Chapter 41

~ BAILEY ~

“Says who?” Nick counters, not missing a beat.

“It’s too much,” I merely mutter.

At the same time…

I’m conversely tempted by all he’s offering. Of course, I am.

I’m just having difficulty reconciling all I need to reconcile. In my brain. In my heart.

Oh, my heart…it’s having a field day. Jumping excitedly. Though my stomach’s beginning to churn as I grind over this very bizarre situation I’ve found myself in.

The first thing I really must confess is, “Nick.” I stare deeper into his eyes, unwaveringly. “I heard you say that you love me.”

“I think you’ve known it all along.”

I give a small nod. “That means you’ve known all along that I also—”

“I’ve suspected.” His irises glow evocatively, and I literally feel the heat straight to my core.

But I can’t allow myself to get sidetracked by how easily he lights me up. There is something vital that I must say. Must say.

My heart has sort of launched itself into my throat, though, in anticipation of my own revelation. My pulse is echoing in my veins and in my ears.

Yet beyond all that…

In my mind, there is an insistency, an urgency that is propelling me forward, that is reminding me that holding back is pointless and…not something Nick deserves.

Still, I experience a rippling sensation throughout me as I open my mouth to speak.

He grins again. This time, knowingly. Expectantly. He even raises a brow for dramatic effect.

I laugh. Swat at him. Cry a little.

Then I say, “I’m one thousand-percent, a million times over, in love with you, Nick.”

How could I not be?

“Like… Sooo in love,” I add.

I wait a spell, with bated breath. Not over what his next response will be, but because of what I’ve just announced. I’m fearful of my own mental backlash. Or any other peculiar reaction to me having put into the universe such a monumental declaration.

At the moment, though, nothing bad happens. At all.

Nick’s grin deepens. His eyes twinkle.

He faintly swipes at more of my tears.

His head dips once more and he whispers, “A simple I love you would have sufficed, my overachiever.”

I can resist no longer. I nip at his lip. And say, “Now’s not really the time to tease me.”

“Actually, now’s the perfect time to tease you. And to feed you.” He kisses me, sweetly, then slips from the bed.

“Um… We haven’t resolved anything,” I’m quick to point out.

“Sure, we have.” He comes around to the other side of the bed to collect me. “Doesn’t love conquer all?”

“In the fairy tales, Nick.” I force the exasperation from my tone. “But we’ve already ascertained I’m not fairy tale material.”

He takes my hands and gingerly hauls me up.

“You’re in a palace, Bailey. I’m royalty. Your baby is royalty. We’ve just professed our love for each other and, oh, yeah… I’ve already seen you naked in my bed—and you look phenomenal. I want it to be a regular occurrence.” His gaze slides over me, quite provocatively, making my skin tingle and tightening my nipples. He’s pleased by the immediate response, if the flare in his eyes is any indication.

However, he rises above the distraction. And simply queries, “How much more removed could you possibly be from not fairy tale material?”

He has me on that one, doesn’t he?

However… “I haven’t met your father yet. What if he doesn’t like me?”

“What’s not to like?” He kisses the tip of my nose.

I’m grateful for his kindness. Still. “In the books and movies, king fathers tend to frown upon their prince sons falling for commoners.”

“Nothing common about you, baby. And while he is my father, Bailey, I am, officially, the king now. All obligations and rights have been transferred to me. I appreciate his counsel, certainly. But I make my own decisions, my own personal choices.”

He states this quite vehemently and it knots my stomach. Because it’s almost as though he’s trying to convince himself there will be no pushback from his father, no discontent over me not being an heiress or a princess or, hell, even someone with a notable last name.

But then he perfectly adds, “You are someone, Bailey. You’re a restaurateur. You’re an honors graduate. You’re adored by Grayson—and my father most definitely values that man’s judgement of character. And… You’re the mother of his grandchild.”

I melt a little.

Maybe because Nick says this so proudly. Maybe because it has a huge familial connotation—and I have no family. Maybe it really hits home that Nick and I are having a kid together, rather than me handing off this baby.

Okay, yes, it’s all three of these things. And so much more.

Another wave of emotion washes over me.

In a sense, I feel like I might have bitten off more than I could chew by coming here.

On the other hand, I suddenly can’t imagine not having come here.

This isn’t only about the baby.

