Chapter 19

I gasp.

My eyelids fly open.

“What is it?” Mitch asks with great interest. Standing, as well.

Blue had not been a hue I’d contemplated, for fear it would meld right into the ocean scenery. No, I want something that grabs and commands attention.

I immediately visualize a shade so rich and brilliant, a blue-turquoise so sensational, it truly would be a beacon.

Turquoise and white. With a darker blue or possibly black as a faint enhancement around the fringes to make it all pop.

I tell Mitch of my choice and add, “Imagine an awning out front in turquoise with ‘Bailey’s’ in white script, sitting on top of ‘CALIFORNIA CLAMBAKE,” capped in a stamped-type font, along with a logo that’s in the blue and outlined in white—a pot with a lid leaning against it and a lobster, crab, and prawn rising out of it, but it’s filled with, you know, clams and oysters and mussels. I don’t fucking have the concept down—I need a graphic designer. You get what I’m saying though, right?” I very enthusiastically query.

“Uh, yeah… For the most part.” He’s a little perplexed, but that’s because he’s not inside my head and my visions are coming a bit too fast to perfectly relay them. Doesn’t matter. My muse is instantly on fire, and I have to get back to my computer to start recording every tiny detail, no matter how inconsequential or even implausible. I can discard the crap later. For now, I need to follow a stream of consciousness, because I can thoroughly encapsulate this remodel from floor to ceiling, inside and out.

The beauty of Mitch is that he knows when to drift off, when to leave me to my thoughts and my work while he returns to his own responsibilities. He’s intuitive that way, but he’s also diligent and that fully confirms I’ve found the right GM for Bailey’s CALIFORNIA CLAMBAKE.

There is another reason I am so fixated on this entire culinary model.

I explain it to Nick when I’m at the house later and we’re soaking in a bubble bath he had Grayson draw as the limo was pulling under the porte-cochere, so it’d be ready the moment I walked through the door.

As I lean back against Nick’s chest and his fingertips lazily skate along my forearms and I luxuriate in the lavender-scented water, I confess, “I’ve been obsessed with seafood since I was a kid because, growing up in San Francisco, it’s a staple. Though… Not.”

I pause.

He chuckles, sexily. “I’ll try to follow along.”

I know he’ll understand what I’m getting at. So I continue. “Not on the table, for those of us who couldn’t afford lobster, not even on a special occasion. But within the city, in general. It was everywhere—in stores, in the fish markets, in restaurants. And the latter were plentiful, of course. I’d only ever peer inside the windows of renowned—famed, even—places, mostly lining the wharf, just inhaling the scents coming from within.”

For a few moments, I’m easily transported back to all the sights and sounds and smells of a town I would have loved with all my heart, had my upbringing been less harsh.

“In North Beach,” I comment, “you could do the same thing on Columbus Avenue—hop off the Powell-Mason cable car line and troll the street that was lined on either side with legendary eateries. The fragrance in that area was heavily Italian, with garlic and pizza sauce permeating the outdoor corridor. Down on the wharf, though… That aroma featured clam chowder in sourdough bowls and buttery fish and delicacies that looked so succulent, so luscious, you knew they’d melt in your mouth the very second they hit your tongue.”

Jesus, I can practically taste the decadence I’d never even sampled at that point of my life. That’s how powerful the food landscape is in that town.

I tell Nick, “Through those windows, I’d watch a sommelier pop the cork on a bottle of expensive champagne—or expertly perform sabrage, severing the neck with a saber—and everyone would joyfully toast each other and sip from crystal-cut flutes. It was so magical.”

I smile, despite the very obvious envy that envelopes me. The emotion that creeps in on me. The longing I still feel to have not been an outsider looking in. To have not been that girl who’d eventually force herself to tear her gaze from those glorious scenes that didn’t intimately involve her and return to her own world, her own reality—her own district.

I tell Nick, “I realize now it wasn’t so much the self-indulgence all those scenarios represented that lured me; more so, it was the camaraderie I witnessed. Those extravagant meals and gatherings, the flowing bubbly, and the good times… That all depicted and epitomized carefree revelry, friendship, and celebration. And since I was pretty much a loner with nothing to revel in, let alone celebrate, I suppose that’s how I became so fond of seafood and champagne before I’d even tried them. There’s a connotation attached, a significance, for me.”

I snicker, even though the memories are painful. I can recognize them as being in my past, and… “Naturally, after I was introduced to all of the above through culinary and restaurant management classes in college, well… I was hooked in a different way.”

“That’s why you enjoyed the food and drink at the yacht club, but not the yacht club, itself.”

I glance over my shoulder at him and say, “I prefer a more spirited, sparkling setting. Much as I want to also offer ambience for romantic occasions, I keep circling back to having that deck filled with people who bypass the yacht club because they don’t want to eat indoors or be served by waitstaff in tails and gloves. While I do embrace a certain level of formality, classiness, really… I don’t want to cross the line to uncomfortable. If someone cruises into the marina in the afternoon and spots my restaurant, I want them to feel welcomed in boat shoes and their polo and shorts. And if they’re on date night, they should equally fit in, being dressed up.”

