Chapter 21

I can’t decide which is more alarming—the fact that when Nick uses my full name, it’s because he’s bent on making a point; or that he’s fearful of how I’m going to respond to this particular point.

But I’m not prone to shying away from anything he has to say. Thus, I hitch my chin and square my shoulders, taking a silent “lay it on me” stance.

On the inside, however… My stomach knots and my pulse jumps.

I can’t, for the life of me, guess what it is he’s about to reveal. I’m still in shock over him having requested I fly home with him. Meet his friends. See his country. (I’m also still stunned to the core that I didn’t bite on the lure, given how damn tempting it was.)

Nick’s expression turns somewhat grim and that only tightens the pretzel within me.

Now I’m getting worried.

“Whatever it is,” I quietly implore, “please tell me, immediately, because the suspense literally will eat me alive.”

This time, when the corner of his mouth quirks, it really is a grin. A sexy, devilish one. His eyes glow as he avows, “I would never want to hold you hostage like that.”

He one-thousand percent does not have to tell me what I can clearly deduce is going through his brain right this very second. When he uses the term “hold you hostage,” it conjures the way he’d clasped my wrists, above my head, and pressed his hard body to mine in the kitchen. He’d then proceeded to command every inch of me and turn me into putty in his hands. I’d loved every minute of it. Wouldn’t mind in the least if he chose to do the exact same thing now.

But that’s not fully what’s on his mind. Something else weighs heavily, so I force my own thoughts to let go of the way Nick had been so sinfully dominant with me and maintain my focus on the present issue.

I prompt him with, “What is it that you want me to know?”

“First,” he’s quick to shift gears along with me, “that I admire and respect you, Bailey.”

I smile, feeling a hint of relief wash over me. Okay, not such a grave topic. “I know that already, Nick.”

“It needs to remain front and center.”

My brow furrows. “Because…?”

The relief is replaced by uncertainty. Perhaps this is going to lean toward dire.

He lets out a low chuckle, though. One that sends warmth down my spine.

“Okay, you really are killing me,” I admit. “This is a little too much of a roller coaster ride for me.”

“Right. Sorry. Here’s the thing…” He shoves his hand through his thick hair, making it recklessly tousled, in a bad-boy way. But Nick Angelini is only a bad boy in the bedroom. The rest of the time, he’s incredibly stalwart and straightforward.

As such, with no further ado, he tells me, “While I was explaining to Cristoff the trials and tribulations of finding a surrogate, he shot off a photo to me—your employee photo. Evidently, it’s part of your file. He was well aware you were interested in acquiring the restaurant, of course.”

“He was also well aware I couldn’t afford to buy it.”

“Correct.” Nick inhales deeply. Then he says, “Cristoff was the one to propose there might be a win-win situation to set up, with both of us—i.e., you and me—wanting something that wasn’t yet in our grasp. But could be. Bailey…” Nick’s irises couldn’t have sweltered more heart-stoppingly as he adds, “That picture hit my inbox and it was like… I couldn’t breathe. For the longest fucking time. And all I could imagine was my child with your big blue eyes staring up at me.”

I gape.

He rushes on.

“Let me explain. It’s complicated.”

Of course, it is.

Nothing about us is easy. Well… Except when he’s inside me. That’s a simple, innate reality. Period.

My mind starts to wander again, to more lascivious thoughts.

I reel myself in, though.

Focus!

I suspect he has something crucial to divulge and I want to hear it.

Nick hastily contends, “I had always planned on the more conventional form of surrogacy—the clinical route. That ideation changed when I saw your picture. I previously told you it was when I met you. That’s inaccurate. I knew from the moment I opened Cristoff’s email that I’d be suggesting the ‘natural’ approach—if you consented to my contract.”

A recommendation I’d embraced as soon as it’d become an option.

But this sort of isn’t new. To either of us. With the exception of him relaying that he’d pre-determined how we’d try to conceive before he’d even met me. Leaving me to ponder whether he’d had a fantasy or two about me prior to that night he’d shown up at the restaurant.

