Chapter 52

~ BAILEY ~

I’m trying to breathe, but the gown I’m being fitted for doesn’t allow much opportunity for that. Time is of the essence today and I feel as though my entire existence is moving at the speed of light. Claire has taken over my schedule and there’s barely time to pee. Though, you know… I’m pregnant, so I must insist she build in potty breaks to avoid any sort of accident.

And I won’t let her nix my daily reading with Antonio from my calendar. Unfortunately, it will be later in the morning and that will provide ample time, I’m sure, for word to reach him that I’m attending a gala with His Highness.

Oh, that phrase completely curls my toes, when I actually know better—I shouldn’t let it curl my toes. Or send a rush of exhilaration through my veins. For the hour that I’ve been standing on a platform surrounded by full-length mirrors while two women work simultaneously to nip and tuck, and another one continually holds up shoes for inspection and then puts them against the dress and then discards them, quite systemically, as yet another assesses complementary jewelry, I’ve vacillated between being excited as hell about this social engagement and being nervous as fuck.

This is all very formal and thorough. There’s even a meeting with the Protocol Director who will explain all manner of etiquette-y things to me that, God willing, assure I don’t stick my foot in my mouth, trip all over myself… Or otherwise make a fool of the king.

More so than the spit and shine I’ll be receiving from the spa and the salon reps, enough to rival Dorothy’s makeover before meeting with the Great and Powerful Oz, I’m going to have so much info drilled into my brain that I pray I retain at least half of it. The really important half. That’s kind of a joke because I have no doubt it’s all important.

I’m sort of regretting having agreed to all of this. I mean, it’s soooo much. Beyond that, I really am terrified I’m going to slip up and—horror of horrors—swear out loud when I do. À la, Natalie in Love Actually when she meets her Prime Minister. Or I won’t be able to curtsy properly in the dress. Though, I haven’t yet been informed whether that’s appropriate for the king’s date or not… Who the fuck knows? Not to mention, I’m not even versed on a proper curtsy, so.

I block visions of Julia Roberts’ character in My Best Friend’s Wedding splitting a seam in that lovely lavender, maid-of-honor gown. And fight a wince.

Additionally, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do if someone outright addresses the baby bump/surrogate issue. And what if—oh, holy hell—Nick leaves me in order for him to discuss a private matter with someone else and people actually talk to me???

I seriously can’t breathe. This time, it has nothing to do with the dress.

“Claire.” I very discreetly nab her attention as she’s perched all ladylike in a straight-back chair from, oh, I’d say the sixteenth century. Really, that’s the only ancient furniture style I’m familiar with, so it’s become my go-to reference here at the palace.

She hops-to, on full alert. She stuffs her phone in the pocket of her highly fashionable jumpsuit and says, “Ladies, let’s take leave for a few minutes. Give ourselves a rest.”

I’m hoping the “ladies” are relieved because their fingers must be cramping. But they’re likely annoyed because they want to get the job done, sooner rather than later. And given this is their profession, I doubt they’re anywhere near the finger-cramping stage.

Regardless, they very graciously scurry away. Like mice.

Ugh.

Tremors shoot down my legs, totally of the nervous-anxiety variety, so that I have to step off the platform and head right to the settee to collapse into it.

“No!” Claire calls out.

I freeze in place, my heart launching into my throat.

“You’ll rip the seams,” she’s quick to say. “That’s only temporary stitching.”

Aha! So I had the Julia Roberts’ connection appropriately pegged this time.

I’m suddenly becoming a walking catastrophe.

“Do you need the facilities?” Claire politely asks.

“Not for what you might think…” I mumble. Because I feel really close to hurling.

“Let me get you out of the gown and you can sit for a while.”

She has a robe and slippers for me. They’re what I’ve been wearing to the bathroom when the urge strikes.

I let her carefully free me from all the strategic gathering of material here and there, which doesn’t fully conceal my “condition,” yet certainly enhances my overall figure. Including the swollen breasts. Good Lord, how they’ve recently plumped up. Admittedly, I’m kind of enamored by them. I’m not the only one, but I really can’t afford to get lost in thought of the devotion Nick pays to my body parts. All my body parts.

Now I’m needing to fan my flushed face.

