by E. L. James
Once dressed in my new jeans and T-shirt, my appetite makes a brief but welcome return during breakfast in our suite. I know Christian is pleased to see me eating my granola and Greek yogurt.
“Thank you for ordering my favorite breakfast.”
“It’s your birthday,” Christian says softly. “And you have to stop thanking me.” He rolls his eyes in exasperation, but fondly, I think.
“I just want you to know that I appreciate it.”
“Anastasia, it’s what I do.” His expression is serious—of course, Christian in command and control. How could I forget . . . Would I want him any other way?
I smile. “Yes, it is.”
He gives me a puzzled look then shakes his head. “Shall we go?”
“I’ll just brush my teeth.”
He smirks. “Okay.”
Why is he smirking? The thought nags me as I head into the en suite. A memory springs unbidden to my mind. I used his toothbrush after I first spent the night with him. I smirk and grab his toothbrush in homage to that first time. Gazing at myself as I brush my teeth, I’m pale, too pale. But then I’m always pale. The last time I was here I was single, and now I’m married at twenty-two! I’m getting old. I rinse out my mouth.
Holding up my wrist, I shake it, and the charms on my bracelet give a satisfying rattle. How does my sweet Fifty always know exactly the right thing to give me? I take a deep breath, attempting to stem the emotion still lurking in my system, and gaze down at the bracelet once more. I bet it cost a fortune. Ah . . . well. He can afford it.
As we walk to the elevators, Christian takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, his thumb brushing over Charlie Tango on my bracelet. “You like?”
“More than like. I love it. Very much. Like you.”
He smiles and kisses my knuckles once more. I feel lighter than I did yesterday. Perhaps because it’s morning and the world always seems a more hopeful place than it does in the dead of night. Or maybe it’s my husband’s sweet wake-up. Or maybe it’s knowing that Ray is no worse.
As we step into the empty elevator, I glance up at Christian. His eyes flicker quickly down to mine, and he smirks again.
“Don’t,” he whispers as the doors shut.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Fuck the paperwork,” I mutter, grinning.
He laughs, and it’s such a carefree, boyish sound. He tugs me into his arms and tilts my head up. “Someday, I’ll rent this elevator for a whole afternoon.”
“Just the afternoon?” I arch my brow.
“Mrs. Grey, you are greedy.”
“When it comes to you, I am.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” He kisses me gently.
And I don’t know if it’s because we are in this elevator or because he’s not touched me in over twenty-four hours or if he’s just my intoxicating husband, but desire unwinds and stretches lazily deep in my belly. I run my fingers into his hair and deepen the kiss, pushing him against the wall and bringing my body flush against his.
He groans into my mouth and cups my head, cradling me as we kiss—really kiss, our tongues exploring the oh-so-familiar but still oh-so-new, oh-so-exciting territory that is the other’s mouth. My inner goddess swoons, bringing my libido back from purdah. I caress his dear, dear face in my hands.
“Ana,” he breathes.
“I love you, Christian Grey. Don’t forget that,” I whisper as I gaze into darkening gray eyes.
The elevator comes smoothly to a halt and the doors open.
“Let’s go and see your father before I decide to rent this today.” He kisses me quickly, takes my hand, and leads me into the lobby.
As we walk past the concierge, Christian gives a discreet signal to the kindly middle-aged man standing behind the desk. He nods and picks up his phone. I glance questioningly at Christian, and he gives me his secret smile. I frown at him, and for a moment he looks nervous.
“Where’s Taylor?” I ask.
“We’ll see him shortly.”
Of course, he’s probably fetching the car. “Sawyer?”
“Running errands.”
What errands?
Christian avoids the revolving door, and I know it’s so he doesn’t have to release my hand. The thought warms me. Outside it’s a mild late-summer morning, but the scent of the coming fall is in the breeze. I glance around, looking for the Audi SUV and Taylor. No sign. Christian’s hand tightens around mine, and I look up at him. He seems anxious.
“What is it?”
He shrugs. The hum of an approaching car engine distracts me. It’s throaty . . . familiar. As I turn to find the source of the noise, it stops suddenly. Taylor is climbing out of a sleek white sports car parked in front of us.
Oh shit! It’s an R8. I whip my head back to Christian, who’s watching me warily. “You can buy me one for my birthday . . . a white one, I think.”
“Happy birthday,” he says, and I know he’s gauging my reaction. I gape at him because that’s all I can do. He holds out a key.
“You are completely over the top,” I whisper. He’s bought me a fucking Audi R8! Holy shit. Just like I asked! My face splits in a huge grin, and my inner goddess does a backflip off the high dive. I jump up and down on the spot in a moment of unguarded and unbridled overexcitement. Christian’s expression mirrors mine, and I dance forward into his waiting arms. He swings me around.
“You have more money than sense!” I whoop. “I love it! Thank you.” He stops and dips me low suddenly, startling me, so that I have to grasp his upper arms.
“Anything for you, Mrs. Grey.” He grins down at me. Oh my. What a very public display of affection. He bends and kisses me. “Come. Let’s go see your dad.”
“Yes. And I get to drive?”
