“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.
I dwell on Flynn’s words. Marriage is a serious business.
It sure is.
Sometimes too serious, especially if your wife doesn’t agree with you.
Communicate and compromise.
This should be my new mantra.
Why is this so hard?
“I don’t want you to sabotage your happiness, Christian.”
Flynn is still in my head.
Shit, is that what I’m doing?
Sullenly, I pick up the phone and call my dad to let him know that all the arrangements are in place for additional security. It’s a short conversation, and when I’m done, I gather up Gia Matteo’s designs and head back into the living room.
There’s no sign of Ana, or Mrs. Jones, who has cleaned up the kitchen and dining area. I spread the plans out on the dining table, then, using the remote, I scroll through the list of music. I chance upon Fauré’s Requiem.
This should soothe my soul.
And maybe Ana’s, too.
I press play and wait. The notes from a church organ echo through the living room, and they’re joined by the celestial voice of the choir, their voices rising and falling to the lament.
It’s stunning.
Calming.
Elevating.
Perfect.
Ana appears on the threshold, where she stops and inclines her head, listening to the music. She looks different; she’s shrouded in silver-gray, her hair backlit and shining from the hall lights. She looks like an angel.
“Mrs. Grey.”
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Fauré’s Requiem. You look different.”
“Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”
“It’s very calming, relaxing. Have you done something to your hair?”
“Brushed it,” she says, and there’s too much distance between us. Transported by my stunning wife and the music, I make my way over to her. “Dance with me?” I whisper.
“To this? It’s a requiem,” she squeaks, shocked.
“Yes.” And?
I tug her into my arms and hold her, my nose in her hair, inhaling her sweet but stirring fragrance. She wraps her arms around me and nuzzles my chest, and together we start to sway. Slowly. Side to side.
Ana. This is what I’ve missed. You. In my arms.
“I hate fighting with you,” I whisper.
“Well, stop being such an arse.”
I chuckle and draw her closer. “Arse?”
“Ass.”
“I prefer arse.”
“You should. It suits you.”
I laugh and kiss the top of her head, remembering that she was very taken with the word when she overheard it in Harrods.
London. Happy times.
“A requiem?” There’s a trace of censure in her murmur.
I shrug. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.” And I get to hold you.
Taylor coughs, and grudgingly I release her. “Miss Matteo is here,” he announces.
“Show her in.” I clasp Ana’s hand as Gia enters.
“Christian. Ana.” She beams at us, and we each shake her hand.
“Gia,” I respond, politely.
“You both look so well after your honeymoon,” she purrs.
I pull Ana close. “We had a wonderful time, thank you.” I plant a soft kiss on my wife’s temple and she slips her hand into my back pocket, and, to my delight, squeezes my butt.
Gia’s smile falters a little. “Have you managed to look over the plans?” she asks brightly.
“We have,” Ana says with a quick glance at me. I can’t help my grin. Ana’s gone all territorial and is laying claim to me. I like it.
“Please, the plans are here.” I wave in the direction of our dining table. Reluctantly, I pull away from Ana, but hold her hand.
“Would you like something to drink?” Ana asks Gia. “A glass of wine?”