Chapter 51

~ BAILEY ~

Nick snickers at me.

I tell him, “Don’t you dare try to separate me from lobster mac and cheese.”

He carefully unravels us. Grayson assists me into the chair he’s once again pulled out.

I accept the napkin. Even bounce excitedly in my seat, which pleases both men. They’re clearly convinced I’m cured of the seafood curse, whether it was a psychological manifestation, or that the peanut genuinely isn’t into fish.

But the truth is, her mom can’t go long without her fix. So.

To tide me over, there is a prime cut of beef with an aromatic Hollandaise sauce I’m certain Grayson would have added crab legs to if I’d previously expressed my interest in dipping my toes into the water, as it were, this evening. Or he’d have gone straight for Oscar-style.

No matter. I’m instantly famished and reach for the steak knife and a fork, completely bypassing the salad he’s also delivered.

Normally, he does the customary presentation of individual courses, but given the hour and how Nick and I delayed dinner, he astutely concluded that I would require all the food at once.

He’s not wrong.

Though I force myself not to inhale everything set out before me. Nick seems to sense my restraint and chuckles again.

It’s a little difficult to be regal when your appetite spikes over the savoriest of scents.

He lets me get through half the feast before he speaks again.

“There’s a gala I have to attend tomorrow night.”

I swallow my bite. Glance at him. And say, “No worries. Grayson and I can have dinner together. Perhaps even with your father, in his apartment.”

Nick grins. “I heard you visited him.”

“Of course, you did.”

“I’m not tracking your every move.” He smirks at me.

“I didn’t think you were. But I’ll bet dollars to donuts, as my dad would say, that Bodyguard provides you with a daily log.”

“It’s not overly detailed,” Nick assures me. “More like a checklist. ‘Made it safely to work?’ Check. ‘Made it safely home?’ Check.”

I have to laugh. “That’s not even true.”

“Not even.” He enjoys some of his filet, then confides, “I simply need to ensure you’re safe, and I trust—Bodyguard, you call him?—to manage that. However, it was my father who let me know you stopped by. He not only appreciated the company, but he also praised you for taking the initiative.”

“I suppose it would have been easier for me to cower, after our first meeting.” I grab my sparkling water and sip. Then I pin Nick with an intent look and point out the obvious: “That’s not exactly my style, though.”

“It is not.” He leans toward me and clinks his rim against mine. “Duly noted by my father, you should know. And he’d very much relish a repeat performance tomorrow.”

“Already on my itinerary. Which is, um… Not exactly full.”

This is a source of contention for me I can’t reconcile. Again… I have no purpose here.

The nursery is furnished and decorated. Nick’s apartment is so amazingly sensational, I wouldn’t do so much as move a vase from here to there. I can’t manage to catch a break with the time zones to contact Mitch—even now, he’s in the throes of a rousing lunch crowd I can’t take him away from. Grayson and the other attendants manage every household aspect imaginable. And the peanut is, indeed, settled.

Not that I wish for conflict. Certainly not. I’ve had a lifetime of that, thank you very much. Along with the blatant hardships.

I’m just not one to prop up my feet and pop bon-bons all day. I mean… I kind of want to, for once. Perhaps I even feel, just the tiniest bit, that I’ve earned the bon-bons.

But that’s not who I am. That sort of lifestyle would never suit or satisfy me. And that’s why I’ve been antsy to return home, despite being thrilled to be with Nick.

It’s a double-edged sword because, quite earnestly, I don’t want to be antsy.

I want to cling to every single second with Nick.

Subconsciously, I’m probably praying he’ll follow me back to California when I inevitably fly this coop.

I’m not willing to let that vicious cycle of wishful thinking rule me this evening, though.

I do like it here. I’m glad I have the opportunity to see Nick’s universe first-hand. To meet his inner circle. To get familiar with his home and his routine.

Unfortunately, I’m not on a steady keel when he says, “About that gala… I want you to go with me.”

In the not-so-far-recesses of my mind… I hear a fresh can of worms opening.

I set my very delicate, cut-crystal glass aside.

Nick gazes expectantly at me. Clearly, he’s not aware he’s blindsided me. Like, this has become so innate to him, the two of us together, that he’s easily, smoothly progressing us forward. Fulfilling that notion he’s had of us dating.

We’re well beyond dating, of course. We’re having a baby.

But aside from us sleeping together when our crossroads intersect, the fact that I’m becoming familiar with his closest people, and he’s learned all about my past and my present—as well as my future desires—and we’ve developed a comfortable ying-yang scenario… We haven’t actually been out on real dates.

For a moment, I get stuck on what that would involve, honestly. Do royals go to the movies with the masses? Or do they rent out a theatre for a “private” viewing? (Obviously, private is a relative term because security detail would be on-hand.)

In the States, this might not be any sort of quandary where Nick is concerned, because he and his country are not well-known. Yes, there’d still be bodyguards. There are always bodyguards.

In his nation, however… The man likely has a fandom and that no doubt includes plenty of women vying for his attention. He probably gets swarmed like a celebrity when he’s out and about, when he has dinner at a restaurant or wants to take a walk in the park. Though… Okay, if he wants a walk in the park, he has the palace grounds for that. There’s also a theatre room here, come to think of it. And with a multitude of formal and informal dining rooms and alcoves to choose from, there’s not a pressing call to visit a restaurant.

I hold a half-snort in check. I can easily chase my tail on this one. I have no true concept of his life in a public forum. He’s presenting the opportunity for me to glean yet another aspect of his existence, and I’m not opposed to the offer, the invitation to join him at a gala.

