Chapter 4

Trying to concentrate on work for the rest of my shift is next to impossible.

For once in my career at the woefully named Crescent Cove Crab Shack, I’m grateful for the lack of activity.

However, despite not having a huge amount of work to do, my brain is whirling at lightning speed over all the things I’ve been dying to change about this place—and the fact that I could, potentially, make those changes.

If I make one very significant change in my life.

For nine whole months.

It seems like a really long time. A small eternity.

And there are plenty of sacrifices I’ll have to make.

No more Sunday brunch mimosas at the dive around the corner from my bungalow or end-of-the-evening Sangiovese. No more margaritas with my Tuesday tacos.

No more…

Hmm.

I falter here, my mind suddenly coming to a standstill.

Okay, admittedly, I wouldn’t be sacrificing much more than my favorite alcoholic beverages if I were suddenly “with child.”

It’s not like I have a physically demanding job at present. The goal is to modify that with a remodel and more customers, but currently… I work at a very moderate pace. Which is slowly killing me—and, in fact, having me on the cusp of jamming a fork through my own temple.

Also, it’s not as though I have a boyfriend, or even a prospective one. I’m here six days a week.

Missing out on dates and sex during a pregnancy is not a hardship I can claim. I don’t date. I don’t have sex.

Now I’m monstrously depressed.

As in… The best thing I have going for me is the possibility of being a safe deposit box for some stranger’s sperm and then handing over the goods when he comes to collect.

Good Lord.

I’ve seriously got to get a life.

And that’s what brings me around to fantasizing about all the things I could do to resurrect this place.

I’ve seen pictures from years past, and it was once a swinging hotspot with parties on the deck and beach, gals in pedal-pusher pants and guys in Cuban-collared shirts, back when it opened in the 1950s. The styles morphed into the trends du decade, but the clambake, surf’s up, dancing to the house band atmosphere didn’t wane.

Then the fancy, upscale yacht club got built and, with it… An all-new, gleaming, multi-armed redwood pier sprang up and bam! When the decadent ‘80s rolled in, the fun and funky Crab Shack that Elvis, himself, had once twisted at began to fade into near-nonexistence, because it couldn’t compete. And no owner in its long-suffering history had felt compelled to alter its fate.

However… This girl could.

But the restaurant isn’t the only thing I’m fantasizing about as I go through closing tasks and reconcile tickets, cash, and credit card receipts.

I’m having a hell of a time blocking out thoughts of Nick Angelini. Scandalous thoughts of Nick Angelini, to be exact.

It’s not only his shimmering irises, his sculpted face and his sexy smile that has me obsessed. No… It’s also all those rock-hard muscles that even an expensive, tailored designer suit can’t conceal.

He’s a powerhouse of a man, in more ways than one.

Not just because he’s royalty and apparently rich as sin—yes, all my due diligence during my break revealed precisely what I’d suspected. Unless the man can control and manipulate the Internet (I mean, it can happen), he’s legit.

And that makes me kind of screwed because now… I can’t dismiss his proposal.

I also can’t do anything more than grind over it, given that I’m still unaware of his conditions.

So, thank God, my evening here finally comes to a close.

A man looking like a chauffeur for the Rockefellers appears in the foyer. Along with two bodyguards.

My guess is the latter aren’t here for the driver’s protection but, rather, for the potential “safe deposit box.”

I greet them with my purse in hand. All I need to do is set the alarm and lock the door behind me.

Then we can see what’s what.

Except, I find myself vainly asking the chauffeur, “Would it be all right if we stopped at my house so I can change my clothes?”

Given I have no life other than work, I arrive in my uniform, and I leave in my uniform.

He politely—though apologetically—informs me, “Mr. Angelini asked that I bring you directly to him.”

Asked.

Not instructed or demanded or even requested.

Asked.

So civilized. Respectful.

I’m liking Nick more and more.

And, yes, I know that’s wrong on so many levels.

But I can’t help it.

The driver, who has—incidentally—introduced himself as Matthew, further tells me, “Mr. Angelini is looking forward to seeing you, Miss Storm.”

