Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

advising on adjustments every so often.
    “There is poetry in sailing as old as the world,” he murmurs in my ear.
    “That sounds like a quote.”
    I sense his grin. “It is. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”
    “Oh . . . I adore The Little Prince .”
    “Me, too.”

    It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine, steers us into the marina. There are lights winking from the boats, reflecting off the dark water, but it is still light—a balmy, bright evening, an overture for what is sure to be a spectacular sunset.
    A crowd gathers on the dockside as Christian slowly turns the boat around in a relatively small space. He does it with ease and reverses smoothly into the same berth we left earlier. Mac jumps on to the dock and ties The Grace securely to a bollard.
    “Back again,” Christian murmurs.
    “Thank you,” I murmur shyly. “That was a perfect afternoon.”
    Christian grins. “I thought so, too. Perhaps we can enroll you in sailing school, so we can go out for a few days, just the two of us.”
    “I’d love that. We can christen the bedroom again and again.”
    He leans forward and kisses me under my ear. “Hmm . . . I look forward to it, Anastasia,” he whispers, making every single hair follicle on my body stand to attention.
    How does he do that?
    “Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back.”
    “What about our things at the hotel?”
    “Taylor has collected them already.”
    Oh ! When ?  
    “Earlier today, after he did a sweep of The Grace with his team.” Christian answers my unspoken question.
    “Does that poor man ever sleep?”
    “He sleeps.” Christian quirks an eyebrow at me, puzzled. “He’s just doing his job, Anastasia, which he’s very good at. Jason is a real find.”
    “Jason?”
    “Jason Taylor.”
    I remember when I thought Taylor was his first name. Jason. It suits him—solid, reliable. For some reason it makes me smile.
    “You’re fond of Taylor,” Christian says, eyeing me with speculation.
    “I suppose I am.” His question derails me. He frowns. “I’m not attracted to him, if that’s why you’re frowning. Stop.”
    Christian is almost pouting—sulky.
    Jeez, he’s such a child sometimes. “I think Taylor looks after you very well. That’s why I like him. He seems kind, reliable and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to me.”
    “Avuncular?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, avuncular.” Christian is testing the word and meaning. I laugh.
    “Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven’s sake.”
    His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but then he frowns as if considering my statement. “I’m trying,” he says eventually.
    “That you are. Very.” I answer softly but then roll my eyes at him.
    “What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at me, Anastasia.” He grins.
    I smirk at him. “Well, if you behave yourself, maybe we can relive some of those memories.”
    His mouth twists with humor. “Behave myself?” He raises his eyebrows. “Really, Miss Steele—what makes you think I want to relive them?”
    “Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas when I said that.”
    “You know me so well already,” he says dryly.
    “I’d like to know you better.”
    He smiles softly. “And I you, Anastasia.”

    “Thanks, Mac.” Christian shakes McConnell’s hand and steps on the dock.
    “Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana, great to meet you.”
    I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.
    “Good day, Mac, and thank you.”
    He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina’s promenade.
    “Where’s Mac from?” I ask, curious about his accent.
    “Ireland . . . Northern Ireland,” Christian corrects himself.
    “Is he your friend?”
    “Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace. ”
    “Do you have many friends?”
    He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do . . . I don’t cultivate friendships. There’s only—” He stops, his frown deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs. Robinson.
    “Hungry?” he asks, trying to change the subject.
    I nod. Actually, I’m famished.
    “We’ll eat where I left the car. Come.”

    Next to SP’s is a small Italian bistro called Bee’s. It reminds me of the place in Portland—a few tables and booths, the décor very crisp and modern with a large black and white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta serving as a mural.