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"Here you are, Ana dear." Mrs. Jones interrupts my inner turmoil. When I glance up at her, she hands me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her eyes twinkling. I haven't had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in.
When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on Christian's side, dressed in his T-shirt. Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently wish him safe passage home . . . and a good mood.
I wake with a start. It's light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples. Oh no. I hope I don't have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes, and as they flutter open I notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is seated in it. He's wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of the breast pocket. I wonder if I'm dreaming. His left arm is draped over the chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid. Brandy? Whiskey? I have no idea. One long leg is crossed at the ankle over his knee. He's wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right elbow rests on the arm of the chair, his hand at his chin, and he's slowly running his index finger rhythmically back and forth over his lower lip. In the early morning light, his eyes burn with grave intensity but his general expression is completely unreadable.
My heart almost stops. He's here. How did he get here? He must have left New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep?
"Hi," I whisper.
He regards me coolly, and my heart stutters once more. Oh no. He moves his long fingers away from his mouth, tosses the remainder of his drink down his throat, reaches over and places the glass on the bedside table. I half expect him to kiss me, but he doesn't. He sits back, continuing to regard me, his expression impassive.
"Hello," he says finally, his voice hushed. And I know he's still mad. Really mad.
"You're back."
"It would appear so."
Slowly I pull myself up into a sitting position, not taking my eyes off him. My mouth is dry. "How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?"
"Long enough."
"You're still mad." I can hardly speak the words.
He gazes at me, as if considering his response. "Mad," he says as if testing the word, weighing up its nuances, its meaning. "No, Ana. I am far, far beyond mad."
Holy crap. I try to swallow, but it's hard with a dry mouth.
"Far beyond mad . . . that doesn't sound good." Shit!
He gazes at me, completely impassive, and doesn't respond. A stark silence stretches between us. I reach over to my glass of no-longerquite-so-sparkling water and take a welcome sip, trying to bring my erratic heart rate under control.
"Ryan caught Jack." I try a different tack, and I place my glass beside his on the bedside table.
"I know," he says icily.
Of course he knows. "Are you going to be monosyllabic for long?"
His eyebrows move fractionally registering his surprise as if he hadn't expected this question. "Yes," he says finally. Oh . . . okay. What to do? Defense - the best form of attack. "I'm sorry I stayed out."
"Are you?"
"No," I mutter after a pause, because it's true.
"Why say it then?"
"Because I don't want you to be mad at me."
He sighs heavily as if he's been holding this tension for a thousand hours and runs his hand through his hair. He looks beautiful. Mad, but beautiful. I drink him in - Christian's back - angry, but in one piece.
"I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you."
"I'm sure he does."
"Christian, please . . ."
"Please what?"
"Don't be so cold."
His eyebrows rise in surprise once more. "Anastasia, cold is not what I'm feeling at the moment. I'm burning. Burning with rage. I don't know how to deal with these" - he waves his hand searching for the word - "feelings." His tone is bitter.
Oh shit. His honesty disarms me. All I want to do is crawl into his lap. It's all I've wanted to do since I came home last night. But right now, I don't think it's a good idea. Is it? To hell with this. I move, taking him by surprise and climbing awkwardly into his lap, where I curl up. He doesn't push me away, which is what I'd feared. After a beat, he folds his arms around me and buries his nose in my hair. He smells of whiskey. Jeez, how much did he drink? He smells of bodywash, too . . . he smells of Christian. I wrap my arms around his neck and nuzzle his throat, and he sighs once more, deeply this time.
"Oh, Mrs. Grey. What am I going to do with you?" He kisses the top of my head. I close my eyes, relishing the contact with him.
"How much have you had to drink?"
He stills. "Why?"
"You don't normally drink hard liquor."
"This is my second glass. I've had a trying night, Anastasia. Give a man a break."
I smile. "If you insist, Mr. Grey," I breathe into his neck. "You smell heavenly. I slept on your side of the bed because your pillow smells of you."
He nuzzles my hair. "Did you now? I wondered why you were on this side. I'm still mad at you."
"I know."
His hand rhythmically strokes my back.
"And I'm mad at you," I whisper.
He pauses. "And what, pray, have I done to deserve your ire?"
"I'll tell you later when you're no longer burning with rage." I kiss his throat. He closes his eyes and leans into my kiss but makes no move to kiss me back. His arms tighten around me, squeezing me.
"When I think of what might have happened . . ." His voice is barely a whisper. Broken, raw.
"I'm okay."
"Oh, Ana." It's almost a sob.
