Chapter 18

“Good morning, Mr. Angelini. Miss Storm. My name is Edward, and I will be serving you,” he announces in a tone meant for an ostentatious wedding reception at Buckingham Palace. And while Nick is a royal, isn’t this just brunch? Not even on a holiday.

Edward inquires, “May I start you off with a Bellini, bloody Mary, hot tea?”

Nick allows me to order first, and I request a champagne mojito, which seems to catch the waiter by surprise. I’m prepared to offer the ingredients, but he doesn’t ask. Rather, he directs his attention to Nick, who says, “I’ll have the same.”

When we’re alone again, Nick peruses the menu, but I’ve already decided to sample the buffet, so I can glean a wider indication of what’s on display and how it all tastes.

Nick concurs with my logic and follows suit when we give our orders.

Our drinks are delivered, and we lightly tap rims and sip. I’m not overly impressed. In fact, I’m certain the bartender looked up the recipe—this is obviously the first time he’s made them.

Mitch is the one who turned me onto mojitos, in general, and he crafts every flavor under the sun with such precision, it’s difficult not to make a comparison. I can officially say I’ve got mixology covered at my restaurant, in art form. And Mitch will be able to train the other bartenders once I’ve brought a couple more on board.

I continue my observations/research. However, despite the opulence of the yacht club, I’m feeling as though I shouldn’t speak above a library-murmur, or perhaps not speak at all. I fear shattering the frail atmosphere.

Nick prompts me, though. “What are you thinking?”

I give a small shrug. “I’m not sure,” I mutter as I bend toward him, so he can hear me. “It’s gorgeous, obviously. Grand. Majestic, even. But… Really quiet. And stiff. And why wouldn’t they have tables setup on the deck? It’s a fantastic space for brunch, right on the water with a phenomenal view. Not to mention, it’s yet another glorious, sunny California day. I’d for sure prefer to dine al fresco. In fact, I hope my deck is first to be booked with reservations before the indoor seating. It’s practically a sin to be inside right now. Almost makes me claustrophobic.”

“Let’s try the food.” He scoots back his chair and stands to his very imposing six-foot-something height. A tingle along my spine has me wiggling a bit in my seat as he extends a hand to me. I place mine in his and he helps me to my feet. Admittedly, my knees are weak.

Regardless of how gallant and sophisticated Nick is, he doesn’t project that overly sterile and somber air that’s permeating this establishment. And really… “Establishment” is the perfect term. For all its grace and no-expense-spared appearance, this is too much of an institution-type setting to put me at ease. I’m left worrying about having the correct lift to my pinky finger when I drink and obsessing over whether I’ll hold my flatware properly, even though I’ve been taught by industry professionals how to do so.

“What is it?” Nick asks, still trying to dissect the analysis I’m currently formulating.

“I want grace and elegance, definitely,” I tell him. “But not a funeral home ambience. I want lively extravagance.” I eye him speculatively. “Is that a thing?”

He chuckles. “I suspect you’ll make it ‘a thing.’”

“There’s a certain balance, a certain…je ne sais quoi, if you will…that I want to capture, reflect. A distinct and yet mysterious element that will draw people in—and keep them coming back for more. Like… They must find the upscale atmosphere alluring, of course. But also feel wholly comfortable. I mean, come on, Nick…” I throw a glance over my shoulder, specifically homing in on a family of four with the apparently typical rigidly sitting children. Returning my gaze to Nick, I say, “This makes me hypersensitive about accidentally dropping a spoon, or…sneezing.”

His grin is both sexy as hell…and downright heartwarming.

“You realize I have incredibly high hopes for you?” he asserts. “With the absolute faith that you will create the perfect balance in your dining room?”

My eyes narrow. “What makes you so sure I can achieve that?”

“Because you, Bailey Storm,” he tells me as he directs me toward the crepe station, “are distinct and mysterious…at the same time.”

I want to laugh, thinking he’s being facetious.

I don’t, though. Not because it would spoil the tranquility. More so because I’m much too enthralled to do more than smile up at him. I’m breathless. My heart is fluttering. And I’m so enamored. By Nick.

He’s devastatingly handsome. Sexy and worldly. Soooo charming.

I really just want to melt into him, to hell with the crepes.

Except… I pull myself together and simply say, “This is a great idea.” We’re strolling along the far end of the dining room where all the stations and buffet credenzas are arranged. “New and exciting ideas are literally flooding my mind.”

Unfortunately for me, they are not all related to my restaurant.

I am ridiculously smitten. Every moment with Nick is a swoon-worthy one and that’s bad and wrong. I know.

