Chapter 29

“That’s a beautiful sentiment, Claire. And you’re very kind for expressing it. But you’re pondering in the realm of theory, not reality. Not my reality.”

She lets out a puff of air that echoes my own dismay.

But I’ve spent an entire lifetime with my feet on the ground, not with my head in the clouds. Other than with the restaurant, of course.

And speaking of, I add, “I need to keep my focus on my reopening. So let’s not have this conversation again.”

Okay, that’s a straight-on knife to the heart.

However… I have to take this stance.

We say pleasant goodbyes and disconnect. I go to my suite to retrieve my laptop and run through all the final details that must be in place before we officially greet our new customers.

Mitch and I regroup in the dining room, following our respite, and we work with Gwen to ensure we’re as polished as we possibly can be, that the POS system is fully functional, and both the front and back of house are primed for our debut.

For our soft launch, I’d previously opted for us to not serve lunch; instead, I want us to put our energy into the guests we’ve invited for dinner—food critics, bloggers, industry professionals, and local VIPs.

The excitement permeating the place as I give a pep talk to the staff prior to welcoming anyone in is palpable. I’ve chosen the right people for this journey, and they are eager and thrilled to put us on the culinary map—and make some serious cash.

Which is precisely what happens for them because Gwen has her kitchen organized and Mitch expedites the food perfectly. I’m ensuring the hostess stand, the bar, and the servers are all humming along effectively and efficiently.

Occasionally my bodyguard calls me over to the far corner he’s occupying, totally out of the way, and shows me reviews—he’s taken to monitoring social media to keep track of what’s being said about this new venue. And the word online is that we are spectacular.

I fan my face every time he flashes the screen of his phone my way and fight tears of joy. Then I return to my responsibilities and push even harder.

The grand reopening is no less sensational.

I’m a bit of a basket case from time to time, with more fabulous ratings and comments being posted. The pics are fantastic as well and our phone is ringing off the hook for reservations. We have zero availability for the next three months. People are anxious to get their name on the waitlist anyway.

At the end of the evening of the full launch, when we’ve bussed our last table, there are high-fives, and the waiters and bartenders are counting their tips with the sort of glee that makes it seem as though they’ve just recovered a chest of gold from the bottom of the ocean.

Mitch and Gwen are equally ecstatic.

And I am…

Well, I can’t even really say what I am.

Other than… Beyond euphoric.

Sure, my feet ache and my throat is sore from all the talking I’ve done with patrons over the past few days. I already know I’ll fall into bed and sleep like the dead… Until lunch service tomorrow.

But I’m wildly exhilarated, floating on a cloud.

As Bodyguard and I leave the restaurant, more reviews are posted. And I’m being pinged left and right. Intending to triage my calls and texts the next afternoon, in between our tsunami-sized wave of customers, I have messages on my phone going to voicemail. I don’t want to flub my lines due to sheer exhaustion. I want to be fresh when magazine editors and bloggers contact me.

Regardless, Bodyguard hands me his cell as we’re sitting in the back of the limo, on the way to the house.

I accept it, deliriously happy to see what dish delighted this particular reviewer or that one.

Only… It’s not a reviewer. It’s not an online post.

It’s Nick—calling.

Trying to reach me.

I stare at the screen, completely stalled out.

Nick’s face isn’t on it—Bodyguard doesn’t do general, personally identifiable information. He has a covert system. I happen to know what it is, because I’m required to use it as well, for security and safety purposes. Not just for myself, but for Nick and the rest of the “crew.” Naturally, that now encompasses the baby.

Still. I recognize the codename and the jingle.

I give a slight shake of my head, not accepting the phone, and request, “Will you please tell him to call my cell in twenty minutes?”

We’ll be at the house by then. I’ll be able to speak with him in private. And… I’ll have a small amount of time to collect myself while also figuring out what the hell I’m supposed to say to him.

Bodyguard does as I ask. Meanwhile, I wish like hell I can pop the top on the decanter of scotch and suck down a glass.

Since that’s no longer an option for calming my instantly frayed nerves, I attempt some deep breathing exercises. Only problem is, when I inhale for a lengthy period and let it out slowly, my “shadow” eyes me with a hint of alarm. Like I might be having a contraction or something.

