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“Good morning, Miss Steele. It’s always a treat to wake up to you.”
She strokes my cheek. “And you, Mr. Grey.” Her tone is soft. “Do we have to get up? I like being here in your room.”
“No.” I glance at my watch on the nightstand. It’s 9:15. “My parents will be at Mass.” I shift to her side.
“I didn’t know they were churchgoers.”
I grimace. “Yes. They are. Catholic.”
“Are you?”
“No, Anastasia.”
God and I went our separate ways a long time ago.
“Are you?” I ask, recalling that Welch could find no religious affiliations during her background check.
She shakes her head. “No. Neither of my parents practice a faith. But I would like to go to church today. I need to thank…someone for bringing you back alive from the helicopter accident.”
I sigh, visualizing a bolt of lightning burning me to a cinder if I step onto the hallowed grounds of a church, but for her, I’ll go.
“Okay. I’ll see what we can do.” I kiss her quickly. “Come, shower with me.”
There’s a small leather duffel outside my bedroom door—Taylor has delivered clean clothes. I scoop up the bag and shut the door. Ana is wrapped in a towel, beads of water glistening on her shoulders. Her attention is focused on my bulletin board, paused at the photograph of the crack whore. She turns her head toward me, a question on her beautiful face…a question I don’t want to answer. “You still have it,” she says.
Yeah. I still have the photo. What of it?
As her question hangs in the air between us, her eyes grow luminous in the morning sunshine, drinking me in, begging me to say something. But I can’t. This is not somewhere I want to go. For a moment, I’m reminded of the gut punch I felt when Carrick handed me the photograph so many years ago.
Hell. Don’t go there, Grey.
“Taylor brought a change of clothes for us,” I whisper as I sling the duffel onto the bed. There’s an impossibly long silence before she responds.
“Okay,” she says, and she walks toward the bed and unzips the bag.
I’ve eaten my fill. My parents have returned from Mass and my mother has cooked her traditional brunch: a delicious, coronary-inducing plate of bacon, sausage, hash browns, eggs, and English muffins. Grace is a little quiet, and I suspect that she might have a hangover.
Throughout the morning I have avoided my father.
I haven’t forgiven him for last night.
Ana, Elliot, and Kate are in a heated debate—about bacon, of all things—and arguing over who should have the last sausage. I half listen with amusement while I read an article about the failure rate of local banks in the Sunday edition of The Seattle Times.
Mia shrieks and reclaims her place at the table, holding her laptop. “Look at this. There’s a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about you being engaged, Christian.”
“Already?” Mom says, surprised.
Don’t these assholes have anything better to do?
Mia reads the column out loud. “‘Word has reached us here at the Nooz that Seattle’s most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up, and wedding bells are in the air.’”
I glance at Ana, who pales as she stares, doe-eyed, from Mia to me.
“‘But who is the lucky, lucky lady?’” Mia continues. “‘The Nooz is on the hunt. Bet she’s reading one helluva prenup.’” Mia starts giggling.
I glare at her. Shut the fuck up, Mia.
She stops and presses her lips together. Ignoring her, and all the anxious looks exchanged at the table, I turn my attention to Ana, who blanches even more.
“No,” I mouth, trying to reassure her.
“Christian,” Dad says.
“I’m not discussing this again,” I snarl at him. He opens his mouth to say something. “No prenup!” I snap with such vehemence that he closes his mouth.
Shut up, Carrick!
Picking up the paper, I find myself rereading the same sentence in the banking article over and over while I fume.
“Christian,” Ana murmurs. “I’ll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want.”
I look up and she’s beseeching me, a sheen of unshed tears reflecting in her eyes.
Ana. Stop.
“No!” I exclaim, imploring her to drop this subject.
“It’s to protect you.”
“Christian, Ana—I think you should discuss this in private,” Grace chastises us and scowls at Carrick and Mia.
“Ana, this is not about you,” Dad mumbles. “And please call me Carrick.”
Don’t try and make it up to her now. I seethe, inwardly, and suddenly there’s a burst of activity. Kate and Mia get up to clear the table and Elliot quickly stabs the last remaining sausage with his fork.
“I definitely prefer sausage,” he roars with forced levity.
Ana is staring at her hands. She looks crestfallen.
Jesus. Dad. Look what you’ve done.
I reach over and grasp both her hands in mine, and whisper so only she can hear me, “Stop it. Ignore my dad. He’s really pissed about Elena. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her mouth shut.”
