“Would you like to choose the wine?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.
“You choose,” I answer, sullen but chastened.
“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please.”
“Er … we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”
“A bottle, then,” Christian snaps.
“Sir.” He retreats, subdued, and I don’t blame him. I frown at Fifty. What’s eating him? Oh, myself probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for a while.
“You’re very grumpy.”
He gazes at me impassively. “I wonder why that is?”
“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” I smile at him sweetly.
His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he’s trying to stifle his smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Apology accepted, and I’m pleased to inform you I haven’t decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate.”
“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a moot point.”
“There’s that word again, ‘moot.’ ”
“Moot,” he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He runs his hand through his hair, and he’s serious again. “Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little nervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’ve said … nothing.” His gaze is intense and expectant while his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?
“I’ve missed you … really missed you, Christian. The past few days have been … difficult.” I swallow, and a lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish since I left him.
This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain almost indescribable. Nothing has come close. But reality hits home, winding me.
“Nothing’s changed. I can’t be what you want me to be.” I squeeze the words out past the lump in my throat.
“You are what I want you to be,” he says, his voice emphatic.
“No, Christian, I’m not.”
“You’re upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you … So did you. Why didn’t you safe-word, Anastasia?” His tone changes, becomes accusatory.
What? Whoa—change of direction.
“Answer me.”
“I don’t know. I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know … I forgot,” I whisper, ashamed, and I shrug apologetically.
Perhaps we could have avoided all this heartache.
“You forgot!” he gasps with horror, grabbing the sides of the table and glaring. I wither under his stare.
Shit! He’s furious again. My inner goddess glares at me, too. See, you brought all this on yourself!
“How can I trust you?” His voice is low. “Ever?”
The waiter arrives with our wine as we sit staring at each other, blue eyes to gray. Both of us filled with unspoken recriminations, while the waiter removes the cork with an unnecessary flourish and pours a little wine into Christian’s glass. Automatically Christian reaches out and takes a sip.
“That’s fine.” His voice is curt.
Gingerly the waiter fills our glasses, placing the bottle on the table before beating a hasty retreat. Christian has not taken his eyes off me the whole time. I am the first to crack, breaking eye contact, picking up my glass and taking a large gulp. I barely taste it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I left because I thought we were incompatible, but he’s saying I could have stopped him?
“Sorry for what?” he says alarmed.
“Not using the safeword.”
He closes his eyes, as if in relief.
“We might have avoided all this suffering,” he mutters.
“You look fine.” More than fine. You look like you.
“Appearances can be deceptive,” he says quietly. “I’m anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I’m in perpetual night here.”
I’m winded by his admission. Oh my, like me.
“You said you’d never leave, yet the going gets tough and you’re out the door.”
“When did I say I’d never leave?”
“In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I’d heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax.”
My heart constricts and I reach for my wine.
“You said you loved me,” he whispers. “Is that now in the past tense?” His voice is low, laced with anxiety.
“No, Christian, it’s not.”
He looks so vulnerable as he exhales. “Good,” he murmurs.
I’m shocked by his admission. He’s had a change of heart. When I told him I loved him before, he was horrified. The waiter is back. Briskly he places our plates in front of us and scuttles away.
Holy hell. Food.
“Eat,” Christian commands.
Deep down I know I’m hungry, but right now, my stomach is in knots. Sitting across from the only man I have ever loved and debating our uncertain future does not promote a healthy appetite. I look dubiously at my food.
“So help me God, Anastasia, if you don’t eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!”
Keep your hair on, Grey. My subconscious stares at me over her half-moon specs. She is wholeheartedly in agreement with Fifty Shades.
“Okay, I’ll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please.”
He doesn’t smile but continues to glare at me. Reluctantly I lift my knife and fork and slice into my steak. Oh, it’s mouthwateringly good. I am hungry, really hungry. I chew and he visibly relaxes.
We eat our supper in silence. The music’s changed. A soft-voiced woman sings in the background, her words echoing my thoughts. I’ll never be the same since he came into my life.
I glance at Fifty. He’s eating and watching me. Hunger, longing, anxiety combined in one hot look.
“Do you know who’s singing?” I try for some normal conversation.
Christian pauses and listens. “No … but she’s good, whoever she is.”
“I like her, too.”
Finally he smiles his private enigmatic smile. What’s he planning?
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Eat up,” he says mildly.
I have eaten half the food on my plate. I cannot eat any more. How can I negotiate this?
“I can’t manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?”
He stares at me impassively, not answering, then glances at his watch.
“I’m really full,” I add, taking a sip of the delicious wine.
“We have to go shortly. Taylor’s here, and you have to be up for work in the morning.”
“So do you.”
“I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you’ve eaten something.”
“Aren’t we going back via Charlie Tango?”