The mere thought curls my toes. But I can’t get too excited over the notion, or I’ll hop the rails—and we actually will end up in that big bed of his.

Instead, I stick with the current subject, prodding, “We both gravitated toward that methodology.”

“Bailey.” He moves in close again and cups my face with his hands. “The very sensible, rational path to take is in vitro. We both know this. Yet we both ended up agreeing on something different. For our own personal reasons, whatever they might be.”

That’s a doozie of a statement—whatever they might be.

As it happens, whatever they might be has translated to us being hot for each other and unable to keep our hands to ourselves. Ergo, from the beginning, we’ve gotten down and dirty with no worry as to what the “appropriate” technique for our scenario might truly be.

I’m fighting another smile—over all of this. Mostly because, one, it’s impossible not to smile every time I recall how Nick gets so wildly lusty for me. And two? There is a deep, internal, private, not-to-be-dissected part of me that is severely and eternally intrigued by the prospect of what mine and Nick’s “creation” will look like and act like, what they will aspire to become.

Therefore, as much as Nick feels he’s making some kind of startling confession as to how he was attracted to me from the get-go, in a manner he’d not anticipated, I’m not put out. At all.

I directly inform him, “My ‘personal reasons’ commenced with the desire to own the restaurant. But you weren’t the only one who, once we got to know each other better, preferred knocking me up sans petri dish.”

His head cocks to the side. He smirks at my terminology. “Bailey—”

“Nick,” I interject, before he even dares to question where this sentiment is coming from. I’ll tell him outright. “I’m glad we chose the path we did.”

He gives a nod, concurring. “I heard what you said about wanting a part of you to have a fresh start, a better upbringing. That will happen, without doubt. I swear it above all else, Bailey. But here’s where I’m going with my thought…”

He draws in another lengthy breath. Exhales slowly. Then continues.

“With you, it’s true what they say about the eyes being the windows to one’s soul. Yes, you are remarkably beautiful. Sensual in a way that stirs my blood—and gets my adrenaline pumping. Sweet and intelligent and ambitious. All those things. But, Bailey…” His lips press lightly to my forehead and then they sweep ever-so-delicately along my temple as he whispers, “When I stare into your eyes, I see all that you think you should be ashamed of and all that you work to rise above and all that you believe you can achieve. I see a vibrancy—and resiliency—that can’t be diminished, no matter the circumstances.”

I’m breathless. Astounded. Thoroughly amazed that he gleans so much about me with his fastidious observations.

Additionally, I’m entranced by how he always seems to have the distinct urge to be near me, to touch me.

His lips brush mine.

My eyelids flutter closed. He gingerly kisses each one.

Then he murmurs, “I’ve known all along, since Cristoff shared that photo of you, that you were meant to give me a child. It’s fate, Bailey. And we could have been meticulously medical about the insemination, but… I have this sense that making love to you and bonding intimately with you is going to give us an extraordinary result.”

Oh. My. God.

I don’t have to look into his eyes, see into his soul, to know he’s confident of his declaration. I hear the conviction in his tone. I feel the slight tremor through his body. I catch the quaver in his voice.

He’s dead serious. And he truly wants—needs—me to comprehend that. Fully.

I’m both overwhelmed with emotion I’m suddenly working very hard to control, while I’m also staggering from how blatantly sincere this man can be. He’s not afraid to show his own emotions, his deepest beliefs. He doesn’t hide from them.

Unfortunately…

My lids drift open and I fixate solely on Nick as I reiterate something he’d asserted in the past. “This could become very problematic for us.”

“It could,” he agrees in a soft tone. “I’ve just invited you to my home. Not under the guise that you should ascertain for yourself that it’s a fit and stable environment in which to raise a child. But for the very honest reason that I want to take you there.”

“We have an arrangement,” is really all I can say. Anything else will be too dangerous. Our risky territory is widening, and it is riddled with explosives we ought to avoid.

