Chapter 54

~ BAILEY ~

Of course, I’m blown away. How can I not be?

Sure, I’ve been made fully aware, at every turn, this is to be a formal event, and so I did have it in my head that no expense would be spared. However, that’s actually a vague phrase. While it’s true I can come up with some impressive dining and décor scenarios, and even went a little over-the-top with Bailey’s Clambake, I have not been sufficiently exposed to the word “excessive” in such a concentrated manner.

Granted, the palace fits the term. Certainly. Though, it’s incredibly vast and spread out and not something that you take in all at once. Like, seriously, I can only process its grandeur in bits and bites.

This gala, however, is in my face.

There are chandeliers so beautiful, I want to weep. The one in the center of the room, hanging in the domed ceiling, is so huge, so stunning, I just can’t even… Fathom it.

Coming from the gilt edges, which I have no doubt are twenty-four-karat gold (as is every fixture, I’m sure), are shimmery ecru-colored sheers that overlap and crisscross in an intricate manner and drape like they’re billowing in a gentle breeze and sweep outward toward the walls, where they are masterfully attached with extraordinarily crafted plumes of more sheers… And more gold. They are further accented with glowing pendent lighting dripping crystals. Or diamonds. Whatever.

The sheers are then interspersed with the wall décor in rich blue and gleaming wood paneling and tall, freestanding floral bouquets that look as though they were painstakingly arranged for Greek gods.

The hardwood floor is polished to a sheen above reproach, and I am quite certain there was a crew in here earlier that scrutinized every single inch to ensure even the tiniest of scuffs and scratches were buffed out. The round tables are all fine silk, centerpieces, and candles— everything glitters and gleams. Twinkles and tantalizes.

It is hands-down, a hall fit for a king.

And now I can’t breathe again.

I’m taking mental snapshots, but there’s no way in hell I will be able to recall every glorious detail. Honestly, it’s all too much.

And yet I am thoroughly entranced.

As Nick and I enter, anyone who is sitting, instantly stands. Anyone who is speaking, instantly stops. Anyone who is shoveling an overly decadent, icing-topped appetizer cake into their mouth is… Well, they’re fucked. Even chewing and swallowing ceases.

Smiles ensue for those without anything in their mouths. Eyelashes bat. Bosoms thrust forth. Conversely—and I kid you not—the majority of the men in the cavernous hall suck in their guts as they square their shoulders. Even the fit ones. It’s not because they’re soldiers being inspected by their general. It’s not just because Nick is the king.

It is because Nick is drop-dead gorgeous and chiseled to perfection. And, Jesus… Nick is apparently a rock star.

We pause at the long, deep, wood-and-sapphire-marble-inlaid landing, with stairs leading down to the opulent room. He’s announced. As am I.

Miss Bailey Storm.

I am thrilled to high heaven that I’m not called Mistress Storm.

I don’t know, that just sounds tragically devastating on so many levels, doesn’t it?

I smile, precisely as I was coached. A brilliant smile, I hope. Not a shaky or a terrified one. I try really hard to make it the fantastic beam I’d mastered earlier, despite how it hurts my cheeks.

I’m also to wave, in silent greeting. Slowly and gracefully—elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist—similar to a beauty queen on a parade float.

I’m lacking the sash that declares, “KING’S DATE,” but hell, it’s easily implied. Nor do I have a jeweled tiara nestled in my fancy updo or a bedazzled scepter resting in the crook of my free arm. (And said “free” arm is still linked with Nick’s, so…) Yet I do have an amazingly sparkly gown—and it’s not just Nick who’s mesmerizing this crowd.

I was told to make as much eye contact as I possibly could, to not only humanize myself (as if that’s an issue??! evidently, it is), but to also project confidence and establish my station.

Yeah, that’s a struggle.

I’m the knocked-up surrogate who is now His Highness’ girlfriend.

Though, Protocol Director has drilled it into my brain that that is not a classification I shall dwell upon, henceforth.

Yes, she said, shall and dwell upon, all regal like.

Chances are good, she was praying to those Greek gods that I’d soak up her eloquence via osmosis.

I haven’t, but I’m doing my best. Not speaking is helpful. And I don’t have to, really.

As opposed to the screaming audience outside, which I believe rivaled the very best of the star-studded awards ceremonies in L.A.—not to mention every concert on the planet—the sea of people we are currently momentously “addressing” are well-composed. Though there is an air of anticipation I innately detect. Perhaps I sense it so poignantly because it’s also coursing through my veins.

I have no idea what to expect or how this is going to play out, regardless of all the “prep-work” I’ve gone through.

All I know is that I am committed to doing everything I possibly can to be worthy of this dress, this moment, this man. And these people.

That’s the catch. One I feel in my throat. One that stings the backs of my eyes.

I know how proud Nick is of his heritage and his family and his country. And I’ve listened to all the stories he’s told me about ingenious concepts, theories, inventions, and innovations coming from this melting pot of his. Truthfully, I sort of want to bask in their glory. Hear them enthuse about this or that. Watch Nick’s reaction to it all.