It’s finally all gelling for me. I want an all-encompassing atmosphere that is a complement to a spectacular menu and wine cellar. That’s it.

Though…

The implementation is the trickier part.

Having a true sense of the statement I want to make, the level of service I want to provide, the indelible impression I want to leave… That’s coming together, theoretically; but I still must flip the “live” switch on it.

Nick’s warm lips graze my ear as he whispers, “I admire your tenacity. I also immensely respect that you share your past with me. You could pretend you’re someone you’re not, Bailey Storm. But you don’t. Not even at the yacht club today. You could have acted as though you found all the aloofness and the overall fragility of the environment attractive; rather, you noted what might be off-putting in the environment you want to craft. That makes you discerning, in a humble, personable manner.”

More emotion seizes me. Because the man truly seems to “get” me.

I will admit, however, that it’s difficult to concentrate on his words when he’s practically wrapped around me, his lips are brushing my skin, and all my erogenous zones are lighting up like a slot machine with a winning combination.

He’s compassionate and he’s supportive. That’s what primarily registers in my heart.

But as the lightning zaps trigger my intense desire for him, my thoughts shift.

“Nick?”

“Yes, Bailey?” he evocatively murmurs. As though he’s picked up on my intention to change the direction of our discussion.

I playfully ask, “Will you still ‘immensely respect’ me if I tell you I want you inside me? Now?”

~ * * * ~

On my day off, Nick fantastically diverts my attention from the food and design thoughts that are stuck in my brain. He starts the morning in the way I have instantly become accustomed to and absolutely adore more than anything—he makes love to me. We typically wake up with him spooning me and it’s just a natural, sweet-and-sexy progression for him to ease into me and pump languidly, leisurely. Until we both surrender to the titillating sensations.

Bliss ensues.

Like, neither of us moves.

The “fifteen-minute rule” is a breeze to achieve because he’s taken up the habit of kissing my shoulder and nibbling at the crook of my neck and whispering scintillating secrets in my ear that reveal more about his own upbringing and his specific aspirations.

The man wants something similar to what I’m working so hard to see to fruition, what I’m willing to give up a part of myself for in order to accomplish.

Just as I want an identity for myself, obviously through my restaurant, Nick wants an identity for his country. A true identity. Global recognition beyond the tiniest of dots on a map. It’s a miniscule locale, yes. Yet one that is rich in history and economic and scientific success. Unfortunately, it is consistently overlooked and overshadowed—rarely even mentioned when something brilliant comes from one of the immigrant or native denizens.

Nick is proud of his heritage, and he values the diversity brought to his nation and the continued evolution of civic responsibilities and social obligations that make it a cohesive community.

But even I’ve had difficulty finding anything significantly relevant about his homeland in light Internet searches. Rather, I’ve had to dig deep and click on link after link to finally connect the larger, more familiar dots to his eclipsed one.

I experience a flash of dismay every time he talks about all that he cherishes and all that is unknown to the “outside world” where his country is concerned. I can commiserate on an extremely personal level. He’s very much like me when it comes to having had my nose pressed to restaurant windows, feeling a gnawing, overwhelming yearning to belong, deep in my core. So desperately wanting to be painted into a bigger picture than I sensed I would ever view, let alone be incorporated into, and yet… Somehow still believing there was a way to break free of my constraints and dismal circumstances. Find a way to make my presence known. Leave my mark.

Nick has all the makings of greatness—he’s shrewd, while also being judicious and thoughtful. He’s all-encompassing and detail-oriented, meaning he’s a visionary from the proverbial thirty-five-thousand-foot level while being instrumental right down to the weeds. The very roots, really.

He loves everything his country stands for and… He loves his people.

He’s truly championing them and that is both valiant and charming at the same time. How can I not liquify under his warm breaths and his sensual tone and his quietly passionate dreams for equality and acknowledgment of something he believes wholeheartedly in?

And, as he continues to murmur concepts and hopes and desires in the early morning hours, I build a greater and deeper respect for, and a more enhanced camaraderie with, him.

I also grasp, on a grander scale, why he empathizes with me, why he’s cheering me on, not just collecting what he came here for in the first place.

I’m an underdog. And like Nick fights for his “regional underdogs,” many of whom have proven to be incredibly insightful individuals since escaping their own oppressive conditions and surroundings, he fights for me.

He’s already given me every advantage, everything I could possibly need to be a spectacular success story too.

Yes, he’s getting something out of this arrangement. Certainly.

However, he’s infinitely more invested in me than our agreement requires. Not just contractually, but also physically.

Emotionally, perhaps.

This is not a new thought, and it stays with me—and graces me with a perpetual smile—as we eventually leave the bed and step into the shower, together. Afterward, Nick instructs me to wear pants and a light sweater today and then, after breakfast on the deck, he spirits us off to an undisclosed location. A ranch, it appears, with massive trees and grassy plains and an enormous house, a few accompanying guesthouses, and stables. Several stables. With huge corrals.

I gasp as we come to the end of the long, lushly edged drive and slip out of the limo.

