by James, E L
Ana scowls. “So, what are your plans?” Her sarcasm is threaded through each word and she cocks her head to one side, like I do…copying me, laughing at me, I suspect.
God, I love her; she’s recovered her backbone.
“I’m changing the name of the company—to Grey Publishing.”
Ana blinks.
“And in a year’s time, it will be yours.”
Her mouth drops open.
“This is my wedding present to you.”
She shuts her mouth, opens it again, then shuts it again, looking shell-shocked.
“So, do I need to change the name to Steele Publishing?”
“Christian, you gave me a watch. I can’t run a business.”
“I ran my own business from the age of twenty-one.”
“But you’re, you. Control freak and whiz-kid extraordinaire. Jeez, Christian, you majored in economics at Harvard before you dropped out. At least you have some idea. I sold paint and cable ties for three years on a part-time basis, for heaven’s sake. I’ve seen so little of the world, and I know next to nothing!”
Well, that’s not true.
“You’re also the most well-read person I know.” I have to pitch this to her. “You love a good book. You couldn’t leave your job while we were on our honeymoon. You read how many manuscripts? Four?”
“Five,” she whispers.
“And you wrote full reports on all of them. You’re a very bright woman, Anastasia. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Crazy for you.” Always.
She snorts, trying not to laugh. “You’ll be a laughingstock. Buying a company for the little woman, who has only had a full-time job for a few months of her adult life.”
I dismiss her concerns with a wave of my hand. “Do you think I give a fuck what people think? Besides, you won’t be on your own.”
“Christian, I—” She stalls, lost for words, and I cherish the moment—it doesn’t happen often. She lays her head in her hands again. When she looks up, she’s trying not to laugh.
“Something amusing you, Ms. Steele?”
“Yes. You.”
Her amusement is contagious, and I find myself smiling. This is what she does. Disarms me.
Every time.
“Laughing at your husband? That will never do.” Her teeth sink into her lovely lower lip. “And you’re biting your lip,” I mutter darkly; it’s a stirring sight.
She sits back. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns.
“Think about what, Anastasia?”
Fucking you in your office? Lust streaks through my bloodstream like lightning.
“I know that look. We’re at work,” she whispers.
Can’t you feel this, Ana? The sorcery between us is potent. Raw. I lean forward to get closer to her, to catch her scent, to touch her. “We’re in a small, reasonably soundproofed office with a lockable door,” I whisper.
I want to seduce my wife.
“Gross. Moral. Turpitude.” Each word is a bullet forming a shield around her.
“Not with your husband.”
“With my boss’s boss’s boss,” she hisses.
“You’re my wife.”
“Christian, no. I mean it. You can fuck me seven shades of Sunday this evening. But not now. Not here!”
Hell. I take a deep breath as I come to my senses and the temperature in the room drops back to normal. I laugh, releasing my tension. “Seven shades of Sunday?” I arch a brow, intrigued. “I may hold you to that, Ms. Steele.”
“Oh, stop with the Ms. Steele!” she snaps and hammers her hand on her desk, making us both jump. “For heaven’s sake, Christian. If it means so much to you, I’ll change my name!”
What?
She’s agreeing?
I feel a sudden rush of relief.
My face erupts in a huge grin. I’ve succeeded in a negotiation with my wife. I think this might be a first.
Thank you, Ana.
“Good.” I clap my hands and stand. “Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Grey.”
She gawks at me. “But—”
“But what, Mrs. Grey?”
She shakes her head and closes her eyes, looking thoroughly exasperated. “Just go.”
“I intend to. I’ll see you this evening. I’m looking forward to seven shades of Sunday.” I ignore her scowl. “Oh, and I have a stack of business-related social engagements coming up, and I’d like you to accompany me.”
She frowns.
“I’ll have Andrea call Hannah to put the dates in your calendar. There are some people you need to meet. You should get Hannah to handle your schedule from now on.”
“Okay,” she mumbles, sounding bewildered.
I lean over the desk, staring straight into her dazed baby blues. “Love doing business with you, Mrs. Grey.” She doesn’t move, and I plant a soft kiss on her lips. “Laters, baby,” I whisper, then turn and leave.
Outside SIP, I sink into the plush leather in the back of the waiting Audi and ask Ryan to take me back to Grey House.
Thank heavens.
My relief is proportionate to the anxiety I felt before I went into the building. It appears my wife can be reasonable. I reach for my phone to send her an e-mail, and find that she’s beaten me to it.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: NOT AN ASSET!
