Chapter 55

~ NICK ~

How could I not request this?

Other than… Well… There are the standard obstacles, of course.

She’s entangled in a “should I stay, or should I go?” tug of war that involves me, a child, and a restaurant—a dream she’s had forever. One that’s significant and fulfilling, given she’s achieved it primarily on her own. What help I’ve provided is financial. She’s the true victor in this vein, with her vision, ingenuity, and initiative. With her hard work.

Thus, I understand I’ve just tossed her into a new mix of uncertainty. We haven’t resolved our current situation and now I’ve gone and complicated matters to the degree that her jaw slacks, she gazes at me with wide eyes, and she’s at a complete loss for words.

That’s advantageous for me, so that I can explain, “I didn’t plan that, Bailey. Not necessarily. Though… It’s been on my mind. For some time. A long time, truthfully. Even before you came here.”

She blinks. I’m guessing that’s to let me know she’s heard me. She just can’t respond.

I grin. Rub my chin with my thumb. Bite back a chuckle.

“I would have done this more eloquently,” I assure her. “Perhaps even given you a bit of a heads-up. A hint or two. A seed to plant in your brain. Except, you were beyond amazing tonight—and I couldn’t hold off any longer.”

She nods, ever so slightly. Acknowledging my mea culpa for springing something so monumental on her.

Frankly, I’m equally stunned by this scenario. I didn’t go into tonight’s “date” with thoughts of proposing. On the other hand, I might have subconsciously considered that seeing her in an evening gown was, indeed, going to bring certain ideations to light. And the most resonant fact is, the concept of marrying Bailey Storm is absolutely nowhere near as shocking to the system for me as it is for her. Mostly because she’ll be wrestling over the concept of marrying a king.

I’m capable of comprehending the complexity therein. Also, in all honesty, it’s a fantastic reminder for me—and a specific point to immediately clarify.

I tell her, “Don’t think about the big-picture stuff. Just focus on us.”

Her jaw snaps shut.

In typical—and very appealing Bailey fashion—she pivots instantly and counters with: “How can I not think of the ‘big-picture stuff?’ Oh, my God, Nick!”

Her eyes are still proverbial saucers and she’s gaping again. More so for effect, I surmise.

I continue to keep my laugh in check. No need to come off as pacifying her with humor when this is an extremely serious matter.

Serious, yes.

But not over-the-top or beyond all conceivability.

I calmly state, “We’ve been headed in a particular direction all this time. Regardless of the periphery or extracurricular or extraneous nuances—whatever you want to call them—being of concern to both of us, there’s a definite path we’ve followed. With both our footprints on it.”

I raise a brow. Not so much challenging her to deny my comment—I don’t expect her to. More so to get her thinking along the same lines with me, to reach a logical conclusion. The destination I believe we both want to arrive at.

I don’t doubt she truly wants to be with me.

It’s “how to make it work” that we must hurdle.

She scoots back a few inches, but only to hold up her hands without accidentally smacking me in the chest. And her hands in the air isn’t a protest. I sense this as the corners of her mouth quiver—upward. As the spark in her beautiful blue eyes ignites. As her breath catches and she tries to find her voice.

“Think only about me, Bailey,” I quietly insist. “About marrying me. About being my wife.”

~ BAILEY ~

I easily latch onto the narrative he’s presenting.

He wants me thinking strictly in terms of us. I’m not opposed to that. Unfortunately, it’s incredibly difficult not to think of what a true us would fully entail.

But he has successfully diverted my attention to one pertinent detail.

“Your wife…” I murmur.

Exhilaration ribbons through me.

He didn’t say “his queen” or “Her Majesty” or anything along those lines that I would fixate on, obsess over, balk at.

No. Nick Angelini picked the perfect word. Wife.

I’m literally all a dither, as my dad would teasingly say. My pulse is jumping and my stomach flips.

The way he gazes so heatedly, so unwaveringly at me… It has my inner thighs up in flames.

“Nick…” I breathlessly say. And smile. Tentatively, shakily.

His fingers whisk faintly over my cheek and then comb through my hair.

Obviously, there’s a part of me that wonders if Nick knows what the hell he’s just said. But it’s easy to discount and even disregard that edge of uncertainty, because I know this man. And such a crucial sentiment would not have arbitrarily fallen from his lips. He would not have absently murmured something that’s so life-altering, for both of us.

I’m at a loss, however, as to how to respond, particularly knowing this is no meager statement, no verbal fumble, no remark he’s going to take back.

Similar to his request that I attend the gala with him—which might have seemed spontaneous, but I don’t believe it was—I suspect he’s put sufficient, ample, critical thought into this latest “invitation.”

Naturally, that requires me, in turn, to put sufficient, ample, critical thought into my answer.

