Chapter 5

Somehow, my feet carry me to him. Thank God something’s functioning properly. For sure, my brain isn’t. Nor is my heart. Not even my pulse. The beats are erratic and thunderous. Everything seems to be a jumbled mess within me.

My entire existence has become surreal.

I’m in this gorgeous house with this gorgeous view and this way-beyond gorgeous man and I’m doing everything in my power not to smile like a complete, utterly giddy schoolgirl. I’m also trying to breathe normally, but that’s proving impossible.

He grabs a spoon from a drawer for me to sample the bisque as he tells me, “In addition to the soup, we’re having Blue Point oysters, soft shell crab, white fish carpaccio, lobster tails, and stuffed filet mignon, Oscar style.”

I stare at him, astonished. I still can’t find my voice. And my heart is doing this odd fluttering thing now. My stomach is also getting in on the action.

Eventually, I manage to say, “That’s the six-course tasting menu I proposed to Cristoff when he interviewed me.”

Nick grins. “I know. He told me.”

“Did he also tell you that he basically said, ‘I’m suddenly famished,’ and went somewhere else for dinner? Like… Paris.”

With a low chuckle, Nick asserts, “Don’t take it personally, Bailey. Cristoff has a short attention span and being a restaurateur is not up his alley. Truthfully, operating any sort of business isn’t up his alley. Jet-setting is what he does best. I, however, happen to think this is a fantastic tasting menu and I’ve prepared wine and champagne pairings to go with it. An impressive selection if I do say so myself.”

He dips the spoon into the saucepan and then holds it toward me, not fully stretching his arm so that I must move in closer to him. I test the soup—and resist the urge to melt at this man’s feet. Not only over the rich and decadent bisque, laced with cognac and the chunk of buttery lobster, but also over the fact that Nick is cooking my menu.

And although the entire kitchen is a medley of sumptuous aromas, I catch a hint of his expensive cologne and male heat—and every erogenous zone within me springs to life.

I force myself not to moan. Though the sound bubbles up in my throat, so I swallow it down with the creamy soup.

It’s fabulous. I’m at a loss for words again.

His brow raises as he awaits my response.

I can’t exactly tell him I’m damn close to orgasming and it’s not really about the food. Or the expensive bubbly, which I take a sip of—and it’s the perfect complement to the bisque.

This time, I can’t stem the sigh that falls from my lips.

He grins once more. A natural, easy one that lights his grey-green eyes and I’m just… In desperate need of sitting down because my knees are practically knocking together. I all but collapse onto an upholstered, high-backed stool at the far end of the island. Sip some more.

Get yourself together, Bailey.

I tell him, “That’s worthy of a five-star review.”

“So glad you approve.”

Approve? I’m literally having a moment here that’s culminating in wicked throbs between my legs.

Nick places the spoon in the sink and continues tending to the meal he’s concocting, as though he does this every night of the week.

And while it seems absurdly unfeasible, I’m even more turned on.

He’s royalty, hotter than hell, and he cooks.

I can’t stop myself from asking, “How are you single?” I’m mind blown by this. “I can’t fathom why you would need a surrogate. For God’s sake, women must be throwing themselves at your feet.”

Okay, that wasn’t the least bit eloquent. Or tactful. Though it has to be a true fact.

He lets out another low, sexy chuckle and I’m in need of more effervescent sips. My insides are not doing me any favors tonight. I can’t control the sizzling through my veins or the jumping of my pulse.

He queries, “You’ve seen Pretty Woman, right?”

“Everyone has seen Pretty Woman,” I confirm.

“I’m that guy. No time or tolerance for romantic entanglements.”

I blanch. “That would make me a prosti—”

“No! Oh, God, no!” He gives a sharp shake of his head as he immediately catches on to the wayward turn my thoughts just took. “I don’t think that at all! Bad analogy. Bad! Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. I just insulted the hell out of you, and I didn’t mean to, Bailey. I was just talking about the male lead and making the correlation to my current predicament and—”

I laugh at this faux pas he believes he’s made.

“I get it,” I’m quick to assure him. “No offense taken, I promise. Though, really, it is a similar scenario. You’re telling me you’re much too busy for a relationship; thus, you need to hire someone in order to get what you want. Not a prostitute, in this case, but a surrogate.”

“Exactly. Except, now I feel as though I’ve discredited you and that was certainly not my intention.”

He’s mortified. It’s stamped across his chiseled-to-perfection face.

I find his humble reaction incredibly…endearing.