I want to smirk at him, but he’s only just been coming around lately to my sardonic side. He’s of the stoic variety whose eyes and ears are like three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sonar radars and, thus, he’s not into distractions. Fine by me.

Though he has been a bit more engaging lately with the reviews and, well… I kind of do find that comforting.

However, he’s nowhere near as exuberant as Grayson is when I walk through the door—this man notably has to put great effort into containing his delight for me in my current condition. As well as my newfound professional success.

“I’ve read the blogs and watched vlogs,” he says as he hands me a champagne glass filled with sparkling water and garnished with a lime twist. He’s poured one for himself and we tap rims as he adds, “Cheers, congratulations, and kudos to you, Bailey Storm.”

I was half-expecting him to call me “kid,” the way my dad always did.

For an instant, I’m thrown off-guard, having suddenly conjured the memory of my father. There is a curious gnawing in my gut that suggests I would very much like to pick up the phone and tell him he’s going to be a grandfather—and that I have my very own seafood restaurant.

But aside from the obvious reason why I can’t do that, there’s the additional evident reason of…um…even if he were alive, he’s not the grandfather. Nick’s dad is. Though whether the former king (if that’s how they now refer to him) is alive when Baby comes remains to be seen, I suppose.

That thought is as highly depressing as me losing my own father.

I’m no longer in the mood to celebrate.

Luckily, I have an excuse to skirt Grayson, hopefully without hurting his feelings.

“Nick’ll be on the line any minute now. I should… Prepare.”

Certainly, Grayson will grasp my meaning.

Sure enough, he gives me a knowing nod and a semi-smile because he knows I want to talk to Nick. And that I don’t have the faintest idea what to say.

“By all means,” he graciously tells me. “Also… There’s a bath already drawn and some soothing music on. You might want to take advantage of the built-in foot massager and jets after your call.”

“Oh, how I love those features.” I sigh wistfully—primarily because I’m certain I won’t be partaking in any of it. I will likely be pacing my suite during my conversation with Nick and then I will collapse onto the sofa and cry a river.

It’s too easy an itinerary not to plot out.

I bite back a groan.

This isn’t exactly the ending to my evening that I’d anticipated. The bath and foot massage, yes. Flooding my suite like the Nile with my sobs of intense longing isn’t something I’m looking forward to.

And yet, once I’m in my room, after I’ve thanked Grayson for his thoughtfulness and concern—not to mention his camaraderie—I find myself stripping off my clothes, slipping on a nightgown, and climbing under the covers.

I’m just getting settled in when the phone in my hand rings with its specific tone.

My heart leaps into my throat, soo… That’s not convenient. Nor is it conducive to speaking.

My pulse is suddenly wicked-fast, and tears are already taunting me.

Damn, damn, and… Damn.

I haven’t a clue as to how I’m going to get through whatever this discussion might entail. All I know is that it won’t take place if I don’t connect the call.

I do so now, but…

I literally have no voice.

Or a greeting.

Hi is too friendly and casual. Much too blasé for this occasion.

Good evening is overly and pretentiously formal. Though perhaps formality is what we ought to strive for from here on out. Professional and cordial. Not personal and cozy.

Which makes it all bad and wrong that I’ve crawled into bed. Instinct has driven me to that natural state of intimacy Nick and I have shared from the start.

I seriously am not helping myself. Or helping our state of affairs—in any capacity.

I grimace and now a tear springs to my eye.

I am utterly lost as to who we’re supposed to be with each other.

And that shreds me.

“Bailey? Are you there?”

Oh, God… His voice is like a seductive caress and his slightly labored breathing—because this is awkward AF for both of us—is enough to send flames along my inner thighs. The instant visual of him that pops into my head (which I have forced myself to block of late) completely ignites my insides.

Jesus, could I be more in love?

That is yet another excruciating thought.

“Okay, you’re worrying me now,” he says. “I know you’re there… Right?”

I’ve never heard Nick uncertain or doubtful. About anything. Even when he stumbles over some of our intense and unexpected reactions to each other, he quickly finds his feet.

But he seems to be as lost as I am.

That he sounds that way is one more thing that is excruciating for me.

I don’t want him second-guessing or questioning himself. Or us.

I groan inwardly.

Us?

That’s a massively contradictory and highly incriminating sentiment. One I have to quash.

