Chapter 20

What am I to do here?

Sure, I can ask for another day. Perhaps two.

Except, my fertility window has closed and there’s no real reason for him to stay.

I mean… There is a reason. Ten of them, at least. All twisted up in my ruminations and misconceptions of being engaged in a romance with Nick Angelini.

But, as usual, I’m in need of reminding myself this is not a romance.

Oh, one-thousand percent, it feels like a romance. But it’s not.

So I buck up and smile and pretend there aren’t a million daggers piercing every inch of me as Nick exits the vehicle.

Just act as though this is no big deal. Easy come, easy go. That kind of thing.

Problem is, he doesn’t simply walk away.

No, instead he extends his hand to me, and I have no choice but to get out of the limo too.

We walk toward the jet. It’s not as small as a Lear, yet not as jumbo as a 747 or anything of that ilk. Decently sized so that I imagine a dozen people can party the night away, despite me already knowing that’s not Nick’s style.

Still. I’m blown away by the polished burlwood, the beige leather captain’s chairs, and the fabulously appointed galley. The bedroom/en suite.

Yeah, it’s a king-sized bed, fit for a king.

I merely gaze upon it for a moment and then return to the cabin.

“Thanks for the tour,” I tell him.

His fingertips glide delicately over my cheek. His head dips and he murmurs against my lips, “I really just wanted some privacy for us.”

Oh. Kill. Me. Now.

I can’t get more entrenched, can’t be more entranced. There’s no point to it.

But… Dear God… Dare I latch onto his comment about not being eager to leave?

Not being eager to leave… Me?

This is a valid crossroads. A reckoning, in some ways.

We could very well be sliding down the same slippery slope.

The difference, though, is that Nick has an outlet. Or, more accurately, an out.

He has a plane to whisk him away and a country to tend to. A whole other life elsewhere. On another continent with an ocean separating us. He has so many critical aspects to address and issues to solve, and—

I make myself recall that I too have critical aspects to address and issues to solve.

Yet when his mouth seductively claims mine and my hands grip his bulging biceps, I can seriously forget every-every-everything under the sun, except Nick. And how much I want him.

However, there is a logical voice inside my head (not sure where she came from) that directs me to end the sexy kiss—and the delusional fairy tale.

I release his arms. Step back. And breathlessly say, “So… Safe travels.” Trying to play it low-key, while tamping down the most insidious emotions rioting within me.

He is not mine.

He never will be.

I must accept this.

Damn that stinging in my nose and eyes, though. The burning in my lungs.

I fucking hate that I can’t control my affection for this man.

At the same time… Does it make any sense at all that I don’t want to control it?

I’m actually willing to suffer through this departure of epic proportions.

I’ve just spent the most fabulous days and nights with Nick, and I would not trade them, give them up or forget them for anything else in the world.

Not even for my restaurant.

I will succumb to the tormenting abyss that will follow when this plane lifts off the runway and he is on his way to some country I’d never heard of before I’d met him.

I will also cling to the potential for him to have to come back—it’s wrong and wretched and unconscionable, but… I’m already praying I’m not pregnant. I’m already silently begging the stars and the moon and the entire universe that it takes another month’s fertility cycle for me to conceive. At the very least.

Without doubt, I want to give Nick a child. Make no mistake.

I also want more time with him.

There are no guarantees in life, love, or contractual agreements, I’m well aware of this.

The best I can do is head to the door, take one last look at Nick over my shoulder and contend, “Fingers crossed we both get what we’re wishing for.”

It’s vague. Noncommittal. Not the least bit revealing of my truest desires. Or fully in-line with his.

Interestingly, Nick’s gaze is still dark and stormy. Contemplative. Uncertain.

He folds his arms over his massive chest. Pins me with an even sterner expression.

And says, “Bailey… Maybe… Come with me?”

I stare at him. My mind is completely, utterly blank.

So blank.

I blink a few times; that’s really the only response I can formulate.

Nick stares back. Not blinking.

The question, the suggestion, the invitation lingers between us. I can’t get my brain to latch onto it. I’m stunned and speechless. Completely caught off guard and just…

At a loss.

