Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

again.
    I shake my head.
    “Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”
    Oh, the architect. He had to remind me of her . . . Gia Matteo, a friend of Elliot’s who worked on Christian’s place in Aspen. During our meetings, she’d been all over Christian like a rash.
    “What now?” Christian exclaims. I shake my head. “Tell me,” he urges.
    How can I tell him that I don’t like Gia? My dislike is irrational. I don’t want to come across as the jealous wife.
    “You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” He sighs and nuzzles his face between my breasts.
    “No. I’m hungry,” I mutter, knowing full well that this will distract him from this line of questioning.
    “Why didn’t you say?” He eases me off his lap and stands.
    Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval, fortified, hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobblestone streets with my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. Taylor and either Gaston or Philippe—I can’t tell the difference between them—trail behind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It’s quite crowded with tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian’s arm. There is so much to see—little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.
    In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of Florence D’elle—naked women in various poses.
    “Not quite what I had in mind,” I mumble disapprovingly. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them.
    “Me neither,” Christian says, grinning down at me. He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me. My inner goddess nods frantically with approval.
    The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.
    “I like those.” I point to three paintings of peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” I giggle. Christian’s mouth twists as he tries and fails to hide his amusement.
    “I thought I managed that quite competently,” he mutters. “I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—he pulls me into an embrace—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”
    “What?”
    Christian is nuzzling my ear. “The paintings—where would you put them?” He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.
    “Kitchen,” I murmur.
    “Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”
    I squint at the price. Five thousand euros each. Holy shit!
    “They’re really expensive!” I gasp.
    “So?” He nuzzles me again. “Get used to it, Ana.” He releases me and saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is gaping at him. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros . . . jeez.

    We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. It’s such a clear, beautiful day we can see all the way to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.
    “You asked me why I braid your hair,” he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks . . . guilty.
    “Yes.” Oh, shit.
    “The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”
    Whoa! His birth mom.
    He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?
    “I like you playing with my hair.” My voice is hesitant.
    He regards me with uncertainty. “Do you?”
    “Yes.” It’s the truth. I grasp his hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.” His eyes widen and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.
    Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with