My heart swells and I force back tears that prickle my eyes.

He’s taking me horseback riding.

I’m speechless.

Nick leans close and says, “We’re only walking, maybe a cautious trot. Nothing jarring and if you feel safer riding with me, that’s fine.”

I am thrilled to the ends of the earth. For so many reasons.

Yes, I want to ride.

Oh, my God, do I want to ride!

It’s nothing I’ve ever done and definitely not something I’ve ever considered plausible—it has to be expensive, right?

Also, as much as I get excited over the prospect of riding with Nick, I’m actually smitten with the idea of freely roaming with my horse.

So I tell him, “Can I start on my own? Learn how, properly?”

“Of course.” He kisses the tip of my nose. Grins. Then appreciatively murmurs, “So adventurous.”

He twines his fingers with mine and we stroll toward an enormous, stately building. There’s a lot of activity, bustling about, and coming and going from staff and guests. Nick is immediately greeted, and he introduces me to the facility owner, Trevor. This man is our designated representative, and he already has our horses picked out and warmed up.

Nick’s steed is a strapping and gleaming black stallion. Soooo magnificent.

I’m presented with a stunning Friesian that looks docile and elegant. He’s breathtaking and I’m a little nervous (or embarrassed) that I’m not the skilled rider he deserves.

However, Nick explains, “Friesians are excellent for novices. They’re gentle and calm.

“More prone to showing off their good looks than racing dangerously through the woods with a frantic woman on their back?”

He kisses me again. This time, lightly pressing his lips to my temple. “Precisely.” He winks. Then he helps me into the saddle.

The Friesian’s name is Marquis—and he’s quite worthy of the noble connotation.

He is perfectly still and patient as Nick mounts and our bodyguards follow suit. I’ve gotten used to them blending into the background; admittedly, though, I’m curious to see how they fare on this excursion as much as I’m wondering how I’m going to survive it, without appearing to be a bumbling fool.

Trevor takes the lead and, lucky for me, Marquis seems fully attuned to him and falls into a very casual, if not somewhat soothing, gait. I’m given plenty of time to acclimate to the way he moves, so regally. It’s a steady strut this horse exhibits. Cool and assured. Confident and comforting.

The grounds are gorgeous. Vast and manicured, with designated, groomed trails veering off into the thicket, in all directions. I’m able to absorb the scenery because Marquis is well-acquainted with the terrain, and he’s obviously adapted to “escorting” beginners.

It’s all a bit surreal. I feel transported to a different time and place. One that’s majestic and serene. So sensational and peaceful.

Nick’s horse keeps pace with mine and I can tell that’s a little frustrating for the stallion and yet… He’s clearly accustomed to these slower wanderings, when warranted.

Honestly, I could spend all day roving about. The scent on the air is fresh and clean and crisp. The birds are chirping, and the sky is clear and vibrant. There’s a very faint, balmy wind. And Nick is doing his damnedest not to grin like the Cheshire Cat. He knows this is amazing for me. He knows I’m in heaven.

He knows he’s given me something no one else ever has.

Again.

There seems to be a large degree of self-satisfaction he gleans from providing unique experiences for me, little and big things no other person has ever granted me.

And I’m just as pleased to get wrapped up in these moments with him.

He watches me carefully and says, “You’re a natural. Excellent posture. And…” His irises sparkle as he softly adds, “You’re stunning, Bailey Storm.”

My stomach flutters. My blood turns molten.

I love that he’s so observant, that he takes in every piece of me, from head to toe—inside and out too it seems.

“This is the perfect morning,” I tell him.

“You can ride any time you want. Claire will make arrangements with Trevor, even if they’re last-minute. Don’t ever hesitate. I want you to enjoy this when the mood strikes.”

He’s said that about spa treatments as well.

“Until you’re pregnant, of course,” he adds, erring on the side of caution.

“I’m feeling sufficiently spoiled.”

He grins—and it sends shivers of delight cascading down my spine. I do my best not to squirm in the saddle and disrupt Marquis’ tranquil stride.

Nearly a half hour passes, and Nick senses I’m secure enough for a trot and then a brief cantor that is thoroughly invigorating. Nick explains about the five gaits of a horse, but I’m sooo not up for the gallop. Not yet. Soon. Just… Not today.

Regardless, I’m exhilarated and breathing rapidly as we finally return to the stables. As Nick helps me to the ground, his arms sliding around my waist, all I want to do is meld to him and let everything else fade to black.

“I enjoyed every second of that,” I tell him. And I’m not just talking about our journey through the forest. My favorite part is, undoubtably, this very moment.

It’s not everlasting, though, damn it.

We’re ushered to the limo after we clean up and, naturally, we’re not alone on the drive to the mansion.

Nor do we go straight to the mansion.

My overly happy heart plummets as we pass through a tall, wrought-iron gate and the car rolls to a stop before a jet.

I sigh. “The airpark.”

Nick glances at me and says, with notable regret, “I must fly home. Pressing political matters and all that…” His gaze narrows and his grey-green eyes cloud. “Don’t think I’m eager to board.”