Chapter 9

Concierge healthcare, it turns out, is pretty epic.

The limo picks me up after Nick has returned to Europe. It delivers me to the estate. I am then whisked away via a fancy and amped-up golf cart that takes me to the guesthouse. Didn’t know there was one, but surprise! It is as elegantly appointed as the main house and boasts three bedrooms. Nowhere near the size of the home I will occupy if all goes well with the tests, but still impressive.

One bedroom is designated as my “personal comfort” room. Aka for us common folk, an examination room.

It’s filled with high-tech equipment and an official exam bed that is completely tricked out. The bells and whistles are astonishing. And I have a dedicated attending OB/GYN, Dr. Shaw. She’s quite lovely and has a PA named Lavinia. They’re gracious and wholly apologetic about the invasiveness of the procedures I’m about to undergo. Even going so far as to tell me that they’ll be draining a lot of blood, but “please don’t be alarmed.”

I suffer through it all. There are moments I fear I’m going to faint. The ladies jump right on it, and I survive, sans dramatic pass-out.

This goes on for two days.

Two days.

Needless to say, I’m thrilled to return to the restaurant.

I’m crossing my fingers, my toes, and my legs that I receive a thumbs-up on the results, because all I’ve done during the medical assessment and while I lie in bed at night is go over and over and over in my mind what I’m going to do to this place once it’s mine.

Admittedly, I still have not come up with an explanation as to how I’ll suddenly be the owner (again, provided I pass the tests with flying colors). I figure the best approach is to tell everyone (and by everyone, that’s four servers, two bartenders, and a few cooks) that a relative died and left me a boatload of cash that I invested in the restaurant. Pretty simple and straightforward. Difficult to challenge, right?

The complication, of course, will accompany the baby bump.

How the hell will I explain that?

Definitely a different problem for a different day. I’m too busy obsessing over my final medical outcome. If all’s fab on that front, I’ll sign the personal health information consent form that releases the pertinent details to Nick. Upon his approval, well…

Things will really get moving.

I’m doing everything in my power to be ahead of the curve.

For the second time in the year that I’ve been managing this place, I’m grateful it’s currently a sleepy restaurant. My brain is not overrun with issues and I’m not rushing about. I can chill a little and fully assess the space and the atmosphere and formulate more plans.

Nick had a valid point that there will be a lot to accomplish while I’m pregnant.

Obviously, I have no idea if I’m going to suffer morning sickness or anything else that might be debilitating, that might actually lead to something as drastic and restrictive as bedrest. I realize it will behoove me to come up with some contingency plans. But of utmost importance is setting a timeframe for the completion of the renovation, the publicity, the relaunch and, of course, the ensuing (God willing) feeding frenzy from reviewers, food critics, and patrons alike.

That entire reality check almost has me breaking out in hives.

But I stay the course. I already have dreams and visions for this place. I call upon them as I walk the dining room. I engage in conversation with the handful of customers—whom we’ll begin referring to as “guests”—and without doubt, it’s the view that has brought them here. The food, in their opinion is… Meh.

But the cocktails are mixed just right—and they’re cold. Combined with the ocean sprawled before our feet, this is the basis from which I will build.

That is confirmed—my ability to build—a couple of afternoons later when Dr. Shaw arrives at the restaurant. We sit on the terrace overlooking the water, sipping sparkling water with lime slices. She lays out all the documents and gives me the highpoints without overwhelming me.

Her conclusion?

“Congratulations, Bailey. You exceed the requirements Mr. Angelini has prescribed for this surrogacy, with the exception, of course, of your biological father’s medical history. However, given all your strengths here and the fact that I’m offering a clean bill of health on your behalf, I think he’ll agree that you are an extraordinary candidate for carrying his baby.”

I suffer a moment of oh, my fucking God, seriously?

This is seriously, seriously happening?

I have been greenlighted by Nick’s physician of choice. I have met (nay, exceeded!) her standards. And his.

I’m breathless.

She eyes me curiously. “Are you okay, Bailey?”

I snap my mouth shut, suddenly realizing it’s hanging open.

“Of course,” I say. “I’m just…”

I’m just…

Jesus. I don’t know what I’m just.

I had been poked and drained, physically. Prodded, mentally. I’d also stared up at my bedroom ceiling for hours on end wondering what if yes and what if no.

And when I’d contemplated the no… Well.

Despair is a hefty word, isn’t it? Not one to be thrown around lightly.

But I’m using it now.

Because everything I said to Nick before he left town was the absolute, soul-deep truth. I want better. For a part of me. Even if that part of me is an ocean away and doesn’t even know I exist, I will know that he or she exists—and that s/he has the best of the best of everything in life.

Beyond that… Nick is offering me the best of the best of what I’ve dreamed of.

It’s all within my reach. Yet I have these hoops to jump through. This is the first and most significant one.

