Chapter 23

After dinner and more work in the office, I literally drag my feet when it’s time to retire to my suite, not the least bit interested in being in there alone, eyeing that big, empty bed. In fact, that big, empty bed seems even bigger than before and it’s not the only thing that’s empty. I feel a little hollow on the inside. Like there’s a chunk of me missing.

Depressed and lonely.

Holy hell, I thought I was fixing my problems, not adding to them!

I grab the thick chenille throw that’s draped meticulously, though it’s meant to appear more haphazard, on the corner of the bench at the foot of the mammoth wooden frame and cross to the seating area, where I settle on the sofa, curled into the corner with a mound of pillows. The fire’s on a low setting and I listen to the snap and crackle of it, along with the sound of the waves crashing on the shore.

This is heaven, but it seems more like a tormenting hell. There are way too many memories in this room and way too many opportunities that are no longer at my fingertips. All I can do is stare at the blaze, recall every time Nick touched me, and hope I’ll eventually fall asleep.

I do. Insomnia has never been an issue for me, especially when I have a task list as long as my arm to conquer.

I’m up early and Grayson serves me on the patio again. He’s wearing dress pants in a deep blue hue that’s not quite navy, but is stylishly regal. He’s paired the slacks with a dove gray, almost silvery polo that has thin, matching blue stripes.

I smile at him, pleased he’s turned a casual corner. I also thank him for doing so. Distractedly because, really, I’m suddenly obsessed with the color of his pants. The entire palette.

It would be wonderfully elegant in the restaurant without being staid. It would pop, instead. And be sensational with a nautical theme. I’d drop “California” from the name and just simply call the new establishment Bailey’s Clambake—because wouldn’t it be fabulous to franchise on the East Coast too?!

My brain instantly goes into hyperdrive. I surf the Internet to locate a comparable swatch so I don’t have to ask Grayson to lend me his pants as a sample.

I also take a picture of him with my phone.

He stares quizzically at me.

“You’ve just inspired my décor,” I inform him. “I’m on the verge of a gigantic breakthrough here.”

Indeed, the ideas come quickly and vividly—also, completely. No loose ends are left by the time I’m done scribbling in the notebook I’m keeping, to track all action items and concepts. At one point, I text Mitch to let him know I’ll be in late. But I make it by two in the afternoon and we plow through the résumés he’s vetted and has set up interviews. The ball is rolling with impressive momentum.

The days fly by as we nail all the preliminary deliverables. The graphic and interior designers jump right in, while Mitch and I narrow our staffing choices. We have a fantastic selection of servers, but the jury’s still out on an executive chef. One even sends me racing to the bathroom to spit out a mouthful of clam chowder that’s fishy as fuck—despite the ingredients being fresh. What the hell did that guy do to the soup? Something was seriously off with his seasoning.

Even the scent is irritating and makes my stomach roil. I heave into one of the toilets. The restrooms are exceptionally clean, but for some reason, I really assess this room as I’m rinsing my mouth out.

My phone rings and I assume it’s Mitch, checking on me.

Nope… It’s Claire…

Checking on me.

“Hi,” I say after I swipe a paper towel across my mouth.

“How are you today, Bailey?”

I’m not going to admit I just had foul chowder. I don’t want to alarm anyone. This is a routine call and she’ll report back to Nick. I don’t want him erroneously concluding someone might be trying to poison me. And truthfully… That’s the last thing I want to consider.

“All’s well,” I assure Claire. Because I’m rapidly recovering.

“Is there anything you need?”

“Yes, a plumber.”

She laughs, softly. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing. I’m just surveying the bathroom and realize that both the ladies’ and the men’s have to be updated.”

“Give me a half-hour. I’ll call you back.”

She disconnects.

I hold the phone away from my ear and gaze at it, not sure what just happened. I shrug it off and return to the kitchen. Mitch has already sent our candidate packing, thank God.

“Whatever spices he used,” I say, “they’re atrocious.”

“His version of a classic. Definitely overbearing.”

“It was rancid.”

“I spit mine out too. Just… Not as discreetly as you did.”

“Discreet? I ran out of here!”

He chuckles. “That made it easier to tell him it was a solid pass on his ‘skills.’ No wonder he’s been unemployed for several months and has worked for six different restaurants.”

“Now I’m nervous to try anyone else’s ‘personal’ fare.”

“He graduated from an excellent culinary school, with significant recommendations from his teachers.”

“Clearly, he lost his way.”

“Well, cheer up. We have a woman coming in this evening who was with the Cliff House in San Francisco for over five years before they closed. Gwen Corbin.”

My gaze narrows as my stomach churns again—for an entirely different reason. “The Cliff House? That’s an iconic restaurant. Why would she apply here?”

“She said during our initial contact that everywhere she’s interviewed, the executive chef is there to stay—and Gwen’s ready to step up. This would be an ideal move in that capacity.”

“Hmm. That does make sense.” Still… Her being from a famed San Francisco seafood and oceanfront restaurant—one of which I’d pressed my nose to the window—unnerved me. But she’d traveled down here and was already set to come in, so… I had to go with the flow.

And I had to answer Claire’s call.

“Let me guess,” I dejectedly muse as we connect, “I can’t get anyone out here for another month.”

That would slaughter my momentum. Damn, why hadn’t I thought of this particular project before?

“Wrong!” she cheerfully declares, catching me off guard. “I found you a five-star rated plumber who specializes in commercial-property restroom restorations. He’s very excited about your overhaul and will be there within the hour to meet with you and discuss the full scope of the renovation.”

“Wow.” I’m stunned. “Nick didn’t tell me you had superpowers.”

She laughs, delicately again. Murmurs something in her native language that sounds appreciative, then says, “I enjoy finding needles in haystacks, as it goes. Yes?”

