“Hi,” she says, avoiding eye contact.
“Hi.”
“Disrupt anyone else’s work today?” Her tone is frostier than an arctic night.
“Only Flynn’s.”
Her eyes flick to me in surprise, but she looks ahead. “Next time you go to see him, I’ll give you a list of topics I want covered.” She’s bristling like a feral kitten beside me.
She’s still mad.
I clear my throat. “You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey.”
She doesn’t answer. She just stares ahead, ignoring me. I shuffle a little closer and reach for her hand. “Hey,” I whisper. But she snatches her hand out of mine. “You’re mad at me?”
“Yes,” she spits, and folds her arms, turning away from me and staring through the window.
Damn.
Seattle streams past my window, and I stare out, unseeing, feeling miserable and out of my depth. I thought we’d resolved this.
Sawyer stops outside Escala, and Ana grabs her briefcase and is out of the car before any of us are ready.
“Ana!” I call.
“I’ve got this,” Ryan says, and scoots out in pursuit.
Not waiting for Sawyer to open my door, I scramble out after them, in time to watch Ana stomp into the building with Ryan at her heels.
I’m right behind them when he dashes ahead to reach the elevator before her, to press the call button.
“What?” she snaps at him.
He flushes, shocked, I think, by her tone. “Apologies, ma’am,” he says. He steps back when I join them.
“So, it’s not just me you’re mad at?” I observe, wryly.
“Are you laughing at me?” she seethes, her eyes narrowing.
“I wouldn’t dare.” I hold my hands up in surrender. I am no match for my wife’s bad mood.
“You need a haircut.” She scowls as she steps into the elevator.
“Do I?” Taking my life in my hands and brushing my hair off my forehead, I follow her in.
“Yes.” She stabs the code for our floor into the keypad.
“So, you’re talking to me now?”
“Just.”
“What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication.” So I’m sure.
She stares at me, horrified. “Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.”
Wow.
I take a step back. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office.”
“Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all.”
I have no answer to that.
The elevator doors open and Ana storms out. “Hi, Taylor,” I hear her say.
I follow her into the foyer. “Mrs. Grey,” Taylor says, and glances at me with raised eyebrows. She dumps her briefcase in the hallway.
“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.’”