All Nick has to do is review the data with Dr. Shaw and then…

This will be real.

For both of us.

The corners of my mouth curve upward even as tears sting my eyes.

I can’t deny I’m as excited for him as I am for myself. From what I’ve learned of the man thus far, from the way he’s treated me with kindness and respect, I have no doubt he’s going to be an amazing father.

For as much as I keep thinking our child will be loved, I find a measure of comfort and satisfaction in knowing this kid is going to love him in return. Give him all kinds of happiness.

The tears crest and spill over the rims of my eyes. Dr. Shaw grabs a paper napkin from the metal dispenser and hands it over.

Those darn things will be the first to go—the metal napkin dispensers. In lieu of linen napkins. No matter what the color to complement the décor, we’ll also have black ones on hand, so no light-colored fibers end up on someone’s dark-hued pants or skirt.

Neither here nor there, but one of the many details I have lodged in my brain.

“Thank you,” I say to Dr. Shaw and dab at my eyes.

Her head inclines to the side and she studies me intently. For several suspended seconds. Then she ventures, “You really want this for Mr. Angelini?”

Naturally, she has no idea what I’m getting out of this deal. She’s not the legal aspect of this transaction, only the medical.

I tell her, “He’s explained how important this is to him. How much it will mean to him to have an heir.” I shake my head. “No, not just an heir. He wants a son or a daughter. He hasn’t even specified because either will bring him joy.”

I clamp my mouth shut there.

I’m about to vehemently aver that Nick deserves this.

I believe it in my heart, despite not knowing the man in a profoundly intimate way. My conjecture is based upon his conviction and… His eyes. Every time we talk about what he’s going to get out of this arrangement, he seems to go someplace in his mind where he sees precisely how his life will be—how it’ll be enhanced—with a baby.

I don’t think this is just about having a royal heir.

I think this is about having a tiny human that’s his. One who loves him, and he loves in return. One who grows before his very eyes—and he grows with the child.

Am I romanticizing this?

No.

Because I’ve witnessed his reaction to being this close to getting what he desires. And it’s enough to make me proud that I can help him along.

So much so, I truly wish I could be with him when Dr. Shaw delivers her positive testimony.

I want to see Nick’s response. I want to cover his hand with mine and smile at him and tell him…

Well.

I don’t know what the hell I’d tell him.

Maybe just that I’m happy for him.

Given that I’m supposed to remain a professional during this entire business transaction, I simply say to Dr. Shaw, “Please extend my congratulations to Mr. Angelini when you give him the good news.”

“Absolutely. Now… I have more for you. An ovulation calendar and your most fertile days, comprised from the information you’ve provided regarding your last menstrual cycle. Also, I’ve outlined which days before and after the ovulation period that are reported to aid the chances of conceiving a boy or a girl—in the event he does decide to lean in one direction over the other.”

She has a thick packet for me that I take from her.

She adds, “This isn’t overly daunting, I promise. Just comprehensive so that you, Bailey, understand everything you need to when it comes to conceiving.”

“So what’s the package going to look like once I’m pregnant?” I quip.

She laughs, softly. Sips her water. Tells me, “Extensive.”

I laugh in return. “What are the chances of you giving me the cheat-sheet version?”

“Lavinia and I will walk you through every step, have no doubt. We will be wholly at your beck and call—morning, noon, and night. Including the middle of the night,” she assures me. “First, however—”

“Let’s get me knocked up?”

She raises her glass in the air, as do I, and we clink rims.

I have no idea how much Nick is paying her and her team, but I suspect it is to Dr. Shaw’s advantage that I come through on my end of the contract.

I don’t really care about her financial negotiation.

Once again… I’m mostly interested in giving Nick what he wants. And getting what I want.

But there are still more hoops.

And, oh, yeah… The actual insemination.

The. Insemination.

No turkey baster or petri dish at our disposal.

If Nick signs the final document…

He and I are getting naked together.

And doesn’t that just curl my toes?

So I have an ovulation/“prime fertilization days” app. Yeah, it’s a thing.

It is synced to my calendar as well as to Nick’s “lifestyle” assistant’s calendar. Also, a thing.

Her name is Claire. She’s not a corporate executive assistant, of which I’ve learned he has many. Nor is she his personal assistant—that one manages his errands and coordinates his “household,” aka, the palace.

Rather, Claire is his social director. Thus, I am on her radar now, because Nick and I must “socialize” in order to copulate.

Therefore, Claire must know when I’m at my most fertile so that she can work with the other assistants to ensure Nick is available to be whisked away and brought directly to me, posthaste.

I’m informed of all of this via Claire herself, who has also provided me with various numbers and ways to contact her for the smallest of things, or in case of an emergency. She is apparently one-thousand percent dedicated to me.

Between her, Dr. Shaw, and Lavinia, I’m already exhausted. I have a legion of caregivers, it seems. And I’m not even pregnant yet.