“Or pulling rabbits from hats.” I give her another adage. “If you can find a contractor to extend out my deck, provided all necessary permissions are granted, you’d really rock my world.”

“I’ll get back to you as soon as possible!” she delightfully promises.

And just like that… Not only do we start ticking off tasks from our list, but I have my own executive assistant.

The days stretch into weeks and there is a wild amount of activity to manage. I also hire an HR consultant to coordinate all the new employees with the CPA and ensure we have policies in place and tax forms accurately filed.

Mitch and I are practically working around the clock, and I fall into bed past midnight, only to wake at six to get back at it. Dr. Shaw warns me I’ll have to slow down substantially when I’m pregnant, but she hasn’t tested me yet, not wanting an EPT to potentially offer a false positive. Or a false negative, I suppose.

She’s not rushing anything, but I am on my end. Just in case.

A full month whizzes by and then she triple-tests me, letting me know she’ll contact me immediately when she has the results.

Meanwhile… I stand at the fancy hostess desk on the elevated platform above my dining room and absorb the new view—we’re done.

The walls are crisp white, vertical wainscoting up to the rib-high chair railing, with the remainder being painted the blue hue I adore, and there are plenty of framed, large-format photos on display of the crab shack “back in the day” and of the harbor. The hardwood floors are varying, integrated shades of grey and polished to a high sheen, as are the matching planks overhead in the recessed ceiling that features brushed aluminum, ultra-cool fans with modern, curved blades. My chairs are upholstered with the shimmering regal blue and my linens are silver and thick, boasting a sophisticated swirl pattern. The centerpieces are square, glass vases, partially filled with sand and seashells arranged around an oil lamp. The alabaster china is rimmed with our colors. My flatware is hammered, heavy, and expensive looking.

We tore out the bar from the alcove against one wall and installed a much longer and more intricately designed one in front of the niche, adding tall, high-backed stools with a satiny navy-and-silver striped material covering the cushy padding. The alcove now conveniently sports glass and wood shelves for the alcohol and offers the bartenders more room to maneuver. This meant getting rid of the high-topped tables, but we’ve created a cocktail lounge atmosphere in that particular area with sofas and comfy chairs on either end of the bar and on the railed platform, as a designated waiting section.

On the gleaming white deck, the cushions on the grey, all-weather wrought-iron chairs are the same as in the bar/lounge. We were able to make a separate entryway directly onto the deck and hung three huge faux sand dollars on the outer portion with our name and “Open Daily/Nightly” centered in the middle of each, in blue.

There are lanterns strategically placed indoors and out. Inside, there’s also overhead netting in two corners with large seashells piled in them. The wall in the dining room, opposite the bar, has a helm over the fireplace, along with nautical tools on display on the mantle. At the main entrance, there’s a large, polished-silver anchor with a bronze-colored rope attached.

It is everything I wanted this place to be. And not only is the venue sensational, but the food is also to die for. I’d had my reservations about hiring Gwen, primarily because I feared I might get tangled up in the wrong kind of nostalgia, but that didn’t happen. Rather, I find her to be a breeze to work with, and the menu we’ve crafted together is going to land us our five-star reviews. I’m certain of it.

And speaking of a different kind of reservation, we’re booked for our grand reopening and beyond. Not a single seat left. And our state-of-the-art point of service system will manage both the bookings and the order-taking, right at the table.

I have the perfect restaurant.

As I continue to marvel over it all, a velvety red rose taps the tip of my nose. A stirringly familiar scent wafts from behind me. My breath catches in my throat.

“Congratulations,” a deep, intimate tone whispers in my ear.

“On my restaurant?” I ask without turning around to face Nick. I have to get my breath back first.

“That, yes. It’s striking, Bailey. Truly a masterpiece. But also… Congratulations on being pregnant.”

Oh. My. God.

My heart nearly stops.

I’ve had absolutely no idea whatsoever how I would respond to those words: Congratulations on being pregnant.

My mind goes completely blank for a few seconds.

It’s just too much to process.

I mean, this happened so damn fast.

Well, okay… Not totally.

But…yeah. Totally.

I’ve been fully immersed in my work project the last several weeks and have had minimal communication with Nick—at that, not even directly, we go through Claire, for the most part. She’s the only one who seems to know how to operate with both our schedules and the significant time difference between us.

But in terms of bam! you’re with child… That did come about rather quickly.

And oh, holy shit…

I’m with child.

I turn to face Nick, my jaw still somewhere down around my kneecaps. And to hell with breathing. That’s not happening anytime soon.

For one, I’m too stunned by his news to breathe.

And two… Lord, the man is so incredibly gorgeous, everything within me instantly goes haywire at the sight of him.

I have the insistent urge to throw my arms around his neck.

By some miracle, I refrain. I don’t want to lose my shit over this man, particularly at this critical juncture.

He’s much less reserved.

He grins at me, and it touches his eyes, making them glow warmly, hypnotically.

He says, “You really are an overachiever, Bailey Storm.”

I have the desire to remind him it took two of us to conceive, but I’m still speechless.

Apparently, though, he’s not just talking about my change in status. He glances around the dining room and bar area and then out to the deck. He whistles low and appreciatively.

“Damn,” he muses as his gaze returns to me. “You did a phenomenal job. This place truly is magnificent, Bailey.”

“Claire told you that we finished?” And when I say “we,” I am most certainly including the small village it took to achieve this.

“She’s good at keeping me apprised of the situation.”

“This one, yes. But… I never told her Dr. Shaw had tested me.”

“You didn’t have to.” He chuckles, warmly. “Dr. Shaw knows to contact me directly for things of this nature. She called yesterday.”