What was I thinking?
While we race above the clouds in our bubble, high in the sky, my optimism grows and the turmoil of the last week recedes. Slowly, I begin to relax, enjoying a serenity I’ve not felt since she left. I could get used to this. I’d forgotten how content I feel in her company. And it’s refreshing to see my world through her eyes.
But as we near our destination my confidence falters. I hope to God that my plan works. I need to take her somewhere private. To dinner, maybe. Damn it. I should have booked a table somewhere. She needs feeding. If I get her to dinner, I’ll just need to find the right words. These last few days have shown me that I need someone—I need her. I want her, but will she have me? Can I convince her to give me a second chance?
Time will tell, Grey—just take it easy. Don’t frighten her off again.
WE LAND ON PORTLAND’S downtown helipad fifteen minutes later. As I bring Charlie Tango’s engines to idle and switch off the transponder, fuel, and radios, the uncertainty I’ve felt since I resolved to win her back resurfaces. I need to tell her how I feel, and that’s going to be hard—because I don’t understand my feelings toward her. I know that I’ve missed her, that I’ve been miserable without her, and that I’m willing to try a relationship her way. But will it be enough for her? Will it be enough for me?
Talk to her, Grey.
Once I’ve unbuckled my harness I lean across to undo hers and catch a trace of her sweet fragrance. As ever, she smells good. Her eyes meet mine in a furtive glance—revealing an inappropriate thought? What exactly is she thinking? As usual I’d love to know, but have no idea.
“Good trip, Miss Steele?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” I open the door, jump down, and hold my hand out for her.
Joe, the manager of the helipad, is waiting to greet us. He’s an antique: a veteran of the Korean War, but still as spry and acute as a man in his fifties. Nothing escapes his notice. His eyes light up as he gives me a craggy smile.
“Joe, keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around eight or nine.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am. Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s out of order. You’ll need to use the stairs.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
As we head for the emergency stairwell, I eye Anastasia’s high-heeled boots and remember her less-than-dignified fall into my office.
“Good thing for you this is only three floors—in those heels.” I hide my smile.
“Don’t you like the boots?” she asks, looking down at her feet. A pleasing vision of them hooked over my shoulders springs to mind.
“I like them very much, Anastasia.” I hope my expression doesn’t betray my lascivious thoughts. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.” I’m thankful that the elevator is out of order—it gives me a plausible excuse to hold her. Putting my arm around her waist, I pull her to my side and we descend the stairs.
In the car on the way to the gallery my anxiety doubles; we’re attending the opening of an exhibition by her so-called friend. The man who, last time I saw him, was trying to push his tongue into her mouth. Perhaps over the last few days they’ve talked. Perhaps this is a long-anticipated rendezvous between them.
Hell, I hadn’t considered that before. I sure hope it’s not.
“José is just a friend,” Ana explains.
What? She knows what I’m thinking? Am I that obvious? Since when?
Since she stripped me of all my armor and I discovered that I needed her.
She stares at me and my stomach tightens. “Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat.” She sounds less than sincere.
“I mean it.”
“Do you, now?” Her voice is laced with sarcasm, and I almost have to sit on my hands.
Fuck this.
It’s time to declare myself.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy.” I’m honored with her shocked, alleyes look.
“But nothing’s changed.” Her expression shifts to a frown.
Oh, Ana, it has—there’s been a seismic shift in me.
We pull up at the gallery and I have no time to explain before the show. “Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”
Before she can say she’s not interested, I exit the car, walk around to her side, and open the door. She looks mad as she climbs out.
“Why do you do that?” she exclaims, exasperated.
“Do what?” Shit—what’s this?
“Say something like that and then just stop.”
That’s it—that’s why you’re mad?
“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in the street.”
She presses her lips together in a petulant pout, then gives me a begrudging “Okay.”
Taking her hand, I move swiftly into the gallery, and she scrambles behind me.
The space is brightly lit and airy. It’s one of those converted warehouses that are fashionable at the moment—all wood floors and brick walls. Portland’s cognoscenti sip cheap wine and chat in hushed tones while they admire the exhibition.
A young woman greets us. “Good evening, and welcome to José Rodriguez’s show.” She stares at me.
It’s only skin deep, sweetheart. Look elsewhere.
She’s flustered but seems to recover when she spies Anastasia. “Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this, too.” She hands her a brochure and points us toward the makeshift bar. Ana’s brow furrows, and that little v that I love forms above her nose. I want to kiss it, like I’ve done before.
“You know her?” I ask. She shakes her head and her frown deepens. I shrug. Well, this is Portland. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”
As I head for the bar I hear an exuberant shout. “Ana!”
Turning, I see that that boy has his arms wrapped around my girl.
Hell.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Ana closes her eyes, and for one horrible moment I think she’s going to burst into tears. But she remains composed as he holds her at arm’s length, appraising her.
Yeah, she’s that thin because of me.
I fight back my guilt—though it seems she’s trying to reassure him. For his part, he looks really fucking interested in her. Too interested. Anger flares in my chest. She says he’s just a friend, but it’s obvious he doesn’t feel that way. He wants more.
Back off, buddy, she’s mine.
“The work here is impressive, don’t you think?” A balding young man in a loud shirt sidetracks me.
“I’ve not looked around yet,” I answer, and turn to the barman. “Is this all you have?”
“Yep. Red or white?” he says, sounding disinterested.