He doesn’t even know me—not the real me, only the paper/documented me and whatever Cristoff has shared with him. He’s the ruler of a country. He’s obviously affluent and powerful.

And here he is, worried that he’s just demoralized, or scandalized, me.

I tell him, “You’re making me a genuine business offer, Your Highness. We both have something to gain here.”

He cringes. “Please. Call me Nick. I insist.”

I want to say his name out loud. I want to hear it roll off my tongue.

I just can’t bring myself to do it while the man has me lit up like a Fourth of July night sky.

And yet…

He pins me with a penetrating and imploring expression as he quietly urges, “Call me Nick.”

“Nick.”

Heat rushes through me. I’m not sure I’ll ever catch my breath.

He nods slowly, like he’s feeling the same thing.

That’s a ridiculous thought and I mentally dislodge it from my head.

This is not a movie.

And besides, Richard Gere’s character told Julia Roberts’ character that she was an employee.

That’s precisely how my arrangement with Nick Angelini would play out, were I to accept this mission.

Interestingly, though, he confesses, “I might have subconsciously followed some of the movie’s themes. There are clothes involved. I bought you clothes, Bailey. An entire dressing room full of clothes, in various sizes to accommodate the pregnancy. And shoes. Accessories. One of the master suites is all yours. For a year. Provided we agree on terms. There’s a contract. Once it’s executed, this house is your residence.”

I gape.

Straight-up, no containing it, my jaw nearly hits the floor. I’m sure my eyes are as big as the proverbial saucers. And my heart has almost come to a screeching halt. Yet again.

He further expounds, “I had the property outfitted specifically for you. There’s a living/media-entertainment room in one wing and the other wing is a home office.” He gestures with his hand, to indicate that these rooms are located off the main sitting area that faces the courtyard and the ocean. “If you prefer to keep the butler, he’s at your disposal. There’s also a house manager, Celia, to assist you with anything and everything you might need. She’ll handle all of the expenses, as well as the staff that will come in to clean and cook for you. She’ll run your errands. You won’t have to worry about a thing, Bailey. Other than carrying my child. And the restaurant, of course.”

I’m beginning to think Nick Angelini enjoys leaving me thoroughly stunned.

A year of living in this spectacular house with the killer view. A new wardrobe. Staff.

And, oh yeah, a restaurant. My biggest dream come true.

He’s made this damn close to an impossible-to-resist proposal.

Damn close.

I mean… I can’t really do this, be a surrogate.

Can I?

Nick suggests, “Why don’t you check out the master suite while I finish up here? Take a peek in the dressing room. See if there’s anything you’re interested in changing into.”

Naturally, the prospect of getting out of this uniform and into something girly and more appropriate for a fancy oceanfront dinner is highly appealing.

Plus, my curiosity gets the best of me when Grayson appears, to show me the way. I’m telling myself not to fall down the rabbit hole at the exact moment I’m slipping from the barstool and following him—down the rabbit hole.

It’s difficult not to. The intrigue is too tempting, too addictive.

Everything related to Nick Angelini and this house is too tempting, too addictive.

Grayson and I return to the vast foyer and he directs me to the suite on the right.

I barely cross the threshold when the breath escapes my body on one long stream of air.

Oh. My. God.

It’s incredible.

Of course, it is. The bed is huge and tall and covered in a thick, luxurious comforter in an amethyst and silver pattern with tons of pillows and high posts and a bench running the width of it, at its foot. All of the furniture and mirrors are massive and ornately, artistically designed. The rugs are likely Persian. There’s a desk and a sitting area with a fireplace and a lavender-colored sectional that has an attached chaise lounger and silver fur blanket draped over it. The double wood-trimmed glass doors at the far end of the suite open onto the deck of the pool. The other door leads to the dressing room.

I’m almost too overwhelmed to even dare step inside.

But the curiosity is clawing more viciously at me. This is the kind of house, the kind of bedroom, little girls dream of calling their own when they’re all grown up. Especially little girls from the hellscape who slept on the pullout sofa every night and kept their clothes in cardboard boxes with the cockroaches in the slim hallway closet.

Grayson says, “Take your time. Help yourself to whatever you wish. This is all for you, Miss Bailey. If you have any problems or if there’s anything lacking that you require or desire, simply dial zero on the house phone and I shall immediately answer to remedy the situation.”

I’m still breathless.

Just because…well, I’m sure you can comprehend why.

This is surreal. And yet…it’s currently my reality.

Since I’m shocked into silence once more, I merely nod.

