Chapter 22

Sans Nick, returning to the house isn’t nearly as exciting as it normally is, when I know he’ll be here, whipping up something decadent—in the kitchen and in the bedroom. Hell, sometimes even in the shower. The living room. We’ve yet to do it in the dressing room or the mammoth office space that’s in the wing opposite the theater setup, yet I’d like to believe it’s only a matter of time before we cover all the virgin territory.

But… Alas, I’m still considering he truly might get over me now that he’s had me numerous times in numerous ways. Also, given he’ll be an ocean away from me—and, who knows? He could meet someone and turn his romantic affection in that direction, with the caveat that he’s attempting to have a baby with another woman, of course.

At that, I could already be pregnant and therefore we’ll no longer need to get naked together.

Hmm.

I have sufficiently depressed myself.

Excellent job, Bailey.

I’m mopey when I enter the foyer and Grayson takes note with a raised brow as he holds one of the double doors open for me.

He’s much too tactful to quiz me about my melancholy and since Nick is not with me, chances are damn good he’s already surmised what’s put me in a dismal mood.

So he bypasses the highly personal inquisition and merely—though graciously—asks, “Would you like lunch, Miss Bailey?”

Grayson refers to Nick as Mr. Angelini, rather than “Your Majesty,” I suspect because it seems more comfortable when they’re here in the States. I lucked out with the fastidious butler acknowledging me a bit more informally as Miss Bailey, instead of Miss Storm. He must have sensed from the beginning, or Nick could have tipped him off, that I don’t do pomp and circumstance, as a rule. Therefore, my next goal is to get Grayson to drop the “Miss” entirely.

We’ll see how that works out for me.

At any rate, I tell him, “Lunch would be great, thank you.” Not that I really have an appetite. Well, I do, actually, after all that riding. But I’m currently stuck in my funk and would prefer to stay there. I have no doubt, however, that Grayson will entice me out of the blues with some creatively delicious concoction of his own.

He’s off to a wonderful start when he suggests, “How about I set you up on the pool patio? There’s plenty of seating under umbrellas and it’s a splendid day out.”

“Indeed, it is. That’s perfect.” Instantly, I’m feeling a bit chipper. Nothing makes me happier than being by the water—other than being with Nick.

I groan inwardly.

Jesus, Bailey.

Since when did I let my life revolve around a man?

Oh, yeah, when I signed this particular man’s contract.

Perhaps before that.

Let’s face facts, he had me at, “I want to have champagne with you”—words he’d uttered the very moment we’d met.

I leave Grayson in the foyer and head into my suite to change. I opt for a bikini and sarong, convincing myself I’ll take a dip in the pool, not just work all afternoon. Regardless, I bring my laptop with me. I settle at the gorgeous teakwood table with the big, comfy chairs. It’s the closest dining spot to the portion of the deck that juts out enough to provide a spectacular view of the ocean. The best of both worlds, in my opinion.

I’m not exactly in the mental space to pull up my project plan—not with thoughts of Nick weighing so heavily on my mind, along with the very distinct sensation gripping me that this morning truly was the last time we’ll ever make love—but I suck it up and open the file.

My first and foremost to-dos are to hire graphic and interior designers. I can’t revamp the joint without them. Much as I’d love to snap my fingers and have Gordon Ramsey come save me with an extreme makeover, it’s Nick Angelini who’s my fairy godfather, and that means I’m the one saving myself. With his money.

Oh, Christ, the money…

I have a budget that I’ve meticulously broken down, but suffice it to say, I’m not counting pennies. Nick basically gifted me with a “spare no expense” checkbook. All purchases and invoices are filtered through Cristoff’s CPA, who’s staying on to be my accountant, but only to facilitate my tax returns, financial obligations, and payroll, not to monitor or pooh-pooh any of my ideas.

Fortunately, there’s so much to do, I’m almost immediately immersed and concentrating on my venture, not my oddly broken heart. I mean, it is odd that I’m feeling this way, like a dumped one-week stand.

No, it’s worse than odd. It’s wholly nonsensical.

Yet I’m totally into my own business world and barely notice when Grayson delivers lunch. Only the scent of chicken pesto pasta permeates my focus. I nibble while researching contractors and requesting info and quotes via online applications, while also browsing restaurant furniture and accessory sites to pick up a few concepts to incorporate.

The only thing that comes of the latter, however, is that I’m thinking my turquoise color scheme is going to be too blasé for the jet-set. Or, more accurately, the yacht-set.

I pause to consider the history of the restaurant and I can’t deny, it had its heyday with that groovy, “The Twist”-on-the-beach vibe, but the reigning crown jewel in that cove is—and I’m positive always will be—the yacht club, with all its majestic glory.

Forcing myself to concentrate on the décor, I wonder if I’m being too whimsical in my choice. This leads to more research. Before I know it, Grayson is asking if I want dinner where I’m still rooted on the patio, or if I’d like to relocate to the deck. He doesn’t bother to recommend the formal dining room. He knows I’m into al fresco.

I’m ready for a change of scenery, though, so I say, “The deck will be lovely.”

I tidy up and change into a tank dress and flats. I debate bringing my computer with me, but it’s no big mystery as to what (right—who) I will obsess over if I don’t keep my mind on the restaurant.

Grayson places a succulent Chilean sea bass with rice in front of me and says, “If there’s anything different that’s more to your liking, Miss Bailey, don’t hesitate to ask.”

To which I reply, “Please don’t feel as though you have to stand on ceremony for me, Grayson. I understand it’s customary, or required, when the king is here; but for me… I’m perfectly fine with you being less formal.”