We all know where the hang-ups are, what the glitches are.

Yet when you pit every single one of them against that term he’s so strategically used, I find it next to impossible to accept anything other than a positive reaction.

That’s in my head, though.

That’s me mentally swinging from the chandeliers, screaming from the rooftops, dancing the happiest of fucking happy dances.

I’m elated. Tremors ripple through me and I’m probably two seconds away from full-on vibrations that’ll echo from head to toe.

Let me assure you, they’re of the excited variety.

I’m not even teetering on the potential wigging-out side. Problem is, I can’t speak. There are emotions and questions lodged in my throat.

Thank God that’s a proverbial analogy, or I’d be choking right now. As it is, my airflow has slowed to a snail’s pace and it’s shallow and fractured.

I know I’m still smiling. I can feel the lilt of my lips. Also… Nick is grinning in return. Not triumphantly or overzealously. Just… Softly. Sweetly. Encouragingly.

He’s completely attuned to everything churning inside me. He’s well aware of the intricate nuances of us—and the incredibly fragile threads woven around what he’s just proposed.

Because, oh, holy hell… He’s just proposed.

I gasp.

Like I’ve only suddenly realized what he’s suggesting.

That’s a bit comical. I’ve been mulling this over for a few minutes in my mind, so there’s no “sudden” revelation. Yet that’s how it hits me.

I lift my hands, as if that’s a prelude to some sort of comment or query. However, I still have nothing to say.

Actually, that’s not true. There is one be-all, end-all word flashing in my brain like a beacon that’s brighter than the freaking sun.

My only dilemma is that it’s a rapid-fire manifestation. And the last time I blurted one of those, I’d told Nick his child should be raised here.

Also, there’s the matter of me being caught up in the glitz and glamour of the evening, along with all the pomp and circumstance.

I can’t whimsically address this substantially significant proposal without first determining two things.

One:

I manage to ask Nick, “Does your father know you want to marry me?”

His jaw works. Briefly. But he honestly says, “It is not a discussion we’ve had.”

That’s a biggie. Doesn’t matter if the king father is ill. His approval is vital to moving forward.

Two:

“I need you to go back to California with me,” I tell him. “I have to be there when we make this decision. In my everyday life. Not on some magical night that’s—”

“Then we’re leaving for California in the morning.” Nick nods—firmly. Resolutely. And confidently adds, “Whatever it takes, Bailey. We’ll reach the right decision together.”

~ * * * ~

I have a change of heart in the morning. It hits me the second I wake up.

The new thought takes me by surprise, but it is not without sound reasoning and purpose.

As usual, Nick is awake and dressed just as my eyelids are drifting open. He tends to keep me up late. I don’t mind.

He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed and brushes a curl from my temple. “Grayson says we’re all packed.”

My stomach twists—because of The New Thought.

But then it unknots—also because of The New Thought.

I think it’s a good one.

I just have to delicately explain it to Nick. Though somehow I already know he’ll understand.

Still, my voice is tentative (and I hope he just thinks I’m groggy from coming out of slumber) as I tell him, “I have a feeling it’d be a good idea for me to travel back to the beach house alone.”

His brow furrows. Of course, it does.

I sigh. “I know I asked you to go with me last night. But it suddenly occurred to me that I wanted to go so that I can make a decision without being swayed by all this grandeur.” I gesture around the suite with a sweeping hand. “The truth is, it’s also you who will easily persuade me because, well, you’re irresistible.”

Now he grins. Devilishly. “Not a statement with which I take exception.”

All teasing aside, I earnestly say, “I feel the need to get my bearings, to step out of fairy tale land and consider the biggest of big pictures. Far beyond this week and a restaurant and a baby. This is an entire future we’re talking about. And it’s not a normal one.”

“I will make it as normal as I possibly can,” he assures me.

I playfully scoff at him. “Sure, that gala was sooo normal. All the butlers and valets and security are sooo normal. All the—”

“I get the point,” he dryly interjects. His head bends and he kisses me, tenderly. Then he murmurs, “I understand. You’re an objective person, Bailey. You need to formulate an unbiased opinion. Unfortunately, I’ll have lobster and beach waves working against me.” He mock-sighs.

“No, you won’t. And you know it.” I kiss him back. And add, “I can have all the lobster I want here. And the fountains create a spectacular water sound. Very soothing. Plus… Well. California doesn’t have the hottest man on the planet.”

He laughs. Heartily. “Many a Hollywood star will take significant exception to that.”

“Only because they haven’t met you yet.” I kiss him again. A bit more seductively. Not necessary, I know. He’s not going to deny my request or pout about it. I suspect he might even entertain the idea that I’m returning home as a farewell to it. Perhaps I am. I must determine that for myself, though, by myself.

