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Ryan scuttles into the foyer behind me and dashes to the elevator to press the call button.
“What?” I snap when I’m alongside him. His cheeks redden.
“Apologies, ma’am,” he mutters.
Christian comes and stands beside me to wait for the elevator, and Ryan retreats.
“So it’s not just me you’re mad at?” Christian murmurs dryly. I glare up at him and see a trace of a smile on his face.
“Are you laughing at me?” I narrow my eyes.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, holding his hands up like I’m threatening him at gunpoint. He’s in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex-hair and a
guileless expression.
“You need a haircut,” I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the elevator.
“Do I?” he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.
“Yes.” I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.
“So you’re talking to me now?”
“Just.”
“What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication,” he asks cautiously.
I turn and gape at him.
“Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.”
He takes an alarmed step back. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office,” he murmurs, perplexed.
“Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all.”
The elevator doors open and I storm out. Taylor is standing in the hallway. He takes a step back and quickly shuts his mouth as I steam past him.
“Hi, Taylor,” I mutter.
“Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs.
Dropping my briefcase in the hallway, I head into the great room. Mrs. Jones is at the stove.
“Good evening, Mrs. Grey.”
“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” I mutter once more. I head straight to the fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. Christian follows me into the kitchen and watches me like a
hawk as I take a glass down from the cupboard. He removes his jacket and casually places it on the countertop.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask super sweetly.
“No thanks,” he says, not taking his eyes off me, and I know that he’s helpless. He does not know what to do with me. It’s comical on one level and tragic on
another. Well, screw him! I am having trouble locating my compassionate self since our meeting this afternoon. Slowly, he removes his tie then opens the top button
of his shirt. I pour myself a large glass of sauvignon blanc, and Christian runs a hand through his hair. When I turn around, Mrs. Jones has disappeared. Shit! She’s
my human shield. I take a slug of wine. Hmm. It tastes good.
“Stop this,” Christian whispers. He takes the two steps between us so he’s standing in front of me. Gently he tucks my hair behind my ear and caresses my
earlobe with his fingertips, sending a shiver through me. Is this what I’ve missed all day? His touch? I shake my head, causing him to release my ear and gaze up at
him.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs.
“What’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”
“Yes I do. You’re one of the few people I do listen to.”
I take another swig of wine.
“Is this about your name?”
“Yes and no. It’s how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you.” I glare up at him, expecting him to be angered.
His brow furrows. “Ana, you know I have . . . issues. It’s hard for me to let go where you’re concerned. You know that.”
“But I’m not a child, and I’m not an asset.”
“I know.” He sighs.
“Then stop treating me as though I am,” I whisper, imploring him.
He brushes the back of his fingers down my cheek and runs the tip of his thumb across my bottom lip.
“Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,” he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face. His words distract me. Like
a child. Precious like a child . . . a child would be precious to him!
“I’m neither of those things, Christian. I’m your wife. If you were hurt that I wasn’t going to take your name, you should have said.”
“Hurt?” He frowns deeply, and I know that he’s exploring the possibility in his mind. He straightens suddenly, still frowning, and glances quickly at his
wristwatch. “The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat.”
Oh no. I groan inwardly. He hasn’t answered me, and now I have to deal with Gia Matteo. My shitty day just got shittier. I scowl at Christian.
“This discussion isn’t finished,” I mutter.
“What else is there to discuss?”
“You could sell the company.”
Christian snorts. “Sell it?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’d find a buyer in today’s market?”
“How much did it cost you?”
“It was relatively cheap.” His tone is guarded.
“So if it folds?”
He smirks. “We’ll survive. But I won’t let it fold, Anastasia. Not while you’re there.”
“And if I leave?”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Something else.”
“You’ve already said this is your dream job. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I promised before God, Reverend Walsh, and a congregation of our nearest and
dearest to cherish you, uphold your hopes and dreams, and keep you safe at my side.”
dearest to cherish you, uphold your hopes and dreams, and keep you safe at my side.”
“Quoting your wedding vows to me is not playing fair.”
“I’ve never promised to play fair where you’re concerned. Besides,” he adds, “you’ve wielded your vows at me like a weapon before.”
I scowl at him. This is true.
“Anastasia, if you’re still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later.” His voice is suddenly low and full of sensual longing, his eyes heated.
What? Bed? How?
He smiles indulgently down at my expression. Is he expecting me to tie him up? Holy crap! My i
rapt attention.
“Seven shades of Sunday,” he whispers. “Looking forward to it.”
Whoa!
“Gail!” he shouts abruptly, and four seconds later, Mrs. Jones appears. Where was she? Taylor’s office? Listening? Oh jeez.
“Mr. Grey?”
“We’d like to eat now, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
Christian doesn’t take his eyes off me. He watches me vigilantly as if I’m some exotic creature about to bolt. I take a sip of my wine.
“I think I’ll join you in a glass,” he says, sighing, and runs a hand through his hair again.
“You’re not going to finish?”
“No.” I gaze down at my barely touched plate of fettuccini to avoid Christian’s darkening expression. Before he can say anything, I stand and clear our plates
from the dining table.
“Gia will be with us shortly,” I mutter. Christian’s mouth twists in an unhappy scowl, but he says nothing.
“I’ll take those, Mrs. Grey,” says Mrs. Jones as I walk into the kitchen.
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t like it?” she asks, concerned.
“It was fine. I’m just not hungry.”
Giving me a small sympathetic smile, she turns to clear my plate and put everything in the dishwasher.
“I’m going to make a couple of calls,” Christian a
I let out a sigh of relief and head to our bedroom. Di
he? My subconscious cocks an eyebrow at me and gazes benignly over her half-moon glasses. Yes, he has. He’s made it even more awkward for me at work. He
didn’t wait to discuss this issue with me when we were in the relative privacy of our own home. How would he feel if I came barging into his office, laying down
the law? And to cap it all, he wants to give me SIP! How the hell could I run a company? I know next to nothing about business.
I gaze out at the Seattle skyline bathed in the pearly pink light of dusk. And as usual, he wants to solve our differences in the bedroom . . . um . . . foyer . . .