Claire actually snaps her fingers and someone appears whom she can instruct to adjust the air conditioning for me.

It’s not exactly hot in here. The country, as a whole, has a mild climate. But I can’t deny, I’m a little stifled. Also so easily turned on by thoughts of Nick. Jesus, the man’s affection—and his talents between the sheets—knows no bounds.

This is the most improper time to be considering all of the above. However, I’ve caught glimpses of myself in the multitude of three-way mirrors and I gotta say, I could put some regency romance, bosom-heaving covers to shame. Thus, Nick is going to be hugely in favor of the neckline and all the creamy cleavage on display.

Best I don’t get dressed until we’re ready to head out the door… Or we’ll never make it out of his suite.

I giggle over how easily I entice him—and how well I know him.

“What’s so humorous?” Claire asks, appearing sufficiently comforted I’m no longer stiff as a board or still in obvious panic mode.

I tell her, “Just thinking that Nick would have selected this gown when presented with all the options I was, earlier.”

“You really did home in on this one.”

“The color attracted me the most,” I confess. “Nick likes me in blue.”

This particular material is sparkly and an icy hue. The lighter shade makes my eyes pop. All the glitz and glamour are a bit mind boggling, but so enticing. There is the perfect draping along my midsection that is secured with a diamond-encrusted broach at the waist, on the left side. This cascades to a slit that starts a good three inches above mid-thigh. A wee scandalous, to be sure. The skirt is slim and boasts a slight train, so the hem pools around my feet.

The bodice is tight, with a moderate dip between my breasts that further serves to accentuate them. The long sleeves are off the shoulder and all lace, with a similar glittery effect as the rest of the dress. They V in the middle of the backs of my hands and a thin loop around my thumbs keeps them in place.

Perhaps what I’m really having heart palpitations over is that this would be the ultimate wedding gown for me. The true princess gown.

It is absolutely sensational.

And to be honest, with my tunnel vision, it’s the only one I saw.

The dress racks had been rolled in and my gaze had instantly caught the flicker of shimmering brilliance and that stunning shade of pale-blue and, really… Everything about it had instantly clicked in my mind and I hadn’t even bothered surveying the rest of the bounty.

This is the dress for me.

Nick will feel the same. The only thing he’d change would be the elongated, diamond broach. Naturally, he’d want it to be the family insignia, like the one on my nightgown. That branding he’d so smoothly introduced to me.

For a brief moment, I wonder if it’s possible to remove the spectacular broach from the nightie and swap it out with this one. But there’s a whole lot of tick-tock going on in my brain. Also I can see the slight vibration through Claire’s toes—in her peek-a-boo shoes—that indicate she’s refraining from tapping them to get me moving in the right direction again.

I neither want to cause a delay, nor stall myself out further.

Besides, wearing that crest on my dress tonight might send the wrong message to everyone in attendance. I don’t need the extra stress or pressure.

So I simply say, “I’m ready for the next round of alterations.”

She’s pleased and hands me a crystal flute with sparkling water in it. I only take a sip, lubricating my extremely dry mouth. Anymore, and we’ll be breaking in another ten minutes for a trip to the restroom.

She gets me back into the gown and I return to the platform. The meticulous modifications ensue.

This time, instead of obsessing over all I might screw up, I focus solely on what Nick’s reaction is going to be when he sees me.

I recall how blown away he’d been when I slipped into the nightgown he’d had made for me. To this day, I cherish that look on his face and the heat in his eyes.

I have a feeling I might not only incite it again… But exceed it.

So now my thoughts very happily drift from the gala ahead to the evening beyond.

Claire snickers. And murmurs, “The cat is eating the canary.”

“You and your sayings,” I playfully retort.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Bailey Storm.” She smirks and winks at the same time. Then adds, “Someday, perhaps I’ll get the juicy details.”

“Not a chance. He’s your boss.”

“Oh, yes… Right.” Now she frowns. Sighs. And tells me, “Keep your secrets. And that smile on your face.”

Impossible not to because I realize Nick would not have invited me along if he didn’t want me on his arm.

So when the Protocol Director arrives to start her endless lesson, which goes well past the fitting and my mani-pedi and my body polish and my hair styling and makeup (exhausted, much?), I’m actually still smiling.