All this time, I’d considered I was the one who’d end up devastated when our deal was complete and Nick was no longer in my life.

Clearly, though… I’m not the only one who’s wrapped in those thorns.

I will myself to breathe—and to think logically. To not get so tripped up by this sliver of hope that two people who are more than just sexually attracted to each other can somehow hurdle all the obvious, as well as the perceived, obstacles in their way and make a genuine go at a relationship.

It is unfeasible.

I know this.

So does Nick. Otherwise, he would be more insistent that I go with him. He would be more persuasive. He’s not, because he’s perfectly aware that swaying me would be detrimental to us—individually and as the “couple” we’ve informally become. Not to mention… It would horrifically throw our business transaction out of whack.

We’re already posing a threat to it by getting so physically entwined with each other. Being caught up in feelings and vulnerabilities and inherent difficulties—such as the fact that his life is elsewhere, on a totally different continent—would complicate the hell out of our primary purpose.

Therefore, I once again take a few steps backward, away from him. Without doubt, my expression is an apologetic one. He doesn’t press me, though. Or attempt to cajole me into reconsidering my retreat. He’s going to let me walk off this plane, free of guilt.

Well. More precisely, lack of any he could place on me. Because, undeniably, I do feel guilty. He’s addressing the elephant in the room while I’m trying to swallow it whole and pretend it doesn’t exist.

But the truth is, there’s no escaping what is transpiring between us.

I’m merely skirting the issue. And at that? Only temporarily.

He’ll return. And I’m convinced the fire burning within both of us will not have dimmed.

I’m cognizant of the pertinency to leave on a positive note, to acknowledge that we didn’t quite cover all the bases with our conversation. I also understand that delving any further will convolute this precarious affair.

So I tell him, “I wish you an uneventful flight and a smooth landing.”

He snickers under his breath. Conveying he grasps there’s more to discuss, but he’s prudent enough to accept that it’s best we take the high road at this juncture.

With an excessive amount of regret and remorse swirling in my brain, I turn to the short flight of steps that end with a red carpet at my feet. The only red carpet I’ve ever walked. The only one I ever will.

The very instant I’m out of the plane, the emotion I’ve fought so hard to keep at bay slams into me. I head, at a brisk pace, to the limo and slip inside, immediately reaching for my sunglasses in my purse. I slide them on as the chauffeur is shutting the door.

The pilots, the flight attendant, and Nick’s bodyguard join him on the jet. Mine is in the front seat with the driver. I’m left alone—and thank God for it.

The corners of my mouth quiver and my lungs compress. My heart feels like a large fist is squeezing it tight. Too tight.

Everything about me and Nick Angelini is real, and the pain of his departure and the implausibility of this being a fairy tale come to life are nearly unbearable.

Tears sting my eyes. I don’t bother stemming them. I let them topple over the rims and tumble along my cheeks.

There is a part of me that optimistically proclaims I should be happy Nick is as ensnared as I am.

But then I do a one-eighty with my entire thinking process and take a stab at a different approach. In all reality, chances are… He’ll get a grip. Likely on the flight home. He’ll weigh all angles and conclude, quite rationally, that he somehow got twisted up in steamy sex—and his blood and his adrenaline will cool with distance. He’ll be able to concentrate on our main objective, getting me pregnant. Not how aroused we get, not how easily we lose ourselves in each other, not how we’re experiencing more than just erotic sensations.

There is a fathomable probability that he’ll be over me by the time the wheels hit the runway in Europe.

I, however… I will spend every passing minute missing him and wishing for an alternate outcome. A happy-ever-after I already know is not written in the stars.

Meaning, I for sure shouldn’t fantasize about it.

Question is… How can I not mentally spin my own yarn, dream of one of those sparkly sandals he’s bought me as being the ultimate glass slipper?

Bailey. Bailey. Bailey.

Oh, Bailey.

I sigh. I sniffle. I whisk away a few drops from my face.

And contemplate what sort of twelve-step program I need to join in order to get over Nick Angelini.