Regardless of Matthew’s congeniality, he’s quite formal. I’m not surprised, provided his normal clientele is likely multimillion-dollar yacht owners, elite residents, and affluent vacationers.

I have no choice but to follow the plan as prescribed.

I secure the entrance and Matthew leads me to a sleek, shiny silver Jaguar limo, glistening in the moonlight. He opens the door and I climb in.

Bodyguard #1 from previously in the evening leans in and asks me, “Are you all right with me riding in the back with you, Miss Storm? It’s protocol; however, Mr. Angelini does not want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’ll allow for the protocol,” I tell him, appreciative that he at least asked. While suspecting, he was climbing in here with me no matter what my answer was.

Protocol was protocol, after all.

This did throw an interesting curveball my way.

Could carrying a royal heir be dangerous to my health in ways I’d not yet considered?

I should deliberate over this for at least, oh, I don’t know… A minute? Possibly two?

I don’t.

I am, instead, whipping out the small cosmetics compact from my purse and touching up my makeup and lip gloss, then running my fingers through my beachy blonde curls I’ve released from the ponytail, fluffing them, all in an effort to hopefully look somewhat presentable.

I don’t want to know if my hair or my skin smells like pastrami, but then again… I do.

I frown.

I don’t have any sort of travel perfume tucked away to spritz and I can’t exactly ask Bodyguard #1 if he detects today’s lunch special on me.

Well, I suppose I could, given Bodyguard #2 is in the front with the driver and the privacy window is up.

But what if Nick is the type to follow-up with his employee on whatever conversation we had on our way to… Wherever the hell we’re going.

I gasp.

Then I cringe.

My brows knit together.

Oh, my God. I’ve just gotten into a vehicle not even knowing where we’re going!

What is wrong with me?

What is happening to me?

Am I so massively swept away by this Spanish/French/Swiss/Italian Prince Charming hybrid that I’m just allowing his pumpkin carriage to cart me off to the destination of his choosing?

I snap my compact closed.

Stare at Bodyguard #1.

And mentally concede…

Yes. Apparently, I fucking am.

We arrive at an estate that is surrounded by a tall, wrought-iron fence with a ginormous gate at the entrance, which is manned by an actual guard who does not bother to conceal his weapon. It’s a pistol at his hip that I can see because his suit jacket is hanging open. Though, otherwise, he’s as sharply attired as everyone else I’ve encountered from this entourage. I surmise Nick Angelini and his people could single-handedly keep Armani in business.

The well-lit driveway is a long, straight one that’s lined by palm trees and vibrant-fuchsia, neatly trimmed bougainvillea, the visual one I’d conjured frequently while growing up in a dreary inner city framed by skyscrapers. I’d dreamed of sunny, spectacular southern California days with the ocean sprawled before me.

Hence the reason I’d moved here, despite the fact I can barely afford even the modest studio I recently “upgraded” to after my first rental was condemned—at the time I was about to sign an extended lease with that particular landlord.

So this current experience I’m having is significantly more than just a “step up” for me. In my world, this temporary abode of Nick Angelini’s is a palace in its own right.

There’s even a fancy porte-cochere, featuring a sensational chandelier in the center of the ceiling, like you’d see at ritzy hotels—and the yacht club. A valet instantly appears and offers his hand, to assist me out of the vehicle. He’s wearing pewter-colored tails and I’m feeling very much like Alice on an acid trip as he politely greets me by saying, “Good evening, Miss Storm. Mr. Angelini is expecting you.”

I’d feel awkward as hell if he wasn’t. Of course, I don’t mention this. I keep my reply to a simple and congenial, “Thank you.”

He smiles graciously and I’m now sort of anticipating a glass of sparkling wine to materialize from thin air that he offers to me. Rather, he escorts me up the steps to the porch that is complemented by large, exotic-looking potted plants and double-glass doors trimmed with a deep, gleaming shade of wood.

I can already see there’s another breathtaking chandelier in the foyer, hanging over an enormous, round table with a presumably fragrant arrangement sitting in the center of it.

I’m welcomed in by the butler, in black tails.