I can do this, I promise myself.

Not just for me and an evening of grandeur.

But for Nick.

Though…

Man alive, I’ve forgotten one extremely crucial piece to tonight’s puzzle.

Yes, I’m buffed and attired and glossed to high heaven. But I’ve been so obsessed over how I look, how I might appear to Nick and the entire gala audience, that I’ve missed a critical point: That being how Nick is going to look tonight.

As I step into the very formal salon in his apartment and he turns to face me, I literally stop dead in my tracks. And gape.

Nick in a designer suit, Nick in a button-down shirt that’s fully open with the sleeves rolled up his sinewed forearms, Nick completely naked… All fabulous! As in, I really can’t get enough of him in those scenarios.

However, this is the first time I’ve seen him in a tux, in person (because you know I’ve stalked him online). Let me just say…

Oh, I have nothing to say—my mind temporarily goes blank.

I suck in a sharp slice of air. And just… Die a million tiny deaths of lust and longing.

The man is… Oh. My. God. The man is…

I’ve lost my train of thought again.

I’ve lost all thought.

I just sort of stand there and… Melt.

I suspect he has no clue as to how completely and utterly riveted I am, because he’s staring back at me as though words have failed him as well.

The suddenly intense and astonished look in his eyes causes prickly tears at the backs of mine.

He opens his mouth to speak. Not a peep comes out.

His jaw works, like he’s also trying really hard to say something—anything. But, similar to me, he’s stuck in a moment of pure adoration.

One corner of his mouth twitches, like he just might grin. Apparently, he can’t be bothered with the effort. He’s too entranced.

As am I.

Talk about a mesmeric force. Jesus. The man is chiseled from head to toe, and no tux can hide that fact. His mountainous shoulders are broad and add to his overwhelmingly commanding presence. His clothing is immaculately tailored. Hell, even his powerful thighs are perfectly encased, so that despite the adequate give of material, he appears regal and lethal at the same time.

A tickle along my clit confirms I like these connotations.

Christ, just standing here staring at him is dampening the crotch of my lingerie. And without doubt, the gown is what has grabbed him by the tail and won’t let go.

More specifically, me in the gown.

Sure enough, he raises his hands in the air, gestures toward me, seemingly encompassing my entire presence. Then he shrugs, his hands drop to his sides, and he gives a shake of his head. His jaw is still moving as though he’s a fish attempting to expel a hook. Unsuccessfully.

I’d snicker, but I’m too busy wilting into oblivion. The expression on his face is fantastically priceless. And a million percent heartwarming and stirring and… Downright lascivious. All at once.

Only Nick Angelini can achieve this mix of sweet and sexy.

I want to walk into his arms. Oh, Lord, do I.

But I’m literally coiffed and polished to within an inch of my life and even the tiniest smudge will not do.

He knows this. Precisely why he hasn’t moved from his spot a good five or six feet away from me. The very reason he’s devouring me with his eyes, not his mouth or his hands.

There is a strange voice deep in my core that screams, “Please devour me!”

I think it’s come from my soul.

I gasp.

Holy cow, this is the ultimate in torture. He’s beyond sensational and all I really want is for him to free me from this gorgeous garment and take me straight to bed. Like, the desire is so amazingly vehement, the request—the demand—would fly from my parted lips if only I could find my voice.

I’m thoroughly captivated. He is too. But there are instructions and strict issuances clogging my brain to the degree that I can’t ignore them. I’ve been guided all day and the overarching theme is that I can admire from afar, but I can’t touch.

I mean, you know… Not the kind of touching I crave to do when I’m with Nick.

We’re to demonstrate the utmost in polite-society, good-grace behavior this evening. Starting this very second.

My stomach twists.

Protocol is an absolute bitch and I hate her. (Not the woman who delivered the protocol, of course, but the concept.)

Nick is gazing at me as though he’s never seen anything like me, and the fiery vibes are sending wave upon wave of heat through my veins and making my inner thighs quiver. Hell, there’s even a pull in my womb that’s almost an urgent cry for me to be closer to him—to be in his strong embrace.

For him to be rendered speechless—him!—only adds fuel to the fire.

This is the ultimate in temptation.

And I’m wondering which one of us will be the first to cave to it.