He grins down at me. “Of course. It’s yours.” He stands me up and releases me, and I hurry around to the driver’s door.
Taylor opens it for me, smiling broadly. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Grey.”
“Thank you, Taylor.” I startle him by giving him a swift hug, which he returns awkwardly. He’s still blushing when I climb into the car, and he closes the door promptly once I’m inside.
“Drive safe, Mrs. Grey,” he says gruffly. I beam up at him, barely able to contain my excitement.
“Will do.” I promise, putting the key in the ignition as Christian stretches out beside me.
“Take it easy. Nobody chasing us now,” he warns. When I turn the key, the engine thunders to life. I check the rearview and side mirrors, and spotting a rare moment of clear traffic, execute a huge perfect U-turn and roar off in the direction of OSHU.
“Whoa!” Christian exclaims, alarmed.
“What?”
“I don’t want you in the ICU beside your father. Slow down,” he growls, not to be argued with. I ease off the accelerator and grin at him.
“Better?”
“Much,” he mutters, trying hard to look stern—and failing miserably.
Ray’s condition is the same. Seeing him grounds me after the heady road trip here. I really should drive more carefully. You can’t legislate for every drunk driver in this world. I must ask Christian what’s become of the asshole who hit Ray—I’m sure he knows. In spite of the tubes, my father looks comfortable, and I think he has a little more color in his cheeks. While I tell him about my morning, Christian wanders off to the waiting room to make phone calls.
Nurse Kellie hovers, checking Ray’s lines and making notes on his chart. “All his signs are good, Mrs. Grey.” She smiles kindly at me.
“That’s very encouraging.”
A little later Dr. Crowe appears with two nursing assistants and says warmly, “Mrs. Grey, time to take your father up to radiology. We’re giving him a CT scan. To see how his brain is doing.”
“Will you be long?”
“Up to an hour.”
“I’ll wait. I’d like to know.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Grey.”
I wander int
o the thankfully empty waiting room where Christian is talking on the phone, pacing. As he speaks, he gazes out of the window at the panoramic view of Portland. He turns to me when I shut the door, and he looks angry.
“How far above the limit? . . . I see . . . All charges, everything. Ana’s father is in the ICU—I want you to throw the fucking book at him, Dad . . . Good. Keep me informed.” He hangs up.
“The other driver?”
He nods. “Some drunken trailer trash from Southeast Portland.” He sneers, and I’m shocked by his terminology and his derisory tone. He walks over to me, and his tone softens.
“Finished with Ray? Do you want to go?”
“Um . . . no.” I peer up at him, still reeling at his display of contempt.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Ray’s being taken to radiology for a CT scan to check the swelling in his brain. I’d like to wait for the results.”
“Okay. We’ll wait.” He sits down and holds out his arms. As we’re alone, I go willingly and curl up in his lap.
“This is not how I envisaged spending today,” Christian murmurs into my hair.
“Me neither, but I’m feeling more positive now. Your mom was very reassuring. It was kind of her to come last night.”
Christian strokes my back and rests his chin on my head. “My mom is an amazing woman.”
“She is. You’re very lucky to have her.”
Christian nods.
“I should call my mom. Tell her about Ray,” I murmur and Christian stiffens. “I’m surprised she hasn’t called me.” I frown in a moment of realization. In fact, I feel hurt. It’s my birthday after all, and she was there when I was born. Why hasn’t she called?
“Maybe she did,” Christian says. I fish my BlackBerry out of my pocket. It shows no missed calls, but quite a few texts: happy birthdays from Kate, José, Mia, and Ethan. Nothing from my mother. I shake my head despondently.
“Call her now,” he says softly. I do, but there’s no reply, just the answering machine. I don’t leave a message. How can my own mother forget my birthday?
“She’s not there. I’ll call later when I know the results of the brain scan.”
Christian tightens his arms around me, nuzzling my hair once more, and wisely makes no comment on my mother’s lack of maternal concern. I feel rather than hear the buzz of his BlackBerry. He doesn’t let me stand up but fishes it awkwardly out of his pocket.
“Andrea,” he snaps, businesslike again. I make another move to stand and he stops me, frowning and holding me tightly around my waist. I nestle back against his chest and listen to the one-sided conversation.
“Good . . . ETA is what time? . . . And the other, um . . . packages?” Christian glances at his watch. “Does the Heathman have all the details? . . . Good . . . Yes. It can hold until Monday morning, but e-mail it just in case—I’ll print, sign, and scan it back to you . . . They can wait. Go home, Andrea . . . No, we’re good, thank you.” He hangs up.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Is this your Taiwan thing?”
“Yes.” He shifts beneath me.
“Am I too heavy?”
He snorts. “No, baby.”
“Are you worried about the Taiwan thing?”
“No.”
“I thought it was important.”
“It is. The shipyard here depends on it. There are lots of jobs at stake.”
Oh!
“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.”
I yawn.
“Am I boring you, Mrs. Grey?” He nuzzles my hair again, amused.
“No! Never . . . I’m just very comfortable on your lap. I like hearing about your business.”
“You do?” He sounds surprised.