Yet it feels so good and right.

“You’ll nail the décor and the menus, I have no doubt.”

He winks.

I wither.

It is becoming a natural state for me.

His natural state seems to be to stick close by, that ever-present hand on my lower back, providing both a stabilizing solace and a hint of sizzle.

Problem is, the people milling about and ordering eggs Benedict and directing the chef to carve their prime rib sliver-thin continually cast intrigued looks our way, and I can’t help but think their expressions are first and foremost an attempt at identifying who we “might be.” This rattles me a bit, given these are scrutinous stares. Which are then followed by the discreet nod of approval of us…as a couple.

Elation flits through me, despite the fact that validation or a welcoming reception are not paramount to my plight. It’s not necessary for me to be accepted here.

However, considering I’m with Nick, I want to be accepted. I want him to see I’m accepted.

A psychological quandary for another time. One that will surely circle back to my dismal and distressing childhood.

Right now, I’m just relieved I’m not sticking out like a sore, you-don’t-belong-here thumb.

The positive acknowledgment brings on another smile.

Having no clue as to why I’m grinning, Nick whispers in my ear, “Tell me you’re thinking about last night.”

Oh, boy.

He has to go there?

“Just last night?” I playfully counter.

His gaze turns blistering. “Okay. Tell me you’re thinking about every time I touch you.”

“Don’t get me started,” I tease. “We’re at brunch. I’m a new member. Don’t get me kicked out before I’ve even tried the crepes Suzette.”

“You amuse me,” he says. “And if we get kicked out, guess where we’re going to end up?”

The look he gives me is downright lethal.

And suddenly… Brunch and the yacht club and even my restaurant are the absolute last things filling my brain.

I’ve rolled my eyes, a dozen times over, when reading seemingly ludicrous headlines about this celeb or that one being treated for sex addiction.

My primary thought always begins here: Oh, for the love of God.

Followed by: Puh-leeze.

Topped with: Get a real problem.

I’m now reassessing my sarcasm and eye-ball rolls.

Although I have no desire for multiple partners, if I could spend half my day or more in bed with Nick, for the rest of my life, I’d be a thousand percent down with that.

So, yeah.

The struggle is real.

I would say it is purely one-sided, except that his lingering gazes, his wicked grins, and his seductive lean-ins, where he murmurs something provocative in my ear—even during brunch!—has me convinced I’m not drowning in lust all alone.

I would kill to return to the house and get naked with this man again.

But, alas… I’m due at the restaurant. And he has work as well.

Therefore, following our yacht club visit and numerous trips around the buffet that yielded delectable selections I couldn’t quite get enough of, the limo drops me off at the end of the pier, and then whisks Nick away.

Despite my wishful fantasies of him stripping me bare and making love to me, and the fact that I am ridiculously lethargic from platefuls of food, I’m also excited about my reno. It’s not easy to push thoughts of Nick to the back burner—and in truth, they hover close to the forefront—yet I manage to refocus.

It helps that I have a very distinct picture of the yacht club now and how they operate there. I have some clear dos and don’ts for how I’m going to implement my own designs and procedures that avoid the stuffiness I didn’t find the least bit appealing.

The trouble I immediately encounter, however, is two-fold.

One, I need a new name for the restaurant—one that gives it a fresh start and a distinct identity.

Two, I need a color scheme/theme.

And, come to think of it…

Three… In addition, I’m kind of considering, as I gaze out at the large deck, that maybe I ought to physically expand the pier to not only deliver people walking along it to the front door, but to also allow them to veer off and arrive directly at the deck. If I open the area up with the deck’s separate entryway and a designated host stand, we could really put an emphasis on this extraordinary space.

Furthermore, I want to catch the eye of those on the water, cruising the bay or coming and going from the harbor. I need a more vibrant image than the blah one we’ve currently got going on. I mean… We literally blend into the background with our demure and bland earth tones, when we should, instead, be a beacon in this cove—an oasis, a welcoming respite that’s lively and friendly and, of course, fantastically delicious!

All of the ruminations supercharge me.

Unfortunately… I’m still at an impasse in several capacities.

As I stand at the doors looking out toward the ocean, Mitch joins me.

“Where’s the wild imagination traveling today?” he casually asks.

I smile and tell him, “It’s staying right here. I have a gazillion ideas to process.”

“Good, because we’re ready to roll on my end. Job descriptions have been posted online, interviews are scheduled, and I’m even planning a chef cookoff with our top culinary candidates.”

My gaze narrows. “You think we’re going to have a huge response to kitchen positions? Including an executive chef?”

