Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

beautiful eyes.
    “I’m still fucking mad at you,” he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit! Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach up and caress his face.
    “Don’t be mad at me, please. I think you’re overreacting,” I whisper.
    He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.
    “Overreacting?” he snarls. “Some fucking lunatic gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife, and you think I’m overreacting!” The restrained menace in his voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me as if I’m the fucking lunatic.
    “No . . . um, that’s not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me staying out.”
    He closes his eyes once more as if in pain and shakes his head.
    “Christian, I wasn’t here.” I try to appease and reassure him.
    “I know,” he whispers opening his eyes. “And all because you can’t follow a simple, fucking request.” His tone is bitter and it’s my turn to blanch. “I don’t want to discuss this now, in the shower. I am still fucking mad at you, Anastasia. You’re making me question my judgment.” He turns and promptly leaves the shower, grabbing a towel on the way and stalking out of the bathroom, leaving me bereft and chilled under the hot water.
    Crap. Crap. Crap.
    Then the significance of what he’s just said dawns on me. Kidnap ? Fuck. Jack wanted to kidnap me? I recall the duct tape and not wanting to think too deeply about why Jack had that. Does Christian have more information? Hurriedly I wash myself, then shampoo and rinse my hair. I want to know. I need to know. I am not going to let him keep me in the dark about this.
    Christian’s not in the bedroom when I come out. Jeez, he dresses quickly. I do the same, throwing on my favorite plum dress and black sandals, and I’m conscious that I’ve chosen this outfit because Christian likes it. I vigorously towel-dry my hair, then braid it and wind it into a bun. Fitting diamond studs into my ears, I dash to the bathroom to apply a little mascara and glance at myself in the mirror. I’m pale. Jeez, I’m always pale. I take a deep steadying breath. I need to face the consequences of my rash decision to actually enjoy myself with my friend. I sigh, knowing that Christian won’t see it that way.
    Christian is nowhere to be seen in the great room. Mrs. Jones is busying herself in the kitchen.
    “Good morning, Ana,” she says sweetly.
    “Morning,” I smile broadly at her. I am Ana again!
    “Tea?”
    “Please.”
    “Anything to eat?”
    “Please. I’d like an omelet this morning.”
    “With mushrooms and spinach?”
    “And cheese.”
    “Coming up.”
    “Where’s Christian?”
    “Mr. Grey’s in his study.”
    “Has he had breakfast?” I glance at the two places set on the breakfast bar.
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Thanks.”
    Christian is on the phone, dressed in a white shirt with no tie, looking like every part the relaxed CEO. How deceptive appearances can be. Perhaps he’s not going into the office after all. He glances up when I appear in the doorway but shakes his head at me, indicating that I am not welcome. Shit  . . . I turn and wander dejectedly back to the breakfast bar. Taylor appears, snappily dressed in a somber suit, looking like he’s had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
    “Morning, Taylor,” I murmur, trying to gauge his mood and see if he’ll offer me any visual cues about what has been going on.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” he replies, and I hear the sympathy in those four words. I smile compassionately back at him, knowing he had to endure an angry, frustrated Christian returning to Seattle way ahead of schedule.
    “How was the flight?” I dare to ask.
    “Long, Mrs. Grey.” His brevity speaks volumes. “May I ask how you are?” he adds, his tone softening.
    “I’m good.”
    He nods. “If you’ll excuse me.” He heads toward Christian’s study. Hmm. Taylor’s allowed in, but not me.
    “Here you go.” Mrs. Jones places my breakfast in front of me. My appetite has vanished, but I eat anyway, not wishing to offend her.
    By the time I’ve finished what I can of my breakfast, Christian has still not emerged from his study. Is he avoiding me?
    “Thanks, Mrs. Jones,” I murmur, sliding off the bar stool and making my way to the bathroom to clean my teeth. As I brush them, I’m reminded of Christian’s sulk over the wedding vows. He holed up in his study then, too. Is that what this is?