Just thinking of this brings on a different smile. It’s not the practiced to the ends of the earth one. No, this one is more natural and, I suspect, more radiant, because I’m no longer wrapped up in the confines of protocol and fear that makes me so stiff, I might crack.

I’m done waving. I’m doing the eye contact thing. Nick’s head inclines toward mine and he whispers, “You’re quite enthralling.”

“It’s all the bling.” I’m decked out.

He chuckles. And says, “No…” Then he winks.

I force myself not to melt. Too much.

On cue, we descend the stairs. I let him lead me. We make the rounds, which turns out to be as mentally stimulating as I’d presumed it’d be—and I’m fascinated.

It’s also a deeper dive into Nick Angelini. I absorb the conversations, earnestly interested in them. They are thoughtful, insightful…and highly animated.

Nick has clearly set some sort of precedence that assures his constituency he’s open to any and all ideas and enjoys hearing them.

Throughout all of this, I’m offered sparkling water from fresh, sealed bottles that my regular shadow opens and pours for me, as a precautionary measure I also shall not dwell upon.

My other arm remains twined with Nick’s. His gaze slides to me a little too often and I must crook a brow to get him back on track. Inwardly, I’m elated.

It’s sometime before we reach the head table, which is on an elevated platform off to the side and close to the stage. A long table that’s set for twelve. We’re situated in the middle and others greet us as they take their places on either side of us.

Because the king has been seated, everyone else in the room immediately follows suit. There is a gracious welcome speech by the evening’s emcee as wine and champagne are served, as well as a trio of delectable hors d’oeuvres, elegantly presented on bone china that has a sapphire-and-gold, scrolled trim along the edges. After I’ve had a few small bites of the richest, creamiest crab lasagna known to mankind, I start to see the makings of Nick’s family crest in the center of the plate.

So much of this is surreal.

And yet… The man sitting next to me is one-thousand percent real.

My stomach flutters and my heart swells.

Because he’s mine.

For now.

~ * * * ~

The dinner is outstanding. Of course, it is.

I’m even more mesmerized during dessert, when the emcee takes the stage to recognize honorees who have recently won this award or that. Impressive-sounding accolades, many of which go completely over my head, though I grasp they’re important and I clap enthusiastically, when appropriate.

Following this, there’s more mingling. Beautifully attired women gush over my gown. I would fully accredit this to the fact that I’m with the king and they’re making a friendly showing for his benefit, but the gown truly is worth the compliments.

Also, I note that Nick is particularly protective of me, not really allowing anyone to get too close, keeping me tucked against his side, with my arm linked around his once more. He literally radiates a territorial air beneath his majestic presence that screams back off without saying a word. I sense an underlying conflict with this—he’s extremely congenial and I believe he wants to make himself appear approachable. It’s no easy feat, though, when I’m with him—as well as his unborn baby.

Making me “public” comes with inherent risks. Which is why I do everything I’ve been trained to do.

The evening continues on in a smooth manner, with us being greeted by more people and Nick explaining pertinent details to me so I can keep up with the discussions.

Then… Oh, then…

There’s dancing.

A sixteen-piece orchestra strikes up a lively tune and guests instantly migrate to the designated dance floor laid out before the band.

Under more glittery chandeliers, Nick sweeps me into his arms.

Naturally, I’ve been tutored on the formality of this. We are not cozied up together. Rather, we have a locked frame with a polite eight or so inches between us as we perform a simple box step, which Nick commandingly leads. I focus on channeling as much grace as I possibly can into my form and my feet. Miraculously, I manage to not step on his toes.

Equally mystifying is that, regardless of the numerous eyes on us, and the fact that we aren’t pressed up against each other the way we both prefer, Nick’s smoldering gaze and slight grin have me absolutely riveted. I’d swear there was no one else in this cavernous hall but the two of us.

One song segues into another, then another. But at the end of that, Nick lowers his arms (thus, mine), and guides me to what can only be described as a refreshment stand. Well, it’s an entire, regally designed station, to be more accurate. Bodyguard is already there and opening a fresh bottle of water for me.

“Thank you,” I say as he hands me a delicate, cut-crystal glass. I sip, then break from formality and slyly smirk at Nick. “Concerned about my hydration?”

“Dr. Shaw would insist.”

I can’t argue that point. I dutifully sip before we make one more appearance on the dance floor. Then we’re escorted back up to the main landing at the entrance. All commotion halts once again as we turn to the crowd and wave. We’re whisked away and into an awaiting limo thereafter, and it’s a little like midnight is quickly approaching and we have those pumpkins to worry about.

I’d banish that analogy, given my current chance at a more permanent fairy tale. But I’m quite thrilled we’ve made our great escape. The way Nick is continually gazing at me, as though he’s already undressed me, has me desperate for him to do that in reality.

However, we behave on the drive to the palace—considering we’re not alone. Speaking of Dr. Shaw, she has joined us for the trek, apparently having been picked up or driven over when we were inside. Claire is with us too. She has official business to discuss with Nick, pertaining to his social calendar, while Dr. Shaw takes my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure.

