Chapter 26

I shouldn’t be so deeply affected. I’d never wanted a kid to begin with. I’d never considered getting married and settling down with a family. My dream has always, always been a different one, wrapped around a career.

Until Nick Angelini came into my life.

But I can’t obsess over that. I latch onto the original premise here, do everything I possibly can to recall I have a very specific path to follow.

We are granting each other something special.

Stay the course, Bailey.

I have received my “gift.” It’s my duty to ensure Nick gets his.

In fact… I actually think of it as an honor to follow through with this. After all, the man of royal descent chose me to bear his child.

We must stick to the contract, henceforth.

That notion nearly guts me, but… It’s necessary to shift to a more clinical focus. I mean, we should have opted for that from the beginning, but we can’t change the past. Just do a reboot and get back on track.

This helps me to finally pull in ample breaths.

I stand and swipe at my damp face. Snatch a tissue from a decorative holder and blow my nose. I toss it in the trash and nab another one to dab at my eyes.

Then I spin around to return to Nick. To make my apologies for my volatile mood. To tell him—

“Bailey.”

He’s here, his shoulder propped against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his wide chest, his jaw still set.

There is such a ravaged flicker in his eyes that my knees vibrate. I almost crumple to the floor again.

I have nothing soothing to say that will exonerate my actions, excuse my behavior… Or placate him.

Yes, he believes he’s the one who upended our dinner with his query. But the truth is… I spoiled the evening.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” he tells me in a thick voice, filled with emotion. Which shreds me even more.  

“I would never think that. Ever.”

“This is a convoluted situation.”

I nod. Dab again. Search for the right words. It’s incredibly difficult to offer any explanation without compromising myself or making him feel worse.

He doesn’t deserve to feel worse.

I’ve already wrecked him.

His jaw works now and his shoulders bunch. He’s as lost as I am.

I have to be perfectly and agonizingly forthright here. It’s an absolute must.

I inhale a bit deeper this time. Exhale even slower.

Then I tell him, “You mentioned earlier that we were at a crossroads. That’s not accurate. We’re progressing as we’d initially agreed. I have my restaurant, and now I’m pregnant. We both win. So does the baby because she gets you as a father.”

Son of a bitch, this isn’t getting any easier.

He shoves away from the doorframe and takes a few steps toward me.

That is not going to help our plight.

“Don’t,” I whisper, and move behind the end of the waist-high dresser in the center of the room, putting a physical barrier between us.

“We accomplished what we’d set out to do, Nick,” I conclude. “As I said, I will be extra cautious. I will follow every one of Dr. Shaw’s directives. I hope you know I’d never jeopardize—”

“You don’t even have to reiterate that, Bailey. I know.” His expression is as contrite as it is earnest.

I can’t let his twisted emotions trip me up, though.

“As for us…” I begin.

Oh, God.

As for us…

“There’s no reason for us to be intimate now.” I loath the words coming from my mouth, but they represent true facts. “No cause for us to get more entangled. I really can’t handle more entanglement,” I confess. “I don’t need the flowers or the candles or dinner on the beach. That’s not what we’re about.”

Every syllable seems to slice through me.

And they echo in my ears like the most viciously taunting lies. Because everything between us has been so natural and so easy. So instinctive.

We’re fabulous together.

But… We’re not together.

This is the most agonizing reality.

It’s even more damaging because Nick is letting this sink in, and I think he’s already deduced we jumped the track and it’s time to put our train back on the rails.

I solidify that unspoken ideology by adding, “You don’t need to be here. I don’t need you here.” I recognize that I have my own people, surrounding me. “This house is mine for the duration of my pregnancy. Grayson is staying on. So. You don’t have to be here,” I repeat. Perhaps in hopes of convincing myself as much as I’m trying to convince him. “It’s best if you’re not, actually.”

He drags a hand down his face. Then it sweeps around to his nape where he massages what must be a knot of tension.

“We really should talk—”

“We have,” I insist. “We’re both aware of the bottom line. Painfully so. Let’s not make this more horrific than it is.”

The raw emotion in his eyes is killing me.

I stand my ground, though.

And because of the intensely sharp, sliver feelings tearing at me I have to say, “Please leave.”

For a moment, I’m certain I’ve lost my mind.

I’m sending Nick away.

And I’ve completely stalled him out. Like, he literally doesn’t know what to do.

This is surprising, given the man is always in command of every situation.

But I’ve pulled a fast one on him, so to speak. I’ve turned the tables.

Instead of wilting at his feet over his fantastically romantic gestures, I’m pushing him out the door.

Eventually, at some point, he will recognize my actions for what they truly are: Self-preservation.

Potentially for both of us.

For me, specifically, though, I seriously cannot get more involved with this man.

There will be nothing left of me in the end.

Nothing.

Even my restaurant won’t matter because I’ll have bought into a different pipedream and it will not come true and, as a result, I will wind up considering Bailey’s Clambake as a consolation prize.

One that can never, ever, compete with Nick Angelini.

Or his child.

He’s not quick to leave me.

He raises a hand, unassumingly, non-threateningly, and says, “Bailey, I understand I crossed a line.”

There is torment in his eyes and in his tone.

I really can’t stand it; he’s breaking my heart. I have the overwhelming desire to take away the angst and the misery brewing within him. All I have to do is cave and ask him to stay.

I can’t.

I’ve already fallen from the precipice I swore I wouldn’t, and there is no parachute to lead me to safer ground.

That was not a diamond ring he offered me earlier. It was a nightgown. There is no marriage proposal to go hand-in-hand with the baby proposal.

I’m not fool enough to believe there ever would be.