Again, it’s the idea of us never really having been on a date, on a true outing, that trips me up.

I’d be delighted to be on his arm, no lie there. Who wouldn’t? But perception is a tricky beast and so I surmise that if I didn’t have the notable baby bump, I wouldn’t already be feeling self-conscious over something I haven’t even agreed to yet.

And while it’s nobody’s business that he has a surrogate—or that he’s dating his surrogate—it pretty much is everybody’s business. Given his status.

A public “unveiling” unnerves me. As does the prospect of all the associated scrutiny. Regardless of whether my contractual obligation to Nick is widely known or if it is only a confidence amongst his inner circle within palace walls, a king shouldn’t date just anyone. And I’ve certainly not been groomed for the royal life.

I do, however, own a now-successful restaurant. One I’m incredibly proud of—and Nick is too. Thus, I sit a little straighter in my chair and lift my chin a notch. Also because this particular king finds me to be more than acceptable—and his father even seemed to enjoy my company earlier. So that’s not precisely the insecurity I’m falling prey to.

It’s a different kind of perception that I’m considering. If Nick parades me around a gala, there will be plenty of speculation as to who I am. Not just in general, but who I am to him.

Which does beg the question, and requires a full reconciliation, of what this is and what this isn’t.

Interestingly, I can tally a hell of a lot of tick marks in the what this is column and I will not gloss over them.

I relish every single one of those coveted tick marks.

The problem is that the what this isn’t column holds a few hefty items that can’t be overlooked or decimated with the snap of a finger—or by a Cinderella wish or two.

The curious thing about the latter is that, if I had more purpose here, I might have cause to stay.

Conversely, maybe my cause ought to be him.

My hand covers my mouth, so I don’t inadvertently and prematurely blurt anything, as I’d done previously, regarding the most logical place for our baby to reside.

I tap a fingertip against my lips while I let this revelation simmer in my brain.

Two warring notions immediately spring to mind.

I spent the better part of my teenage years hustling between school and odd jobs, helping to pay expenses, and caring for my dad. Then I’d worked my ass off in college to graduate with honors. Yes, I’d had offers to manage some great restaurants. But here’s the thing… They weren’t in California. They weren’t on the water. They weren’t everything I’d envied while growing up in San Francisco. A part of my soul needed to assuage and vindicate that ache of staring through so many windows.

On the flipside, everything I potentially might have with Nick exceeds all that I’d envied—to the nth degree.

The proverbial fencepost here is that I must have worth and value. My own aspirations and goals.

I’ve mulled this over a million times, yes. But when your life is sort of dangling by a thread, you can’t make quick, impulsive decisions. Especially when there’s a child involved.

I have to be methodical, analytical. So meticulous that I evaluate each angle presented. That’s what throws me off kilter the most. And quite consistently.

Nick, of course, is in complete control of his own mental faculties.

He grins. There’s a spark in his eyes that hints at his confidence I’ll follow his lead on this dating “thing.” In fact, his expression is encouraging. A touch goading. Like this is a challenge and he’s sure I will rise to the occasion.

Unfortunately, my stomach takes a tumble over my uncertainty and it’s only the scent of the most indulgent lobster mac and cheese, which Grayson delivers, that settles me.

“This smells divine,” I tell him. And instantly dig in.

Nick chuckles under his breath. Whether it’s due to my insatiable appetite and never-ending need for seafood, or if it’s because I’ve found a reprieve from his invitation, I don’t know. 

He accepts a refill of wine and sips while I devour. Midway through the ceramic ramekin, I sit back and assess how the food is working for the previously finicky kid inside me.

No qualms. That’s a huge relief.

So I return to the richest, creamiest texture I’ve ever tasted with this particular dish and decide this is another Grayson creation that’s going on the menu at Bailey’s Clambake.

Damn it.

I cannot disassociate myself from my lifelong dream.

I further understand that I can’t leave Nick hanging for too long.

So I reach for my sparkling water once again and take a deep drink. Then I say, “I’m not exactly primped and prepped for a gala.”

“We have a spa and salon onsite. Naturally, I’ll have stylists and a team of masseurs sent up to the apartment.”

Hmm. Naturally.

Excuse #1 for avoiding this affair is instantly tossed out the window.

Though, I have #2 already locked and loaded. I remind him, “I don’t have a dress.”

And I can’t wear my nightgown, no matter how sensational it is.

Wholly undeterred, he merely quirks a brow and tells me, “Claire will have a dozen of them delivered while you’re getting a massage and facial. Or whatever treatments you prefer.”

I cringe. “Nick. Off-the-rack won’t be appropriate for—”

“They won’t be off-the-rack, trust me. I have designers on staff, Bailey. They have one-of-a-kinds crafted for this specific situation, when there are guests at the palace who can fortuitously, though unexpectedly, attend an event or dinner or other social engagement at the last minute and they didn’t bring along the necessary attire.”

Now, it’s my brow that raises.

He chuckles. “Not girlfriends, Bailey. Dignitaries and influencers and my rocket scientist think-tank people, male and female, who come for meetings, but then I invite them to whatever has popped up on my calendar. You won’t be wearing anything recycled, I assure you. And seamstresses will tailor your unique selection to perfection.”

I don’t doubt this. Not for a second.

Now I do have to laugh. It’s soft, though not fragile. Tentative, yes. Also tinged with joy.

For all my fears and hesitations… I can’t help but fall under the glittery spell.

I smile as my stomach flutters. And I tell Nick, “I’d love to accompany you to your gala. Thank you for asking me.”