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“Yes. It can hold until Monday morning, but e-mail it just in case—I’ll print, sign, and scan it back to you.”
“Samir and Helena have an HR issue they want to discuss, and Marco needs two minutes.”
“They can wait. Go home, Andrea.”
I think I hear her smile on the end of the phone. “Is there anything else you need? I’m on my cell if you do.”
“No, we’re good, thank you.” I hang up.
“Everything okay?” Ana asks.
“Yes.”
“Is this your Taiwan thing?”
“Yes.”
“Am I too heavy?”
As if! “No, baby.”
She asks me if I’m worried about the Taiwan deal and I assure her I’m not.
“I thought it was important.”
“It is. The shipyard here depends on it. There are lots of jobs at stake. We just have to sell it to the unions. That’s Sam and Ros’s job. But the way the economy’s heading, none of us have a lot of choice.”
Ana yawns.
“Am I boring you, Mrs. Grey?” Amused, I kiss her hair once more.
“No! Never. I’m just very comfortable on your lap,” she murmurs. “I like hearing about your business.”
“You do?”
“Of course. I like hearing any bit of information you deign to share with me.” She smirks, and I know she’s teasing me.
“Always hungry for more information, Mrs. Grey.”
“Tell me.” She rests her head against my chest again.
“Tell you what?”
“Why you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Work the way you do.”
I snort, amused, because it’s obvious, isn’t it? “A guy’s got to earn a living.”
“Christian, you earn more than a living,” she says, her eyes as guileless as ever, demanding the truth.
“I don’t want to be poor. I’ve done that. I’m not going back there again.”
The hunger.
The insecurity.
The vulnerability.
…The fear.
Grey, lighten up. It’s her birthday.
“Besides, it’s a game. It’s about winning. A game I’ve always found very easy.”
“Unlike life,” she mutters, almost to herself.
“Yes, I suppose.” I’ve never thought of it that way. I smile at her. Perceptive, Mrs. Grey. “Though it’s easier with you.”
She hugs me. “It can’t all be a game. You’re very philanthropic.”
I shrug. “About some things, maybe.” Ana, don’t lionize me. I can afford to be generous.
“I love philanthropic Christian,” she whispers.
“Just him?”
“Oh, I love megalomaniac Christian, too, and control-freak Christian, sexpertise Christian, kinky Christian, romantic Christian, shy Christian—the list is endless.”
“That’s a whole lot of Christians.”
“I’d say at least fifty.”
I laugh. “Fifty Shades,” I whisper into her hair.
“My Fifty Shades.”
I sit back, tip her head up, and kiss her. “Well, Mrs. Shades, let’s see how your dad is doing.”
“Okay.”
Dr. Sluder has good news. The swelling in Ray’s brain has subsided, so she’s decided to wake him from his coma tomorrow morning.
“I’m pleased with his progress. He’s come a long way in a short period of time. His recovery is proceeding well. It’s all good, Mrs. Grey.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Ana gushes, her eyes shining with gratitude.
I take Ana’s hand. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
“Can we go for a drive?” she asks as she starts the ignition.
“Sure. It’s your birthday—we can do anything you want.” For a moment I’m transported to a parking lot in Seattle, where an insatiable Ana took matters into her own hands.
She stares at me, her eyes darkening. “Anything?” Her voice is husky.
“Anything,” I offer.
“Well.” Her tone is seductive. “I want to drive.”
“Then drive, baby.” We grin at each other like the fools we are, and I resist the urge to pounce on her.
Behave, Grey.
Ana steers us out of the lot, and at a sedate speed that keeps my blood pressure normal she takes us to I-5. Once there, she puts her foot down, throwing us back into our seats. Damn! She was lulling me into a false sense of security. “Ana! Steady, baby,” I warn, and she slows down. We cruise over the bridge; luckily, the traffic is light. I stare down at the Willamette River and remember all the times I went running along its banks when I stayed in Portland during my pursuit of Miss Anastasia Steele.
And now here we are and she’s Mrs. Anastasia Grey.
“Have you planned lunch?” she asks.
“No. You’re hungry?” I hear the hope in my voice.
“Yes.”
“Where do you want to go? It’s your day, Ana.”
“I know just the place.”
She diverts off I-5, back across the river, and into downtown Portland. Eventually she pulls up outside the restaurant where we ate after José Rodriguez’s photography exhibition. The day I won her back.
“For one minute I thought you were going to take me to that dreadful bar you drunk-dialed me from,” I tease her.
“Why would I do that?”
“To check the azaleas are still alive.” I give her a sideways look, and she blushes.
Oh, yes, baby. You vomited at my feet.
“Don’t remind me! Besides, you still took me to your hotel room.” Smirking, she lifts her chin in that stubborn, triumphant way that she has.
“Best decision I ever made.”
“Yes. It was.” She leans over and kisses me.
“Do you think that supercilious fucker is still waiting tables?” I ask.