And this man does have my bubbly.

He tells me, “I’m Grayson, Miss Storm. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Would you like champagne?”

I’m not accustomed to the formality, the pomp and circumstance. Obviously. Yet I never refuse champagne, especially when it comes in a fine, crystal-cut flute.

“That would be lovely. Thank you.” I stand a little straighter, hitch my chin, and square my shoulders.

While my attire clearly screams “commoner,” I’m doing my best not to act like Dorothy visiting the stunning Emerald City for the very first time.

Grayson collects the silver tray from one of the side tables in the huge entryway and holds it toward me so I can lift the glass.

I sip and discern a particular brand that I mention. And add, “1995?”

“’91,” he amiably corrects, humoring me. Because he’s unaware I actually do possess the knowledge and training to nail brands.

Vintages are infinitely trickier, of course. But when you minored in champagne and received an honorary degree in the classic, traditional art of manual remuage, which is a form of tending to the development and care of the champagne once it’s been bottled, you recognize the subtleties to dissect and analyze. You also learn how to riddle bottles so that as they rest in racks by the neck at a forty-five-degree angle, you know the proper timing for turning them to ensure the sediment doesn’t collect in a single spot and you expertly manage it without clouding the liquid.

Grayson directs me—by way of a grand, sweeping hand gesture—out of the foyer and up the polished-wood steps and along a wide hallway that has, on the left side, an oversized, sliding frosted door with a two-foot-long brushed nickel, vertical handle. A bathroom, I figure.

We pass a large, windowed niche on the right, with a black grand piano and elegant, though comfortable-looking seating for a small, captive audience. Across from this alcove are French patio doors that lead to a pool and spa.

We continue and I’m grateful Grayson doesn’t feel compelled to announce all of the features to me, as if I couldn’t ascertain the opulence for myself. The double doors to a formal dining room just past the pool are opened and I glance in, only to have to bite back a gasp at the vastness, the table that seats fourteen, the fireplace, and the striking silvery-lavender silk drapes and shimmery silver sheers adorning the tall windows and another set of French doors to the pool and outdoor kitchen that could be used just about any night of the year in this region.

We take three steps down and are faced with a living room that looks out on a deep deck and the ocean beyond.

My heart nearly stops.

I’ve lost complete interest in everything else in this house; the view is to die for.

I’m literally a magnet to steel, moving ahead of Grayson, skirting the long sofa with the attached chaise lounger on one side and stepping in front of the ten-plus-foot-tall doors with solid glass panes, framed by wood, but unhindered by the divided panels that French doors boast.

Though I suppose that doesn’t matter at present, because they’re the sliding pocket style that leave the space unencumbered and lets in the sound of the waves rolling onto the shore and the scent of brine wafting in on a balmy breeze, to mix with the heavenly scent of whatever it is the chef is cooking up.

Lobster, my trusty olfactory sense tells me.

The open kitchen is to my left, and I turn to find a stately island, what appears to be miles of counter space and one Nick Angelini tending to sauce and frying pans on the six-burner stove.

His back is to me and my gaze locks on his impossibly broad shoulders and all the muscles that are straining against the black material of his dress shirt.

My mouth instantly waters—and it’s not from the food.

The man is an even more spectacular vision than the ocean.

It’s truly a wonder I don’t drop my glass.

Grayson discreetly clears his throat to alert an engrossed Nick of our presence.

He tosses a seductive glance over one shoulder and grins. “Hi, there. Come join me. Let’s make sure the lobster bisque suits your palate.”

I am rendered speechless.

The man is tempting as hell, is whipping up a sinfully delicious feast, and has a voice that is like the richest, smoothest cognac imaginable. It warms my insides and sparks a dull, greedy ache between my legs. Which tremble ever so slightly, so that I can’t do his bidding.

I’m standing in the opening to the deck, surrounded by the most perfect forms of decadence and self-indulgence.

And all I can think is…

I want this man.

Desperately.

How big of a problem does that pose?

The objective here is to potentially host his child in my womb.

Not fall in love with the man or his ocean view.

Yet… I’m already cresting the danger zone.