This is about me. This is about Nick. This is about…

What might be.

If I dare to believe in the fairy tale.

There are no words to describe what I experience next.

But I’ll give it a go.

Nick’s bathroom is practically the size of my restaurant. The gorgeous octagonal, glass-enclosed, marble shower could, indeed, accommodate eight—more, I’m sure. There are two oversized, jetted tubs; his and her water closets that are each as large as my dressing room back home. Plush sofas and chairs and tables are strategically arranged around two fireplaces with low blazes in the hearths. Several tall, ostentatious floral arrangements sit on artistically crafted pedestals and there are tons of decorative mirrors. Some mounted, some freestanding.

The double vanity has elevated sides with stunning sink bowls and a span of marble between them that ensures I could lay out a cosmetics department and still not encroach upon Nick’s space. The floors are gleaming marble with a few sensuous-looking fur rugs. All the fixtures are gold. Like… Totally gold.

I could simply move in here and be surrounded by the lap of luxury.

And it’s a bathroom.

I bite back a laugh that would probably come out strangled and make me choke on it.

Grayson has already indicated which side of the vanity is for me, having placed my electronic toothbrush next to the sink at the far right.

I find my toiletries in the sleek drawers and “freshening up for lunch” sort of takes on a whole new meaning.

While Nick is in his suite on a phone call, I’m Bella Swan needing a “human moment” that turns into me falling just shy of a full-blown shower—we don’t have time for me to dry and style my hair. But I cover every other bit of physical terrain and apply new makeup.

With my robe wrapped around me, I go in search of my clothes. I don’t have to wander too far. Grayson greets me outside the en suite and directs me to Nick’s dressing room. Also monstrously huge.

“Jesus,” I murmur. “You could park a corporate jet in here.”

Grayson snickers. “It’s a palace, Miss Bailey.”

“Oh, we’re back to that, I see,” I lob his way. “So official. What’d you do, send Nick’s regular attendant to the Bahamas while we’re here?”

“Both Maxine, the housekeeper, and Francois, the valet, are in residence. They’ve been informed I’m your butler.”

“So territorial.” I whistle under my breath. Teasingly.

This warrants another snicker from him. So he hasn’t gone all formal on me.

Nor does he need to remind me this is a palace we’re currently hanging in. That is not something I could forget, even if I gave it my greatest attempt. This is literally three-hundred-and-sixty-five degrees of breathtaking opulence.

“I’ll leave you to change,” he says and ducks out of the room.

Meanwhile… I’m stalled out. My gaze sweeps over all the perfectly arranged sections of the room, with undershelf lighting and rows of suits and dress shirts and slacks. Tuxedoes. Polos. Sweaters. Ties. Belts. Oh, my.

Plus, an array of shoes and a bureau in the center of it all, similar to the beach house, so I can surmise there are dozens and dozens of sexy-boxer briefs and socks in the drawers, as well as an endless supply of fancy cufflinks, diamond tie-tacks, and maybe designer watches.

This is more significantly overwhelming than my own dressing room because it is solely Nick’s—it’s the very essence of Nick.

Well… My suitcase is resting on a luggage rack and my clothes have been hung up behind it, but still. This is all Nick.

My fingers graze the sleeves of his jackets. Everything is neat and orderly, of course. All the shirts are in color-coordinated blocks. Every morning, he comes in here and stands before this mega-multitude of selections and decides what to wear. Or, perhaps he has someone who does that for him, given there are suit racks in each corner, in front of full-length mirrors, that already have complete ensembles laid out, at the ready.

I find it particularly amusing that, at one end of the bureau, as I reach it, there’s a silver-and-glass tray with decanters of liquor and crystal tumblers. Like he spends enough time in here contemplating his wardrobe that he needs to pour himself a drink.

Although… There are comfy-looking chairs with ottomans, so perhaps that is the case.

I would never discount that Nick Angelini is fantastically stylish. Not to mention, this room is incredibly soothing, with classical music faintly drifting on the air and the enticing scent of whatever cologne Nick last used wafting under my nose.

I round the end of the bureau and discover the culprit of the decadent aroma. In the center, under the counter, is a top glass shelf. I start to roll it out, but it takes over, automatically coming toward me, slowly, smoothly, then rising to nearly my breasts, which would be about rib-height for Nick. All manner of fragrances are lined up in several rows. Organized alphabetically.