Granted, I have no designs on giving up the restaurant. But there are ways to make that venture work, if this is where I’m destined to be.

I just really feel I owe it to myself—and even to Nick and the peanut—to alleviate any doubt from my system. Marrying him would be a huge step. Not one to be taken lightly. And in all honesty, I have to let that entire concept simmer in my brain.

It’s not every night a king asks for your hand in marriage, right?

Doesn’t matter what I’ve been submersed in by coming here—it doesn’t change the fact that every day since the one I met Nick has been super-surreal. It’s a lot to digest on a daily basis.

The one thing I am one-thousand percent certain of and committed to is… “I really do love you,” I whisper against his lips.

“I’m not questioning that,” he replies. “From the time you said it, I haven’t questioned it. Perhaps even before you said it.”

He kisses the tip of my nose and slips from the bed.

I groan.

He chuckles. “The plane’s ready. So’s your entourage. Why don’t we have breakfast and then you can shower and dress? Just promise me you’ll sleep before you rush off to the restaurant, once you arrive.”

I try to calculate the time zone difference, but give up. There’s no point. I’ll want to sleep first anyway—no need to prod me—so that I’m fresh and revitalized. So that I have a clear head and heart.

Well, the latter will prove difficult to achieve. I innately sense a calling, a draw, to California. I experience the same toward Nick, naturally. So maybe what I’m ultimately hoping to strike upon is what a balance might look like.

Of course, with a child involved, that makes the scenario tricky.

But, again… I must consider that the rest of my life would be with Nick, long after our daughter flies the coop for college or traveling the world or whatever dream she follows, and that particular purpose in my life, caring for her and nurturing her, will end (to a degree). And lead me back to needing something substantial to contribute to.

Though… I suppose I could crank out a few more kids and that would occupy me.

I stifle a giggle as I toss off the covers. I wouldn’t mind, is all I’m saying.

And these are the sort of revelations I need to dissect in order to make a solid, totally devoted decision to the rest of my life.

Actually, there’s also the matter of Nick’s father. I do cringe over whether he’d disapprove of us marrying—that would stay with us until death do we part.

At the moment, however, I let the enthusiasm and vibrant energy course through me as I basically bounce around with excitement that I’m able to fly back to check on things at Bailey’s Clambake.

The trip is a lengthy one, despite the private accommodation of Nick’s jet. I use the time wisely, catching up on emails, while also alerting Mitch I’m on my way. He has backup of his own, so I know he’s not working around the clock, but I’m certainly inclined to relieve him of his duties for a couple of nights so he can regroup and recharge.

Upon landing, I’m subjected to another of Dr. Shaw’s exams, but that’s to be expected. The drive to the beach house seems to take as long as the flight, I’m that antsy to see it again. When we arrive, I dutifully eat, relax in the tub, and then sleep. Lots of sleep.

I eventually resurface in time for the start of a new day at the restaurant. I want to be there for the lunch service, then take a nap, then return for dinner.

It’s a little comical that when I enter the establishment I half-anticipate the place to be the old crab shack with no luster and no activity.

Perhaps that’s an inherent fear of not being here to mind the shop, so to speak.

Yet certainly that is not at all what I discover.

It’s barely after eleven a.m., and the joint is hopping. The hostess gives me a welcome back hug and shows me the list of reservations on her tablet, which she’s ecstatic about. I am instantly put at ease.

I’ve come to know the regular patrons and greet them—even those I don’t know. I go from table to table, which is exhausting, but exhilarating. While I do this, Mitch works his Mitch magic, and Gwen’s amazingly tantalizing food flows from the kitchen, seamlessly and without delay. And even though I’ve already eaten brunch, I’m suddenly starving.

This is a good sign. It’s the scent of seafood I’m inhaling and it’s not adversely affecting my body or my psyche. At all.

I figure baby and I are over that hump.

Thank God for it, because I intend to devour more of Grayson’s lobster mac and cheese when I go to the house for a late lunch/early dinner and some rest.

The crowd dies down around two-thirty but starts to pick up again at three—when happy hour begins.

Mitch and I steal some time together on the deck and despite me not being an affectionately demonstrative person as a rule, I literally throw my arms around him and thank him to the ends of the earth for holding down the fort so spectacularly.

I’m emotional. He’s jovial.

When we unravel, he says, “What’d you think was going to happen? You’d come back to hell in a handbag? Complete mayhem?”

I give a noncommittal shrug and then rest my forearm on the railing. I gaze out at the water and the boats and the fantastic view I’ve loved since the first time I’d walked into this joint. Then I glance at him and say, “I suppose a part of me diabolically wishes that would be the case.”

He continues to chuckle. Because he gets it.

“Well, if you must know, I was juggling three large jars of olives yesterday, coming from the walk-in, and I dropped one.”

