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"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."
"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 inner goddess removes her iPod earbuds and starts listening with 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 announces, giving me an assessing look before he disappears into his study. I let out a sigh of relief and head to our bedroom. Dinner was awkward. I'm still mad at Christian, and he doesn't seem to think he's done anything wrong. Has 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 . . . playroom . . . TV room . . . kitchen countertop . . . Stop! It always comes back to sex with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.
I wander into the bathroom and scowl at my reflection in the mirror. Coming back to the real world is hard. We managed to skate over all our differences while we were in our bubble because we were so wrapped up in each other. But now? Briefly I am dragged back to my wedding, remembering my concerns that day - marry in haste . . . No, I mustn't think like this. I knew he was Fifty Shades when I married him. I just have to hang in there and try to talk this through with him. I squint at myself in the mirror. I look pale, and now I have that woman to deal with.
I'm wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little cle**age. I wash my face then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I then brush my hair vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me that tumbles to my br**sts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of my pumps, rather than my flats.