That could change at any minute, though.

Because, as it turns out, there’s a metaphorical neon flashing sign indicating I’m entering the peak zone.

I’ve barely made it through the instruction manual Dr. Shaw provided on when and what position is best effective for an XYZ conception when my app is chiming on my phone and alerting me to happy times on the horizon.

Or… Potentially scary times.

Let’s face facts here. I’m currently deeply infatuated with Nick. Ridiculously attracted to him. Swooning like a schoolgirl while needing to fan my face and wondering what my pulse rate has escalated to, simply by being in his presence.

And when he kisses me? Well… That’s where the scare-factor comes in. I feel the effects through my entire body and every nerve ending jumps to life. So I’m fearing I just might scream his name when he makes me come.

Which I know he’s going to do. Repeatedly.

It’s not necessary for me to orgasm in order to conceive. Dr. Shaw was kind enough to point this out while I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Not. Orgasm?

With Nick inside me? Um, yeah… But, no.

It would take thumbtacks driven under my nails or a fork to my temple to keep me from losing it when we have sex. I’m well aware of this.

And so now I’m stressing on an entirely different level.

Because if my app is giving me the heads up as a precursor to opportunity knocking, that means Claire is in the know and Nick is jetting my way in his private plane as we speak.

Therefore… I’m in need of waxing ASAP. A mani/pedi. I’d say a sexier thong, but something tells me the lingerie drawer at the house I deem a mansion has likely been well-stocked with the finest from France. Or Italy. All of Europe, for fuck’s sake.

There are butterflies in my stomach and my breaths are scarce. I have a full day to prepare for Nick’s arrival and yet…

Oh, my fucking God.

A full day isn’t enough.

Given my bartender covers for me as manager when I’m off, I grab him and say, “There’s been an emergency. I’ll explain later, but I need you to hold down the fort.”

He shoots a glance over my shoulder at the sparse patronage and then smirks at me. “Sure. I’ll do my best to keep the masses fed.”

Ugh.

With a shake of my head and a sigh of exasperation, I tell him, “Just hang in here with me a little longer. We’re on the cusp of changes. Big changes. And I’d like for you to take on more responsibility, with more pay.”

His expression is dubious but curious. I’ve actually intrigued him?

“Big changes?” he inquires.

“Huge, actually. Just… Not overnight. Can you bear with me for the immediate future, and I’ll let you in on the plans when I can?”

“I like the view. So, yeah. I’ll stick around. Do what you need to do, Bailey.”

“Everyone likes the view,” I mumble as I walk away. That is the least of my concerns. It’s the rest of the damn restaurant that’s the problem.

But I’ve got my own issues to contend with at the moment, and they involve making myself presentable for a royal.

Correction: Making my naked self presentable for a royal.

And just as I’m considering this, Claire calls me.

“Hi,” I tentatively say, because I’m a bit unnerved. And that’s an understatement.

“Hi, back,” she replies in her delicate tone, her accent just as indiscernible as Nick’s, though I detect more French from her. Regardless, her English is impeccable. She hastily informs me, “I have several appointments aligned for you, Bailey. At a renowned spa. You’ll overnight there. Can you get away from work?”

“Yes, I’ve already made that arrangement.”

“Fantastic. You’ll be in the lap of luxury, I promise. Just relax, enjoy, don’t worry about a thing. Whatever modifications or add-ons you want to the services, food, and beverages I’ve ordered will be directly billed to me. The sky is utterly the limit, darling. Now is not the time to be frugal or timid. We want you perfectly at ease, comfortable, and wholly Zenned out.”

I love this woman.

Still… I’m overwhelmed.

“Bailey?” she softly prompts me as I’m suffering heart palpitations and have lost my voice.

It takes me a moment to recover. “I’m here.”

“Grand. The limo will pick you up at the restaurant in ten minutes.”

“I need to stop at my rental for some clothes and—”

“No, you don’t. All taken care of, rest assured.”

She’s much too efficient. My mind reels.

She adds, “All you have to do is allow yourself to be pampered.”

Okay, those are not words I would ever, ever expect to hear. Not in my life.

They trip me up a little.

Choke me up, actually.

I walked urine-stained streets in my youth. Now I’m headed to a swank spa for endless hours of an overindulgence for which someone else is footing the bill?

I sink into an empty chair. I mean, you know… Not difficult to locate here.

I try to catch my breath.

“Bailey,” Claire calmly says. “Dr. Shaw was quite specific about you being rested and at ease. And Mr. Angelini is equally adamant regarding self-care to bring solace and a balance to your system and mental state.”

I’m suddenly feeling as though I’m a science project.

And yet…

Conversely…

Oh. Hell.

I want the pampering. I want the “lap of luxury” treatment. I want to be groomed and polished to within an inch of my life. Into something Nick takes one look at and has to have.

So I cave. And say, “I’ll meet the limo out front, Claire.”