Date: August 22 2011 14:23
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey
Next time you come and see me, make an appointment, so I can at least have some prior warning of your adolescent overbearing megalomania.
Yours
Anastasia Grey <—please note name.
Editor, SIP
Overbearing megalomaniac, eh?
My wife has a way with words.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Seven Shades of Sunday
Date: August 22 2011 14:34
To: Anastasia Steele
My Dear Mrs. Grey (emphasis on My)
What can I say in my defense? I was in the neighborhood.
And no, you are not an asset, you are my beloved wife.
As ever, you make my day.
Christian Grey
CEO & Overbearing Megalomaniac, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
In a calmer frame of mind, I head back to my office. I need lunch.
Throughout the afternoon, I check my e-mails to see if she’s responded. She hasn’t, and I presume that’s the end of it, I hope.
Later, I’m sitting in the car waiting for Ana outside SIP. Ryan is tapping his index fingers on the steering wheel, and it’s driving me crazy.
For fuck’s sake.
Taylor will be back this evening, so I’m endeavoring to keep my cool. I keep glancing toward the door to see if Ana is on her way. According to my watch, it’s 5:35, precisely. She’s five minutes late. We have a meeting with Gia later; I hope Ana hasn’t forgotten.
Where is she?
Sawyer appears, holding the office door open for Ana. Ryan gets out and strolls around the car to the rear passenger door.
What’s he playing at?
Head down, Ana walks briskly toward us, followed by Sawyer, who heads to the driver’s seat while Ana climbs into the car. Ryan takes the passenger seat.
“Hi,” she says, avoiding eye contact.
“Hi.”
“Disrupt anyone else’s work today?” Her tone is frostier than an arctic night.
“Only Flynn’s.”
Her eyes flick to me in surprise, but she looks ahead. “Next time you go to see him, I’ll give you a list of topics I want covered.” She’s bristling like a feral kitten beside me.
She’s still mad.
&
nbsp; I clear my throat. “You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey.”
She doesn’t answer. She just stares ahead, ignoring me. I shuffle a little closer and reach for her hand. “Hey,” I whisper. But she snatches her hand out of mine. “You’re mad at me?”
“Yes,” she spits, and folds her arms, turning away from me and staring through the window.
Damn.
Seattle streams past my window, and I stare out, unseeing, feeling miserable and out of my depth. I thought we’d resolved this.
Sawyer stops outside Escala, and Ana grabs her briefcase and is out of the car before any of us are ready.
“Ana!” I call.
“I’ve got this,” Ryan says, and scoots out in pursuit.
Not waiting for Sawyer to open my door, I scramble out after them, in time to watch Ana stomp into the building with Ryan at her heels.
I’m right behind them when he dashes ahead to reach the elevator before her, to press the call button.
“What?” she snaps at him.
He flushes, shocked, I think, by her tone. “Apologies, ma’am,” he says. He steps back when I join them.
“So, it’s not just me you’re mad at?” I observe, wryly.
“Are you laughing at me?” she seethes, her eyes narrowing.
“I wouldn’t dare.” I hold my hands up in surrender. I am no match for my wife’s bad mood.
“You need a haircut.” She scowls as she steps into the elevator.
“Do I?” Taking my life in my hands and brushing my hair off my forehead, I follow her in.
“Yes.” She stabs the code for our floor into the keypad.
“So, you’re talking to me now?”
“Just.”
“What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication.” So I’m sure.
She stares at me, horrified. “Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.”
Wow.
I take a step back. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office.”
“Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all.”
I have no answer to that.
The elevator doors open and Ana storms out. “Hi, Taylor,” I hear her say.
I follow her into the foyer. “Mrs. Grey,” Taylor says, and glances at me with raised eyebrows. She dumps her briefcase in the hallway.
“Good to see you,” I quietly address Taylor.
“Sir,” he says, and I follow my wife into the living room.
“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” Ana says, and stomps straight to the fridge.
I nod at Gail, who’s at the stove, preparing dinner.
Ana pulls out a bottle of wine and a glass from the cupboard while I remove my jacket, wondering what to say to her. “Do you want a drink?” she asks in a syrupy tone.
“No thanks.” I watch her as I take off my tie and undo my shirt collar. She pours herself a large glass of wine while Mrs. Jones, with a swift, unreadable look at me, exits the kitchen.
So, Ana’s frightened off all the staff.
I am the last man standing.
I run my hand through my hair, feeling helpless, while she takes a sip of wine, closing her eyes and enjoying the taste, or so it would seem.
Enough.