Come with me? he’d asked.

Those three words, that gentle and raw query, currently have us tethered to each other.

From the flickering, fleeting changes of emotion in Nick’s eyes and on his perfectly sculpted face, I’m thoroughly cognizant he’s as shocked as I am at the request. In one second, I see that it’s an unexpected issuance that has fallen from his lips. In the next, I can tell he doesn’t regret extending the offer. Then… He’s contemplative and broody, as he’d been a mere minute before he’d said anything—when I was on my way out the door, not wanting to be tormented by thoughts of that enormous bed and how many women might have shared it with him.

He’s a king, for all intents and purposes, even if not formally crowned yet. And while I still have difficulty absorbing that entire concept, I can very easily ascertain it means he’s accustomed to having anyone and everyone at his beck and call. Even his bedmates.

I’m one of those—for a specific objective.

Conversely, he’s also made it crystal clear he’s hot for me, in general, beyond our contractual agreement.

That’s what makes this all so incredibly titillating. Not to mention, wildly challenging.

A substantial standoff occurs, while we both internalize this new paradigm. Eventually, he takes a step toward me.

I have the very real and bizarre urge to take a step backward.

The closer he gets to me, the more tempted I will be by his exotic scent and his smoldering irises. The virility and heat that exudes from him. I will want to touch him. I will want him to touch me.

And we all know where that leads.

Now is neither the time nor the place for this type of surrender.

However… My feet are rooted and I’m not going anywhere.

Currently.

In a quiet, unassuming voice, he says, “That comment of mine took us both by surprise. But I meant it, Bailey. I’d like to show you my country. Introduce you to my friends.”

There is a burning sensation in my lungs and up my esophagus. It’ll quickly reach my eyes and then I’ll really be fucked. I won’t be able to hide my emotions. Or the fact that I desperately, desperately want to say yes to him.

Unfortunately, I can tick off a dozen reasons why it’s a horrifically impossible notion.

Additionally unfortunate? He’s revealing something poignant here, and I do not wish to diminish or ruin it. 

For all my vulnerable moments, Nick has had his own with me. This is yet another one.

And it truly is a statement he’s making.

So I very delicately remind him, “I have so much work to do.”

Despite it being my day off, I have a lengthy list to slay. So many things to get out of the way today so that, tomorrow, I can focus on all the candidates Mitch has vetted, we can begin building our staff, and I can get the customer service training scheduled. That’s just for starters.

Nick gives a slow nod as though to silently assure me he comprehends my immediate dilemma, all my pressing responsibilities and my tenuous timeframe. He’s conscious of the push and pull, the battle waging within me.

It’s one more thing I adore about him.

He slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. I’ve never seen him dressed casually, but our earlier horse-riding adventure warranted it. He is wildly sexy no matter what he’s wearing. Or when he has on nothing at all.

My eyes squeeze shut for a spell—as if that can somehow block the mental image of him in all his naked glory. It can’t. I have such intimate knowledge of every inch of the man that there’s no way in hell I can stem the visuals that spring forth.

I suppress a long-suffering sigh. I am much too ensnared.

My only recourse is to force myself to concentrate on my end game. And the true reality of the situation.

But Nick is quite serious about this. Not that that takes me aback in any way—he doesn’t do or say anything he’s not serious about.

He avows, “You’ll be home in two days.”

It’s not even noon now; it would be a fast turnaround.

I suppose I could spare the time.

It doesn’t seem prudent, though. For one… “I don’t know how my body is going to react to being pregnant, Nick. If morning sickness is going to slow me down or if I’ll have to spend an exorbitant amount of time resting. I don’t want to lose any initial momentum.”

He opens his mouth, no doubt with a sound rebuttal. Something along the lines of him reminding me that he has a wealth of resources to lend me, if I require more assistance.

He doesn’t travel that path. Somehow, he knows it won’t placate me.

To be fair to him—because I honestly believe he is always upfront with me—I mention, “Wouldn’t it be odd for your friends to meet your surrogate?”

Sure, I’ve come to have a love-hate relationship with that word. But it is, in fact, the appropriate term for us to use.