Still… I’m as guilty as he is for our current predicament. I won’t cower from that.

“Nick,” I solemnly say, “we crossed lines. I was always, fully a willing participant. I also take responsibility for where we ended up. But the thing is…” I sniffle again and wipe more tears away. “We ended up in the wrong place. This isn’t right and you know it. Our lives are so incredibly separate.”

I’m not going to get into the whole glaring variance of him being royalty and me being… Me.

“Just go,” I quietly tell him. “It’s for the best. Somewhere, deep down, you know that’s true.”

His jaw grinds again.

He is not happy with me.

But he’ll comprehend where I’m coming from, once the emotions aren’t amped so high.

This current standoff is crucial, poignant.

He works over a few more things in his brain—I can practically see the wheels churning.

But he knows me well enough to accept I never do anything frivolously. When I reach a conclusion, it’s for good cause.

Thus…

He gives a sharp nod.

Turns.

And stalks off.

~ * * * ~

I’d not cried my eyes out since I was a kid, terrified of walking home alone at night, on my own street, after being with my dad at the hospital. I’d keep my chin up and do all the self-defense things the experts tell you to do, including having your house key protruding between your index and middle fingers so that you can puncture an eye, if need be.

I'd gleaned that tidbit when I was eight years old. Eight.

When I would finally reach the apartment and not only engage all the locks but also jam a chair under the door handle—seriously, if there’d been a fire, I’m not sure anyone would’ve been able to get me out—I’d fallen onto my futon that doubled as a couch and wailed so hard. Like, embarrassingly hard. Thank God, we’d had no neighbors on either side of us.

And I basically have a soundproof room now to do the same.

The correlation between my past and my present is crystal-clear, just in a different capacity. My whole life has been predicated on the premise of knowing there’s so much more out there—and recognizing… It’s not meant for me.

I haven’t cried myself to sleep in a very long time. I do so tonight.

I only wake hours later because Grayson lightly raps on the bathroom door from the hallway, cautiously asking, “Bailey?”

I rouse, shove hair from my face that has dried to the wet drops of my tears, and assure him, “I’m fine.”

I’m not, but there’s no need to concern him.

“I have breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” I inform him.

“You must eat.”

Right.

Of course, I do.

I’m pregnant.

I let out a disgruntled sigh and push my way into a sitting position. I have no delusions I’m an utter mess.

I don’t really care.

I call out, “I’ll take it in my suite.”

I cross to the double vanity and splash water on my face. Brush my teeth. Stare at my bloodshot eyes and think to hell with them. I don’t bother with drops.

I do, however, go through three tissues, blowing my nose.

Then I meet up with Grayson in the sitting area before a low blaze in the hearth. He’s even put on soothing music.

I sink into the sofa and stare at the tray he’s brought me, with tomato-basil soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

My gaze slides to him and I quirk a brow. “Breakfast?”

“It’s almost noon,” he tells me in a casual tone.

I return my gaze to the tray. “Looks stellar,” I comment as my stomach leaps, almost excitedly. I spare a glance at the second serving—and I can’t help the smile. “You’re joining me.”

“Naturally.”

It’s kinda become our thing.

He settles in.

I eye him more curiously. And ask, “Have you ever had grilled cheese before?”

He glowers at my challenging tone. But confesses, “No.”

“Soooo… You’ve never made it before?”

“No.”

I grimace. Then I explain, “See… Grilled cheese is a specialty—a delicacy to certain connoisseurs. Like, no joke, some worshippers believe you can only achieve the precise height of crispy-outside, melty-inside by way of an iron.”

“I used a professional panini press,” he haughtily says. “A very expensive one.”

“Not the same thing.” I hold back a genuine laugh—so relieved I can actually muster one. “I’m talking about a real iron. You know, for getting wrinkles out of your clothes?”

“Who on earth?!” He stares at me, aghast.

Okay, now I do laugh. He’s just so… Fantastically incredulous.

“Seriously, the whole concept is a true ritual,” I avow. “And a rite of passage for any college student.”

“’Rite of passage’ aside…” He gives me a droll glare and insists, “Just try it.”

It does look sufficiently gooey, with various cheeses oozing out of the sides. And I am starving.

He’s cut the sandwiches into quarters, which screams High Tea with the Ladies Who Lunch. Only falling shy of that because he hasn't removed the crusts (which would be sacrilege for this particular fare).

Still… I’m tempted.

I select a piece and take a bite and…

Oh, holy heaven!!!

I'm basically gooey.

My eyes all but roll into the back of my head and I sigh like I’ve just dipped the most succulent chunk of lobster meat into rich, drawn butter and popped it into my mouth.

Really… WTAF??!

My gaze snaps to Grayson.

He smirks. Quite superiorly. (With due merit.)

“What have you created here?” I demand.

“A unique blend of six cheeses with very exclusive heirloom tomatoes, all from our European region. The bread is also from home.”

“I’m just…”

Wow.

Completely. Speechless.

Sure, I’m famished, but that’s not why I devour this treasure trove of flavors without another word.

Grayson enjoys his too. That, unto itself, speaks volumes. The man doesn’t prefer “common” food and yet he’s prepared it so sensationally.

“I’m totally putting this on the lunch menu,” I say as I wipe my mouth with the linen napkin and then dive into the soup—which is thick and luxurious and no less extraordinary than the sandwich.

“I’d be honored,” he merely states.

My gaze snaps up. “You’d be phenomenal in my kitchen.”

“Your kitchen here,” he specifically states. “Not at the restaurant.”

The web I thought I’ve unwoven suddenly gets stickier…