“Of course.” I lean back to gaze directly at him. “I like hearing any bit of information you deign to share with me.” I smirk, and he regards me with amusement and shakes his head.
“Always hungry for more information, Mrs. Grey.”
“Tell me.” I urge him as I snuggle up against his chest again.
“Tell you what?”
“Why you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Work the way you do.”
“A guy’s got to earn a living.” He’s amused.
“Christian, you earn more than a living.” My voice is full of irony. He frowns and is quiet for a moment. I think he’s not going to divulge any secrets, but he surprises me.
“I don’t want to be poor,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve done that. I’m not going back there again. Besides . . . it’s a game,” he murmurs. “It’s about winning. A game I’ve always found very easy.”
“Unlike life,” I murmur to myself. Then I realize I said the words out loud.
“Yes, I suppose.” He frowns. “Though it’s easier with you.”
Easier with me? I hug him tightly. “It can’t all be a game. You’re very philanthropic.”
He shrugs, and I know he’s growing uncomfortable. “About some things, maybe,” he says quietly.
“I love philanthropic Christian,” I murmur.
“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.”
He laughs. “Fifty Shades,” he murmurs into my hair.
“My Fifty Shades.”
He shifts, tipping my head back, and kisses me. “Well, Mrs. Shades, let’s see how your dad is doing.”
“Okay.”
“Can we go for a drive?”
Christian and I are back in the R8, and I’m feeling giddily buoyant. Ray’s brain is back to normal—all swelling gone. Dr. Sluder has decided to wake him from his coma tomorrow. She says she’s pleased with his progress.
“Sure.” Christian grins at me. “It’s your birthday—we can do anything you want.”
Oh! His tone makes me turn and gaze at him. His eyes are dark.
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
How much promise can he load into one word? “Well, I want to drive.”
“Then drive, baby.” He grins, and I grin back.
My car handles like a dream, and as we hit the I-5, I subtly put my foot down, forcing us both back in our seats.
“Steady, baby,” Christian warns.
As we drive back into Portland, an idea occurs to me.
“Have you planned lunch?” I ask Christian tentatively.
“No. You’re hungry?” He sounds hopeful.
“Yes.”
“Where do you want to go? It’s your day, Ana.”
“I know just the place.”
I pull up near the gallery where José exhibited his work and park right outside the Le Picotin restaurant where we went after José’s show.
Christian grins. “For one minute I thought you were going to take me to that dreadful bar you drunk dialed me from.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To check the azaleas are still alive.” He arches a sardonic brow.
I blush. “Don’t remind me! Besides . . . you still took me to your hotel room.” I smirk.
“Best decision I ever made,” he says, his eyes soft and warm.
“Yes. It was.” I lean over and kiss him.
“Do you think that supercilious fucker is still waiting tables?” Christian asks.
“Supercilious? I thought he was fine.”
“He was trying to impress you.”
“Well, he succeeded.”
Christian’s mouth twists in amused disgust.
“Shall we go see?” I offer.
“Lead on, Mrs. Grey.”
After lunch and a quick detour to the Heathman to pick up Christian’s laptop, we return to the h
ospital. I spend the afternoon with Ray, reading aloud from one of the manuscripts I’ve been sent. My only accompaniment is the sound of the machinery keeping him alive, keeping him with me. Now that I know he’s making progress, I can breathe a little easier and relax. I’m hopeful. He just needs time to get well. I’ve got time—I can give him that. I wonder idly if I should try calling Mom again, but decide to do it later. I hold Ray’s hand loosely as I read to him, squeezing it occasionally, willing him to be well. His fingers feel soft and warm beneath my touch. He still has the indentation on his finger where he wore his wedding ring—even after all this time.
An hour or two later, I don’t know how long, I glance up to see Christian, laptop in hand, standing at the end of Ray’s bed with Nurse Kellie.
“It’s time to go, Ana.”
Oh. I clasp Ray’s hand tightly. I don’t want to leave him.
“I want to feed you. Come. It’s late.” Christian sounds insistent.
“I’m about to give Mr. Steele a sponge bath,” Nurse Kellie says.
“Okay.” I concede. “We’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
I kiss Ray on his cheek, feeling his unfamiliar stubble beneath my lips. I don’t like it. Keep getting better, Daddy. I love you.
“I thought we’d dine downstairs. In a private room,” Christian says, a gleam in his eye as he opens the door to our suite.
“Really? Finish what you started a few months ago?”
He smirks. “If you’re very lucky, Mrs. Grey.”
I laugh. “Christian, I don’t have anything dressy to wear.”
He smiles, holds out his hand, and leads me into the bedroom. He opens the wardrobe to reveal a large white dress bag hanging inside.
“Taylor?” I ask.
“Christian,” he replies, forceful and wounded at once. His tone makes me laugh. Unzipping the bag, I find a navy satin dress and ease it out. It’s gorgeous—fitted with thin straps. It looks small.
“It’s lovely. Thank you. I hope it fits.”
“It will,” he says confidently. “And here”—he picks up a shoebox—“shoes to match.” He gives me a wolfish smile.
“You think of everything. Thank you.” I stretch up and kiss him.
“I do.” He hands me yet another bag.