“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.