“Stop this,” I whisper, stepping toward her. Tucking her hair behind her ear, I then gently tug on her earlobe, because I want to touch her. She takes a breath, then shakes me off. “Talk to me,” I whisper.
“What’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”
“Yes, I do. You’re one of the few people I listen to.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine as she takes another swig of wine.
“Is this about your name?” I ask.
“Yes and no. It’s about how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you.” She sounds surly.
“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.” I sigh.
“Then stop treating me as though I am,” she beseeches me with quiet fortitude.
I can’t bear not touching her. Brushing my fingers down her cheek, I run the tip of my thumb across her bottom lip. “Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset. Like a child.”
“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?” I frown. Hurt? Yes. I am. Was…shit.
This is confusing. This is what Flynn said. I glance at my watch. “The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat.”
Ana looks dismayed, the v between her brows deeper than usual. “This discussion isn’t finished.”
“What else is there to discuss?”
“You could sell the company.”
“Sell it?” I scoff.
“Yes.”
Why would I do that? “You think I’d find a buyer in today’s market?”
“How much did it cost you?”
“It was relatively cheap.”
“So, if it folds?”
“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, you’ve wielded your vows at me like a weapon before.”
She scowls.
“Anastasia, if you’re still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later.” Her mouth pops open, and I know how I’d like to fill it.
Right now.
Here.
Then I remember. “Seven shades of Sunday,” I whisper. “Looking forward to it.”
She closes, then opens her mouth again.
Oh, baby. What I’d like to do to that mouth.
Stop, Grey.
“Gail!” I call, and a few moments later she comes back into the kitchen.
“Mr. Grey?” she says.
“We’d like to eat now, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
I watch Ana, who has gone worryingly quiet, as she takes another sip of wine.
“I think I’ll join you in a glass,” I mutter, and run a hand through my hair. She’s right, it’s too long, but I don’t think she’d approve if I went to Esclava to have it cut.
Ana is monosyllabic as we eat. Well, I’m eating, Ana is pushing her food around her plate, but given how mad she is at me, I decide not to chide her about it.
It’s frustrating.
Hell. I can’t stay quiet. “You’re not going to finish?”
“No.”
I wonder if she’s doing this on purpose. But before I can ask her, she stands and takes my empty plate and hers from the dining table.
“Gia will be with us shortly,” she says.
“I’ll take those, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones says.
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t like it?” Gail asks, concerned.
“It was fine. I’m just not hungry.”
Mrs. Jones gives Ana a pitying smile, and I suppress my eye roll. “I’m going to make a couple of calls,” I mumble, to escape them both.
The spectacular sunset over the distant Sound does little to improve my temper.
I wish for a moment that Ana and I were on The Grace or back on the Fair Lady. We didn’t argue then. Well, apart from after the hickey incident.
I dwell on Flynn’s words. Marriage is a serious business.
It sure is.
Sometimes too serious, especially if your wife doesn’t agree with you.
Communicate and compromise.
This should be my new mantra.
Why is this so hard?
“I don’t want you to sabotage your happiness, Christian.”
Flynn is still in my head.
Shit, is that what I’m doing?
Sullenly, I pick up the phone and call my dad to let him know that all the arrangements are in place for additional security. It’s a short conversation, and when I’m done, I gather up Gia Matteo’s designs and head back into the living room.
There’s no sign of Ana, or Mrs. Jones, who has cleaned up the kitchen and dining area. I spread the plans out on the dining table, then, using the remote, I scroll through the list of music. I chance upon Fauré’s Requiem.
This should soothe my soul.
And maybe Ana’s, too.
I press play and wait. The notes from a church organ echo through the living room, and they’re joined by the celestial voice of the choir, their voices rising and falling to the lament.
It’s stunning.
Calming.
Elevating.
Perfect.
Ana appears on the threshold, where she stops and inclines her head, listening to the music. She looks different; she’s shrouded in silver-gray, her hair backlit and shining from the hall lights. She looks like an angel.
“Mrs. Grey.”
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Fauré’s Requiem. You look different.”
“Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”
“It’s very calming, relaxing. Have you done something to your hair?”
“Brushed it,” she says, and there’s too much distance between us. Transported by my stunning wife and the music, I make my way over to her. “Dance with me?” I whisper.
“To this? It’s a requiem,” she squeaks, shocked.
“Yes.” And?
I tug her into my arms and hold her, my nose in her hair, inhaling her sweet but stirring fragrance. She wraps her arms around me and nuzzles my chest, and together we start to sway. Slowly. Side to side.
Ana. This is what I’ve missed. You. In my arms.
