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I lean back so I can see his face. He gazes down at me, eyes bright.
“I like that, too,” I murmur, and he kisses me, his hands still spread across my bump.
Seeing he’s in a good mood, I decide to broach a delicate subject. “Have you thought any more about my suggestion?”
He stills. “Ana, the answer is no.”
“But Ella is such a lovely name.”
“I am not naming my daughter after my mother. No. End of discussion.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Grasping my chin, he gazes earnestly down at me, radiating exasperation. “Ana, give it up. I don’t want my daughter tainted by my past.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.” Shit . . . I don’t want to anger him.
“That’s better. Stop trying to fix it,” he mutters. “You got me to admit I loved her, you dragged me to her grave. Enough.”
Oh no. I twist in his lap to straddle him and grasp his head in my hands.
“I’m sorry. Really. Don’t be angry with me, please.” I kiss him, then kiss the corner of his mouth. After a beat, he points to the other corner, and I smile and kiss
it. He points to his nose. I kiss that. He grins and places his hands on my backside.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey—what am I going to do with you?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I murmur. He grins and, twisting suddenly, he pushes me down onto the blanket.
“How about I do it now?” he whispers with a salacious smile.
“Christian!” I gasp.
Suddenly there’s a high-pitched cry from Ted. Christian leaps to his feet with a panther’s easy grace and races toward the source of the sound. I follow at a more
leisurely pace. Secretly, I’m not as concerned as Christian—it was not a cry that would make me take the stairs two at a time to find out what’s wrong.
Christian swings Teddy up into his arms. Our little boy is crying inconsolably and pointing to the ground, where the remains of his popsicle lie in a soggy mess,
melting into the grass.
“He dropped it,” Sophie says, sadly. “He could have had mine, but I’ve finished it.”
“Oh, Sophie darling, don’t worry.” I stroke her hair.
“Mommy!” Ted wails, holding his hands out to me. Christian reluctantly lets him go as I reach for him.
“There, there.”
“Pop,” he sobs.
“I know, baby boy. We’ll go see Mrs. Taylor and get another one.” I kiss his head . . . oh, he smells so good. He smells of my baby boy.
“Pop,” he sniffs. I take his hand and kiss his sticky fingers.
“I can taste your popsicle here on your fingers.”
Ted stops crying and examines his hand.
“Put your fingers in your mouth.”
He does. “Pop!”
“Yes. Popsicle.”
He grins. My mercurial little boy, just like his dad. Well, at least he has an excuse—he’s only two.
“Shall we go see Mrs. Taylor?” He nods, smiling his beautiful baby smile. “Will you let Daddy carry you?” He shakes his head and wraps his arms around my
neck, hugging me tightly, his face pressed against my throat.
“I think Daddy wants to taste popsicle, too,” I whisper in Ted’s little ear. Ted frowns at me, then looks at his hand and holds it out to Christian. Christian smiles
and puts Ted’s fingers in his mouth.
“Hmm . . . tasty.”
Ted giggles and reaches up, wanting Christian to hold him. Christian grins at me and takes Ted in his arms, settling him on his hip.
“Sophie, where’s Gail?”
“She was in the big house.”
I glance at Christian. His smile has turned bittersweet, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
“You’re so good with him,” he murmurs.
“This little one?” I ruffle Ted’s hair. “It’s only because I have the measure of you Grey men.” I smirk at my husband.
He laughs. “Yes, you do, Mrs. Grey.”
Teddy squirms out of Christian’s hold. Now he wants to walk, my stubborn little man. I take one of his hands, and his dad takes the other, and together we swing
Teddy between us all the way back to the house, Sophie skipping along in front of us.
I wave to Taylor who, on a rare day-off, is outside the garage, dressed in jeans and a wife-beater, as he tinkers with an old motorbike.
I pause outside the door to Ted’s room and listen as Christian reads to Ted. “I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees . . .”1
When I peek in, Teddy is fast asleep while Christian continues to read. He glances up when I open the door and closes the book. He puts his finger to his lips and
switches on the baby monitor beside Ted’s crib. He adjusts Ted’s bedclothes, strokes his cheek, then straightens up, and tiptoes over to me without making a sound.
It’s hard not to giggle at him.
Out in the hallway, Christian pulls me into his embrace. “God, I love him, but it’s great when he’s asleep,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
He gazes down at me, eyes soft. “I can hardly believe he’s been with us for two years.”
“I know.” I kiss him, and for a moment, I’m transported back to Teddy’s birth: the emergency caesarian, Christian’s crippling anxiety, Dr. Greene’s no-nonsense
calm when my Little Blip was in distress. I shudder inwardly at the memory.
calm when my Little Blip was in distress. I shudder inwardly at the memory.
“Mrs. Grey, you’ve been in labor for fifteen hours now. Your contractions have slowed in spite of the Pitocin. We need to do a C-section—the baby is in distress.”
Dr. Greene is adamant.
“About fucking time!” Christian growls at her. Dr. Greene ignores him.
“Christian, quiet.” I squeeze his hand. My voice is low and weak and everything is fuzzy—the walls, the machines, the green-gowned people . . . I just want to
go to sleep. But I have something important to do first . . . Oh yes. “I wanted to push him out myself.”
“Mrs. Grey, please. C-section.”
“Please, Ana,” Christian pleads.
“Can I sleep then?”
“Yes, baby, yes.” It’s almost a sob, and Christian kisses my forehead.
“I want to see the Lil’ Blip.”
“You will.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Finally,” Dr. Greene mutters. “Nurse, page the anesthesiologist. Dr. Miller, prep for a C-section. Mrs. Grey, we are going to move you to the OR.”
“Move?” Christian and I speak at once.
“Yes. Now.”
And suddenly we’re moving—quickly, the lights on the ceiling blurring into one long bright strip as I’m whisked across the corridor.
“Mr. Grey, you’ll need to change into scrubs.”
“What?”
“Now, Mr. Grey.”
He squeezes my hand and releases me.
“Christian,” I call, panic setting in.
We are through another set of doors, and in no time a nurse is setting up a screen across my chest. The door opens and closes, and there’s so many people in the
room. It’s so loud . . . I want to go home.
“Christian?” I search the faces in the room for my husband.
“He’ll be with you in a moment, Mrs. Grey.”
A moment later, he’s beside me, in blue scrubs, and I reach for his hand.
“I’m frightened,” I whisper.
“No, baby, no. I’m here. Don’t be frightened. Not my strong Ana.” He kisses my forehead, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that something’s wrong.
“What is it?”
“What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Baby, you’re just exhausted.” His eyes burn with fear.
“Mrs. Grey, the anesthesiologist is here. He’s going to adjust your epidural, and then we can proceed.”
“She’s having another contraction.”
Everything tightens like a steel band around my belly. Shit! I crush Christian’s hand as I ride it out. This is what’s tiring—enduring this pain. I am so tired. I can
feel the numbing liquid spread . . . spread down. I concentrate on Christian’s face. On the furrow between his brows. He’s tense. He’s worried. Why is he worried?