“With your vision, hell, yes,” he assures me.

“Ahhhh, my vision.” I sigh. Dejectedly. “I’m having a little difficulty pinning down some of the more pertinent details. I mean, I can look straight ahead—literally—and tell you I want collapsible doors to the deck so that it’s open and enticing during the nearly year-round summery days and nights. I can picture a cook prepping a huge vat of paella out there, and a waitstaff dropping off exotic cocktails while music and laughter waft on the air.”

“So… What’s the problem?” he inquires, staring quizzically at me.

“I need to make this place over so that it stands out, so that it competes with the yacht club, so that even people in town will drive out here for our signature…” I give a shrug. And raise my hands in the air, almost in surrender.

He eyes me more curiously. “Seafood. Our signature seafood, right? That’s what you’re most interested in.”

“Yes, absolutely. But I wound up with a line cook from Jersey who was like, ‘oh, yeah, white fish carpaccio, we could totally do that—isn’t it just fried tilapia over a lump of white rice? Piece of cake.’” I grimace over that remembrance. “I explained to him, ‘um, actually, it’s high-grade fish, like sea bass, sliced thin, and served raw with a delicate vinaigrette.’ Then he sort of made a gagging sound and I was terrified he was going to throw up on my shoes.”

With a chuckle, Mitch says, “We’re not interviewing fast-food or diner-style line cooks, Bailey. And I promise, the team will be well-versed in all fish.”

“Regardless, Crab Shack is coming off the sign.”

I return to the table in the corner where I’ve set up a workstation that is out of the way—from my lack of influx of customers, you say? I know, true fact. But I’m being optimistic. Ultimately, I intend to turn the dead space we have at the end of the hallway where the restrooms are located into a decent-sized office and expand the storage facility. While our kitchen is sufficiently laid out, the equipment is old and antiquated, and I suspect the freezer is on its last leg.

I have the money now to completely update and upgrade, and that’s what I’m committed to doing.

Granted, it has occurred to me that I can simply pay off my student loans and the remainder of my dad’s medical bills with the surrogacy money, and then it won’t really matter quite so much that I’m making mere pennies here in this current paradigm.

Except… It would.

I have bigger aspirations and, well, it’s perfectly apropos for me to use the metaphorical saying about giving a person a fish so they can eat for a day vs. teaching them to fish so they can feed themselves for a lifetime.

This is my dream, and this is the giant leap I dare to take.

Plus… Between brunch with Nick and chatting with Mitch, I have the confidence to move forward with what I really want to achieve. We will be a seafood house. But… In an elegantly hip way.

I decide I need to first tackle the name, since signage will have to be created, ASAP. Mitch rejoins me and I bat a few ideas his way, which he looks up on his phone.

“Taken,” he mutters of my first choice. It sounds catchy (pun intended) while conveying an obvious theme. “Some place in Florida.”

My next three selections are also in wide use, one with horrifically bad reviews.

“We don’t want that stigma,” he says. “People might think we’re a chain and will have an instant preconceived notion about us.”

I have to get more personal.

I try a few others that are infinitely better in my head than when I say them out loud.

Mitch tells me, “Think of what the menu items will likely be. What does that conjure in your mind?”

“Lobster, prawns, king and soft-shell crab, clams, mussels, oysters. Healthy and creative sides. Shareable plates for appetizers. Decadent desserts. And the décor… Warm and charming for an anniversary or a birthday dinner. Yet dynamic enough to invite ten of your closest friends to join you for a…a…”

I hear a resonate clicking in my brain.

“A clambake,” I say.

My gaze snaps up and connects with Mitch’s.

“Bailey’s California Clambake.” I raise my hands in the air at my ah-ha moment. “We put a twist on the New England tradition. Make it more upscale, fancier, in the food sense, yet within an atmosphere that’s not only gorgeous, but also energetic, vibrant. Yes, to some cozy nooks and crannies. Certainly. But that deck…”

I shove my chair back and jump to my feet as I point to my favorite spot in this entire cove.

“That deck makes the most sensational venue for a clambake. On the water, with a beach below, yachts in the distance, palm trees surrounding the property. A band in the corner on the weekends. Comfy outdoor sofas lining the railings, tables that can be pushed together, covered with checkered tablecloths in white and…and…and…”

My eyes squeeze shut.

I think of the multitude of color swatches I have agonized over. I mentally scroll through the palettes I’ve poured over and even fast-forward through my morning at the yacht club, discounting all the dark, stately accents and instead…

Instead…

What I suddenly see is something so astounding, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before!