I crinkle my nose. “That’s a smell that’ll likely make my stomach roil.”

“Reeked for a couple hours, despite scrubbing the floor.”

I smile. “You’ve done an amazing job. The reviews are still stellar, the crowd is still here—and ravenous. And you, Gwen, and the team gel nicely. You deserve a raise.”

“You won’t hear me arguing.”

“It’s well-earned.”

“And if you have to step out again, for however long, whenever, Bailey, I’m totally here. Totally committed. Like you, this is definitely the kind of restaurant I hoped it’d someday be.”

I hug him again, drowning in more emotion so that my eyes sting. This is the reassurance I need. Also, I tell him, “I appreciate the initiative you take, Mitch. And it’s imperative you inform me of anything that you believe needs attention, changing, updating… Whatever. Anything and everything.”

He nods. “Thanks for trusting in me, Bailey.”

“I absolutely do. Now…” I swipe at a wayward tear. Sniffle. And say, “I’m going to get off my feet for a spell and then I’ll be back so that you can have the night off.”

I leave him and Bodyguard escorts me to the awaiting car.

I’m fantastically pleased. I’ve reviewed inventory orders and discussed P&L and employee compensation and benefits with the accountant and it’s all running smoothly. With the aid of all the consultants and training and management, we for sure have a well-oiled machine.

I’m perfectly elated as I waltz through the door Grayson opens for me and I catch a hint of that aroma I’ve been craving all day. I give him a kiss on the cheek, the spontaneously affectionate gesture once again taking him by surprise. But he grins. And follows me as I make a beeline for the kitchen. The doors to the ocean are open and a balmy breeze drifts in. There’s soft music and candles and…

Nick.

I draw up short at the patio doors. He’s on the deck, enjoying a drink and the midday view.

I snicker.

He glances at me over his shoulder.

“You’re not even shocked I’m here,” he flirtatiously scoffs.

“Can’t explain why, but, no… I’m not.”

He sets his glass aside, shoves back his chair, and stands. So imposing and hunky and I… I just want to melt at the sight of him.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear that’s escaped my ponytail. His grey-green irises glow warmly, lovingly, as he stares down at me and says, “Henceforth, where you go, I go.”

Tears instantly spring to my eyes.

I do not hold him in suspense. I tell him, “Apparently, I only need to come back and check on things. Bailey’s Clambake will be fine without me there every night.”

His expression turns curious. “Does that mean…?”

“Ask me again,” I say on a wisp of air. “Here, where I’m grounded, not floating on a cloud.”

He grins. Goes down on bended knee. Pulls a box from the front pocket of his black dress pants and flips the lid with his thumb.

The ring is stunning. An enormous diamond, of course. It is truly breathtaking, all glittery and shimmering, winking at me in the sunlight.

“Bailey Storm,” Nick says, as my tears crest and spill. “Will you be my wife?”

There’s nothing else to doubt. Nothing else to fear. Nothing else to contemplate or evaluate.

This is my happy ending.

Mine and the peanut’s. Nick’s.

“I’d be honored,” I tell him as more drops tumble along my cheeks. “So very honored.”

He takes the ring from the box. Slips it on my finger. It’s the perfect fit. Nick wouldn’t overlook this.

He doesn’t overlook anything. Including…

“For the record,” he says as he gazes up at me. “My father absolutely approves. And is looking forward to officially welcoming you into the family.”

I’m overwhelmed with emotion.

I’m not the only one. There is a very distinct flutter in my belly.

“Nick!” I take his hand and splay his palm over my stomach.

A few seconds pass and then…

“Bailey.” His eyes widen. “I feel that. Really feel it this time.” He’s astonished. Deeply moved.

“She’s happy,” I manage to vehemently contend on my fractured breath. “Really and truly happy.”

“So am I.” He stands. Cups my face. Kisses me tenderly. “So very happy.”

I smile through my tears because I’m ecstatic and confident and finally, finally certain I know what my future is supposed to be.

This baby.

And Nick Angelini.

I kiss him back. And whisper, “You’ve given me everything I’ve ever wanted—some of which I never even knew I wanted. You are perfect. And I will love you more and more and more every single day.”

I twine my arms around his neck.

He holds me to him.

While, in the background, I hear the popping of a bottle. Sparkling cider, yes. In this instance, it’s just as celebratory as the most expensive champagne money could buy.

Grayson pours for all three of us while I try to disentangle myself from Nick, but I really don’t want to let him go. He laughs softly in my ear.

Eventually, we partially free ourselves. Enough for Grayson to toast us and sip.

And that, my friends, is how this Cinderella went from more than rags to riches.

Because the riches aren’t the spoils.

Love and family are.

Forever.