He smiles graciously and leaves me to marvel over the dressing room, including the long bureau in the center with a marble countertop. A full-length, three-way mirror in the corner. Another door. I assume it leads to the en suite and I can’t even begin to fathom what the fucking bathrooms in this house look like.

I must find out. I’ve come this far, right?

So I enter.

And now I am utterly, thoroughly convinced that any available and eligible woman in my position would not—repeat: would fucking not—ever turn down this offer Nick Angelini has made.

All the marble.

The oversized jetted tub.

The octagon-shaped, glass-enclosed shower.

The pristine white furniture.

The fireplace.

All the cream-and-verdant-colored fresh floral arrangements on accent tables.

The water closet.

The triple vanity with a built-in makeup station.

I’m astounded. So much so, I sink onto a plump sofa cushion.

I could live in this en suite for a year and be ecstatic. Wake up every morning feeling like a princess.

It’s larger than my cottage. And so amazingly beautiful. Pristine and clean.

This is where Nick has hooked the girl from the terrifying neighborhood, without even knowing that’s where I’m from.

One year of my life, existing as though—being treated as though—I’m royalty.

Tears sting my eyes and I press my trembling fingers to my lips.

My dad would have given me all of this if only he could have. He wanted so much more for me, for us. But he was constantly sick. Constantly losing jobs because of his illness. Constantly drowning in medical bills.

I loved him too much to ever hold my gritty childhood against him. He couldn’t give me the stars or the moon—or even my own bathroom—but he adored me. He showered me with affection and praise and attention. And for all of that, I am eternally grateful.

I’m also thinking that he’d understand why I’m lured by Nick.

He would potentially encourage me to go through with this proposal. He’d want all of this for me. Even if it was just for a year. It’d be one hell of a year.

Making up my mind that is all a spectacular dream I will allow to come true, I swipe at my tears. I ditch the work clothes I’m wearing, the uniform being one of the first things on my list to replace at the restaurant when it’s mine. I step into the shower, preferring to spend an hour soaking in the tub, but Nick already has dinner started and I don’t want to throw off his timing too horrifically.

There are different shampoos, conditioners, and bodywashes to choose from, all in pretty, decorative glass bottles with French or Italian labels on them. I sniff each of them before making my selection and am in heaven over the exotic scents.

The towels I use when I’m done are plush and oversized. There’s a hairdryer and a full line of cosmetics. The high-end stuff I could never afford.

I opt for the neutral shades and a shimmery lip gloss. I put beachy curls in my blonde hair. Then I return to Cinderella’s closet and find a simple, though sexy, tank-style LBD that’s curve-hugging and short-hemmed. I get a little more adventurous with the high heels, my gaze falling instantly on a pair of black Manolo Blahnik pumps with a striking crystal embellishment over a portion of the opening. Totally over-the-top.

I snoop in the bureau drawers, finding that one side is all lingerie and stockings, while the other is designated for accessories. Jewelry that has my eyes popping.

I’m trying to play this moderately conservative, though, since the heels are the showstopper. I choose a thin diamond tennis bracelet in a platinum setting and diamond chandelier earrings.

I steal a peek at myself in the mirror.

And laugh, a bit on the shrieking, hysterical, I’ve completely lost my mind, side.

Conservative, my ass.

For the first time in my life, I look like a million bucks. Smell like it too.

I’m a bit shellshocked. I’ve never even gone to a prom or any other formal dance. (Couldn’t afford the gown.)

And now here I am, sparkling and beaming, albeit shakily, as the corners of my mouth quiver and my eyes mist once more.

I’ve never envisioned myself glammed to the max.

The funny thing about that is I’m not even glammed to the max.

There are infinitely more ostentatious selections in here.

Yet I feel like I’m about to land the cover of a high-end fashion magazine.

I think of my dad again. He’d for sure get a kick out of seeing me like this.

Then I think of Nick Angelini.

Wondering if, this time, I’m going to blow his mind.

And hoping like hell I do.

Tamping down all the emotion swelling within me, I hitch my chin and pretend that I’m not the impoverished girl I’ve always been.

Tonight, I’m going to be an uptown woman.

Tonight, I’m not going to be envious of the yacht club ladies and their vogue style.

Tonight, I’m their equal. I will learn from this, so that I can infuse the appropriate upscale mentality into the restaurant and make it worthy of that pier, that prestigious location.

Tonight, just might be the start of a whole new life for Bailey Storm.

Well… Also for Nick Angelini.

The royal who wants an heir.

From me.