I return to my deep breathing for a couple of seconds. Then simply say, “Yes.”

Truly this is all that squeaks out of my mouth?

Indeed.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

If I could communicate telepathically with him, I’d ask that he spend the next ten minutes or so arbitrarily yakking in my ear about anything that pops into his head, no matter how insignificant or inconsequential.

I just want to hear his voice.

Mindlessly, so I don’t have to dissect anything—or answer him. I just want to hear his warm, deep timbre and feel it soothingly rumble through me. Let the baby get used to—

Oh. Fuck.

Not the appropriate direction in which to go, Bailey!

Regardless, Nick unwittingly obliges… In some regard.

“Congratulations on your reopening,” he tells me. “Claire has relayed much of the positive feedback. Not that I was anticipating less from you, but… Apparently, you’ve gone over-the-top—and the cove is the new hotspot in town. I’m just… I’m… You know…”

Proud of you.

I inherently believe those are his words.

“Yeah, I know,” I whisper, more tears forming. “And, Nick… I’m… You know…”

Sorry.

“Yeah, I know.” His tone is a little tighter now, strained. “You don’t have to say anything, Bailey.”

“Sure, I do.” I just… I can’t. Not right now. I’m drowning in sensations. They’ve been coming at me from all angles and this one is especially riveting. Poignant. Bittersweet.

That last descriptor is, of course, an enormous understatement.

This evening has not only been exciting as hell, but also emotional. Mitch and I both had moments of astonishment where we sort of stared at each other and were too blown away to fully comprehend precisely how magnificently we’d slayed our goal.

And to finally have such an enthusiastic staff, a full dining room, and a packed deck…

It’s almost all I’ve ever dreamed of.

Almost, because… My dreams have changed a bit since Nick told me I’m pregnant.

Neither here nor there, Bailey…

Still. I can’t escape the fact that my huge restaurant coup does not come close to comparing to Nick setting aside whatever angst or annoyance or agony I’d invoked when I’d sent him away to kindly reach out to me on the most important night of my life.

He understands what this restaurant reno has meant to me. He gets how important the customer and employee satisfaction is, the accolades, the booked reservations. 

And he’s the type of man who would want me to know he’s attuned to what’s going on in my world.

Unfortunately, I know what’s going on in his world too. And it’s not really anything I can comment positively on, in exchange.

However, I can’t allow this to be a one-sided communication.

“How’s your father?” I query.

“I called to talk about you, Bailey.”

So much for my good intentions.

“You know everything about me, Nick,” I quietly countered. “Dr. Shaw tells you I’m doing well and everything’s fine with the embryo.”

Yeah… You caught that, right?

I wince, myself.

For some reason, my brain has blipped out and has decided this is how we will refer to the tiny human while conversing about her.

Not that I really believe taking a clinical approach is going to save us from the sticky web we’ve woven.

Nick solidifies this theory as he coolly says, “Dr. Shaw is quite informative.”

I can discern he’s telling me that he’d much rather prefer it was me who was providing the updates.

More specifically, his tone infers that he’d been considering all along I’d be the one filling him in on the details. But then I’d gone and flipped our paradigm and now… We are estranged “parents” using a surrogate town crier. Fucking ironic.

And at that, there are two of them. Because I iterate (as I evade his broodiness), “Claire advised you that I’ve hired a part-time, full-service manager to come in early to get operations rolling so that I don’t have to be in until noon.”

“Twelve-hour shifts are still incredibly long ones, Bailey.”

He doesn’t outwardly chastise me by purposely infusing edginess to his voice—he manages to contain it. But it’s implied.

I hold my snicker in check. Snuggle a little more under the comforter. And assure him, “I sleep in, Nick. Thanks to you and Grayson, I have no other responsibilities at present. No cooking, no cleaning, no shopping, no laundry. I don’t even fill my own tub for a bath.”

“That was the agreement,” he merely states, still a bit tense.

“Interestingly,” I venture—for reasons unbeknownst to me—“I’ve recently learned there’s a bit more to this arrangement.”

“Bailey…”

I catch the distinct sound of clothes rustling as he shifts, presumably in his desk chair—because it’s morning there—as though he’s sitting a bit straighter. This is about to get even more serious.

Sure enough… He throws me one of his curveballs: “What has Claire told you?”