Now I’m a little annoyed because she’s killing my sexy moments with Nick. Yet I know this is her job, so I don’t fuss. Plus, it’ll make Nick happy.

She quietly says, “You’re a bit flushed.”

I tell her, “Hardly a surprise. I was just in Nick’s arms.”

She smiles. Nods. Repeats her process and adds, “That must be it. Your pulse was on the high side, but it’s coming down.”

I don’t bother mentioning it’ll escalate again as soon as Nick and I are in his suite. I’m sure she’s well aware.

Amiable conversation ensues, though I’m mentally tapping my toe, urgently wanting to be in very private quarters with the man who’s sitting so close to me, his thigh brushes mine. That mere touch sends a wave of heat through my body that bursts against my clit. I cross my legs and squeeze my inner muscles. He does this funny little sidebar-type chuckle, under his breath. Because he knows I’m experiencing all the zings he so easily incites.

When he glances down at me, there’s a flare of desire in his grey-green irises. Yes, I’m relieved I’m not the only one who’s aroused; but knowing he is too only amps the anticipation. Making it more and more difficult to concentrate on said amiable conversation. Until I pretty much disengage from it and instead focus on breathing properly so that Dr. Shaw isn’t compelled to break out her stethoscope again.

Eventually—and oh, God, it feels as though it’s been days!—we arrive at the palace and go our separate ways. I’m ecstatic the secured lobby/secret passage exists so that it’s only a proverbial hop, skip, and a jump to the apartment.

But, bummer of all bummers, there are several additional attendants on-hand this evening. Three women who usher me into the ginormous bathroom where there’s a low blaze in the hearth and soothing music and a foot bath. I want to protest because I have something else on my mind!

Yet they so carefully help me out of my dress—treating it as though the crown jewels are stitched onto it—and then wrap me in a luxurious robe and settle me in a high-backed, tufted chair that resembles a throne, and the protest slips from my brain.

One woman removes my makeup. Another daintily pulls the pins from my hair. The third is all about the bath, first as my feet soak in fragrant rose water with velvety petals scattered on top. Then in the massive tub, with bubbles. A light massage follows.

I’m not one who goes overboard with the pampering, but I’ll confess, if I had this treatment every night after endless hours at the restaurant… I wouldn’t complain. Just sayin’.

All I have to do is mention this to Grayson and he’ll hire staff dedicated solely to this purpose. Of course, I won’t. I’m enjoying the royal spoils at present; but in the reasonable, relatable part of my brain, this is still fantasyland.

Though not as it pertains to Nick. Lucky me. When I join him in the bedroom, where he’s propped against the pillows, scrolling on his phone, wearing nothing but black boxer-briefs, his dark hair sexily tousled and damp from a shower, I’m eternally grateful he’s not a figment of my imagination. That I’ve not conjured the most perfect man on the planet to merely lust after in a dream-verse.

Once more, I have that thought of… He’s real. He’s mine.

His gaze instantly snaps up from his phone as I approach. He absently sets the device aside because his eyes are glued on me.

I pull the tie of the sash at my waist and let my robe fall open.

“You’re not too tired from—” he begins to say.

I hold a finger to my lips. Bat my now-unadorned lashes at him. And smile.

He grins, in return.

I slip the robe from my shoulders, letting the silky material drop to the floor.

I tell him, “Much as I adored every single minute of being your plus-one tonight, I couldn’t stop thinking of the ‘after-party.’”

He groans, primally. “That was most definitely on my mind.”

He shifts on the bed and slings his long, powerful legs over the side. They’re parted and I walk into the V he’s created.

His palms glide along my outer thighs, to my hips.

He stares up at me. And grins again as his eyes glow, seductively.

“You were flawless this evening,” he tells me.

“From your perspective. I thought I was going to pass out a few times. Or trip on the dance floor.”

“You were perfect,” he murmurs as his hands skim up to my waist and then cover my belly. “You were absorbing it all. Thoroughly interested. Wonderfully charming. Eloquent. Very queen-like.”

I laugh, delicately. “Sure, you say that now. But if you knew how I was freaking over every interaction and so convinced I was going to—”

“Bailey.” His gaze turns more intense as he cuts off my self-deprecating rambling. “When I say you were perfect—are perfect—it doesn’t mean you have to rigidly live up to any particular ideal. It simply, completely, honestly means… You are everything I want. Everything.”

He’s nearly as breathless as I suddenly am.

“Nick.”

There is a poignant glint in his eyes that cannot be defined. Yet it instantly mists mine because of the poignancy.

I say, “You do things to me…” And a tear trickles down my cheek.

“You do things to me too, baby.”

He stares at me for endless seconds. I’m held spellbound.

He shifts me just so and eases me down, to sit alongside him on the edge of the bed, though he maneuvers himself so he’s facing me. His hands cup my face.

His intense expression deepens. His head dips.

“Bailey,” he whispers against my lips.

“Yes, Nick?” I reply, breathlessly, due to his intensity.

He swallows a lump of emotion. But doesn’t blink as he drops another bombshell.

“Marry me.”