I further expound, “The less they know about me would probably be for the best. You’re not going to conceal that you hired someone to carry your baby. But for people to actually meet me…” I give a small shake of my head. “It doesn’t seem wise.”

A flash of determination in Nick’s eyes is a piece of cake to read. He wants to assert that he’s a royal, he’s in charge, in control, and what he chooses to do in his personal life is not up for public debate, analysis, dissection, dispute.

But, given his status, his personal life could be of concern to his constituents.

He’s smart enough, diplomatic enough, to recognize this. Even if he doesn’t want to.

That, unto itself, punctuates the complexity of this scenario we’ve found ourselves in.

And it softens my resolve. At least, a little.

Without a single thought to immediate repercussions, my body gravitates to his and my hands glide along his abs to his pecs. My palms splay over his well-defined chest as I gaze up at him.

He instantly grips my hips and urges me those few extra centimeters forward that have us perfectly conforming to each other. His head lowers. But he doesn’t kiss me.

Rather, he whispers, “I’m not going to just forget you, Bailey Storm. When this is all said and done. I’m always going to think about you. I’m always going to have a very fond remembrance of you.”

He’s so astute, he doesn’t dare tack onto that sentiment “…because of our child.” It would only complicate matters more, particularly considering it’s ridiculously evident I’m saying one thing at this point, while wishing for a different outcome. I want to go with him. It’s no great mystery. If I didn’t, I would have already walked out on this conversation.

I’m still here, but…

I have to keep myself from veering massively off-track.

I tell Nick, “I’m always going to have a remembrance of you as well. An affectionate one. But we really can’t let that skew this endeavor, right?”

One corner of his mouth lifts.

It’s not a true grin. It’s not meant to be.

What it is, is an acknowledgement. He’s fully aware of the landmines here.

That we respond so innately and so passionately to each other is scintillating. Also surreal. And moderately alarming. We’re both attuned to that.

So much so, he releases me the very instant my hands fall from his chest. I shift away, out of his reach.

“I have to go,” I simply say. “You have to go.”

I haven’t broken the mood, curiously. I believe that’s wholly implausible to do, really. It’s always enveloping us, regardless of where we are or what we’re doing/discussing. There’s an inherent sense of awareness that sizzles between us, with connectors on either side, binding us together.

That’s not necessarily a good thing—as we’re presently realizing.

I take a stab at some optimism, saying, “Once we’re past this initial phase, I’m pregnant, and fully under Dr. Shaw’s care, I’m sure we’ll find the correct balance.”

Okay, I don’t know precisely what that “balance” will be. I’m kind of grasping at straws with all of this.

What I do know is that him returning home, to all the business he needs to take care of, shouldn’t be so “black moment-ish” for us.

The indication, however, creeps around the fringes. I have no idea how long he’ll be gone. And I can’t bring myself to ask when he’ll come back.

What if it’s when you’re delivering the baby?

Oh, God.

That will feel like an eternity and his absence will be…so difficult to reconcile. Despite comprehending I would have to reconcile it, I’m uncertain as to how I’m not going to miss him.

Burying my head in the sand isn’t the answer. Still. I don’t pose the question.

I hold fast to my optimism as he contends, “Everything will be fine. You have Claire’s number. She can contact me anytime, anywhere. For any reason. Doesn’t have to be an emergency, Bailey.”

I have the overwhelming inclination to cry. At the same time, I want to cling to him again.

“You’re an amazingly wonderful person,” I tell him. “I’m sure I’ve said that a hundred times. Even if just in my own thoughts. But… You should know. I can’t even explain how lucky I am to have met you. It’s serendipitous.”

“About that…”

Now his brow furrows.

The vibe inside the plane is a bit topsy-turvy. There’s the intrinsic sexual tension, mixed with an array of hope, tangled in a mysterious quandary we both struggle with—that being, what’s really going on between us?

Nick takes a wide stride to narrow the gap I’d strategically created. He seems to not be able to help himself, preferring to always be close. His fingertips graze my cheek. He stares into my eyes and says, “I have a confession to make, Bailey Storm. I’m not sure how you’re going to react to it...”