as gravely fragile music wafts on the air.

Granted, it’s all very dramatic and beautiful. Without doubt. But also… Incredibly staid. Dated, even. Like, this is where the 1800s high-society scene came to die. Where grandparents come for the early bird special; where the ladies who lunch spend the better part of their day, sipping dirty martinis and mimosas; where older businessmen gather to smoke stogies and drink fifty-year-old scotch while patting themselves on the back for being financial wizards. (Or for hiring the best divorce lawyer or the hottest secretary, whatever.)

I glance around the immediate area and note tea with scones and crustless sandwiches are en vogue. As are little boys with bow ties and little girls with bows in their hair. They are all settled in their chairs, sitting ramrod straight, and are clearly on their absolute best behavior.

I’m not sure why this scene is so awkward, so uncomfortable for me.

It’s not about the intimidation factor. I’d anticipated experiencing that as soon as I crossed the threshold. Yet this is different. Disturbing, in a sense that I can’t pinpoint. I can’t quite put my finger on what feels slightly eerie and off-base.

It’s just so…

“Stuffy,” I murmur. And shoot Nick another curious look.

His brow quirks.

He can’t say anything because we’re descended upon by a meticulously groomed gentleman in his late forties, I surmise. Our server. He’s decked to the nines in a short tuxedo jacket and… Holy. Hell. An ascot.

I shit you not.

An ascot.

It is flawlessly secured with a small, diamond tie tack and while it’s certainly refined… Such formality this early in the day is massive overkill.

It gets worse.