He grins and says, “First of all, Mr. Angelini is not officially the king, as of yet. He’s the acting king, with his father’s condition declining. Despite that technicality, it’s always an honor to serve him, here and at home. And the same applies to you.”

This warms me. I smile and assure him, “Much as I appreciate that kind sentiment, it would be okay if you simply called me Bailey. And you’re not required to wear a tux in my presence. Or even a suit and tie.”

He chuckles and his brown eyes glow. “I do have a reputation to live up to.”

“I hear you. But I’m quite certain you’d be just as efficient in slacks and a polo shirt.”

“Hmm… Do I own a polo shirt?” he caustically muses as he drifts off.

I snicker at him. He reminds me of my dad in so many ways. A hard worker. Grounded. With a sense of humor, yet also possessing an overall, overarching concern for his personal duties.

I surmise that, as a teenager, it was more difficult for my father to allow me to see he was sick than it was for him to suffer through his illness.

And for the love of God, I’m suddenly wondering how Nick is faring with his own father, and also wondering… Had he wanted me to meet the king? The current king?

More importantly… Had he wanted the king to meet me? The surrogate, the potential mother of Nick’s child?

Oh, fuck…

Did I screw this all up?

Was there more to his request when we were on his plane than showing me his country?

I stew over this.

When Grayson returns to freshen my sparkling water, I can’t stop myself from saying, “I know you comprehend what my relationship with Nick is—that we’ve entered into a contractual agreement. But do you think his father knows he’s hired me to carry his child?”

I can’t explain why, but my stomach immediately knots.

Apparently, my eyes give away my severe consternation because Grayson sits across from me.

Actually sits with me.

“Miss Bailey,” he begins.

I wince. Now is not the time for his procedural code to be in effect.

He quickly recognizes that. And amends, “Bailey,” in a less regimented tone. Sort of a fatherly voice, ironically. “I’m not familiar with the intimate details of your arrangement with Mr. Angelini.”

I accept that he’s using the term “intimate” in an overarching manner, not in a romantic or sexual one. Though… Honestly, he can’t be in the dark about mine and Nick’s physical involvement.

He further expounds, “Mr. Angelini did inform me you’d be his surrogate. That’s all I’m required to know—other than how to appropriately meet your dietary, health, and wellness needs. How to ensure you have anything and everything at your disposal and that the household is taken care of so that you can remodel your restaurant and stay in prime shape while you’re pregnant.”

Okay… He’s still a bit regimented. But I get the gist.

I say, “I’m thankful for the help, truly. The thing is… I’m a bit off-kilter about people learning I’m the ‘chosen one,’ so to speak.”

His gaze narrows on me. “If you’re worried for your safety due to your identity being revealed and you fear some nefarious scheme because Mr. Angelini is royalty, that’s what the bodyguards are for.”

“Bodyguards?” Now, it’s my brows that jump. “Plural?”

‘Cause… I’ve only been introduced to the one who rides in the limo with me and camps out at the restaurant. The other one is Nick’s, and he travels with him.

“Certainly,” Grayson enlightens me. “There’s full surveillance of the perimeter of the estate and at the gates. Also, on the interior grounds and, naturally, the beach.”

I’m speechless.

He continues. “Additionally, I have specific training to protect you.”

Oh, wow.

What the hell do I say to all of that?

Evidently, my words aren’t necessary. Grayson adds, “It matters not if he’s in his own country—there are always possible threats and risks to be mitigated. Plus, well… Mr. Angelini would never abide any harm coming to you. Or his child.”

Grayson’s look turns pointed.

While I am still wracking my brain for a satisfactory thought, he continues. “He’s a family man, Bailey. And he’s territorial and mindful of what’s his. Losing his mother was difficult enough. For him to be experiencing his father’s slow demise is… Tormenting, at the very least.”

My heart’s breaking all over again.

Mist covers my eyes.

Grayson contends, “Never underestimate that when Nick includes one in his coveted circle, he is endlessly devoted to them.”

I can’t breathe.

He’s just called Nick… Nick. That’s a first. And a reckoning.

“You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you? Like he’s more of a…son…to you, than an employer.”

He nods. Then he asserts, “And he would do anything for me.” Grayson draws in a deep breath. Lets it out, slowly. “My daughter was in a bad marriage, Bailey. He rescued her from it and bought a home for her in L.A., far away from her troubles. He helped her find a job so that she could build a whole new life for herself. And he kept it all confidential. Even went to great lengths to assist me in covertly seeing her, so that I didn’t inadvertently expose her new location. The danger has since passed, but… I’m eternally indebted to him.”

I want to cry.

I also want to… Scream.

I’m not supposed to be falling in love with Nick Angelini. But we all know I am. I believe even Grayson knows it. That’s why he’s revealing all of this to me.

And says, “If you ever ponder whether your baby is going to the perfect home, to the perfect parent, I encourage you to let that thought go. Because he or she will have the best care—and a father and staff that will dote endlessly while also ensuring the child is raised to the highest standards, with the utmost importance on common courtesy, education, judiciousness, et cetera.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I concur, without hesitation.

He has more to proclaim. “I also avow that you will never, ever—for the rest of your life, Bailey Storm—want for anything. And that statement stretches beyond your restaurant.”

The corners of my mouth quiver from the emotion engulfing me. If I could fucking speak, I’d—

Actually, I don’t know what sentiment would tumble from my lips.

Other than…

What Grayson just promised is not a truth.

There is something I will want—always.

Something I will never have.

My breath now skitters and my heart stutters as that reality—and one word—trips through my brain:

Nick.