Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

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 into 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