Now I’m curious as to whether there’s some sort of Butler U. the attendants must graduate from before released into the wilds of European palaces and castles because Grayson does this to my perfumes as well.

A peculiar shift occurs within me at that moment.

Yes, this palace, the entire estate, is on an infinitely grander scale than the beach house and its oceanfront property. But I can’t deny certain similarities exist and there’s a distinct sense of familiarity that’s actually quite… Comforting.

For as much as these walls and the manicured grounds are beyond mind-blowing, I’m not exactly a babe in the woods in this scenario.

I have lux back in California. I have my own butler, driver, bodyguard(s), and concierge medical care.

So maybe Nick was right earlier.

I am no longer not so far removed from fairy tale material.

Hmm. That’s something pretty massive to take in. Along with the fact that I have declared I’m in love with a king. And the king is in love with me.

Additionally… The king and I are having a baby.

Naturally, I have to lament that only in Bailey Storm’s World would I be presented with all the perfect variables to have an ultimate dream-come-true happily ever after—only to be reminded that within my reality, there was something else I wanted before the then-prince came along, before a contract was signed, before a seed was planted.

Bailey’s Clambake is still my dream. Even more so since we’ve completed all the remodeling and upgrades and have reopened to great success. That is a goal I yearned for and one I achieved. Not exactly an easy thing to simply give up. Doesn’t matter if I don’t “technically” give it up. Even a measure of absenteeism could have me turning out to be no better than Cristoff when he owned the rundown crab shack, losing sight of the investment, ignoring day-to-day tasks and fixes that mount into uncontrollable issues that put the establishment right back where it started. Debilitated and lacking patronage.

Unloved.

I can’t do that to my namesake restaurant. To my original dream that I worked so hard to accomplish—and was willing to make a monumental sacrifice for.

But you know what else I can’t do?

Walk away from Nick.

I’m not sure where this particular journey is going to take me. What I do know is that Nick is a man who prides himself on conquering the odds, on rising above. And that tells me one thing: He’s not going to give up until he finds the perfect solution.

For all of us.

~ NICK ~

There is a distinctly lighter air to Bailey as she emerges from the dressing room and joins me in the suite as I disconnect my call.

She’s wearing a beautiful blue, sleeveless dress that’s tight at the chest, plumping up her enticing breasts, making it damn difficult to find a coherent thought in my head as my gaze slips to her full mounds. In the periphery, I can see the material loosens at her rib cage and cascades to a flouncier skirt that hits about mid-thigh. She’s wearing low-heeled shoes and she’s nicely tanned and… So striking.

She has a wrap in one hand and her phone in the other. I don’t doubt she has anxiety over being away from the restaurant—and at such a critical time, while she’s still in the newly launched phase. Yet I’m assuming she’s assured herself all will be well on that front for the time being because there’s a bit of a bounce to her step and a delicate smile on her face.

God, that face.

If I could somehow latch onto that one elusive element that would convince this woman she belongs here with me forever, I’d be the happiest fucking man on earth.

But I wholly grasp Bailey’s internal push and pull. I’m mired in the precise thing, myself.

I’d give up a kingdom for her. But I can’t.

She’d give up a restaurant and a country for me. But…

For the first time in her life, she’s not standing outside the windows staring in, wishing and hoping and fantasizing she was on the other side.

She is on the other side.

And here’s the biggest roadblock of all.

I could give Bailey anything her heart desired. Anything.

Save for one.

There are protocols, safety concerns, formalities, and a host of other issues that preclude me from doing the one simple thing that could truly bind her to me, that could give her everything she wants—and also keep her here with me.

Buy a building nearby and let her start a new restaurant.

It’s the world’s easiest solution. Without doubt.

But as they say… There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I could allow that. That I’d be allowed to allow that.

In my country, within my heritage, queens are not working women in that respect, not even entrepreneurs.

They’re ambassadors.

That in itself is a huge undertaking. Add to that Bailey being a first-time mom—a hands-on one, without doubt—and we promptly return to square one.

So here’s my dilemma.

I actually can’t give Bailey her heart’s desire.

That not only devastates me, because it’s truly what I want. But it’ll also blow her ship out of the water.

Unless…

Unless everything I show her today, tonight, for however long she agrees to stay, is enough to make her want to stay.