He looks thoughtful. “Which did you find more upsetting, the argument with Elena or your parents?”
“Elena’s was awkward, because Ana was in the room. We were spiteful to each other.” My regret is clear in my tone, and deep down I wish we’d parted on better terms. “And Grace was so mad at me. I’ve never heard her curse before. But the argument with my dad was the worst. He was an asshole.”
“He was angry?”
“Very.” I ignore the stab of guilt in my guts at my disloyalty to Carrick.
“I wonder if he’s projecting his anger at himself onto you. You can understand why he felt that way, can’t you?”
No. Yes. Maybe.
Flynn continues, “Whether you agree or not, your father probably thinks Elena took advantage of a vulnerable adolescent. It was his job to protect you. He failed. That’s probably how he sees it.”
“She didn’t take advantage. I was more than willing.” My frustration echoes in my words.
I am so done with that argument.
John sighs. “We’ve discussed this many, many times, and I don’t want to get into a debate with you about it again, but you might want to try and look at the situation from your father’s point of view.”
“He said I might not be husband material.”
Flynn seems taken aback. “Oh. How did you feel about that?”
“Angry. Worried that he might be right.” Ashamed.
“In what context did he say it?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “He was lecturing me about the sanctity of marriage. He said if I had no respect for that, I had no business being married.”
John’s brows draw together.
“Since Elena was married.” I clarify for him.
“I see.” Flynn purses his lips. “Christian,” he says gently. “Your father may have a point.”
What?
“Either you were a willing participant in a relationship with a married woman, a relationship that cost her her marriage—and much more, considering what happened to her—or you were a vulnerable adolescent who was taken advantage of. Which is it? You cannot have it both ways.”
I glare at him. What. The. Hell?
“Marriage is a serious business,” he says.
“Fuck it, John, I know that. You sound just like him!”
“Do I? That’s not my intention. I’m just here to give you some perspective.”
Perspective? Fuck.
I glare at him, then down at my hands, as the silence grows between us.
Perspective, my ass. “I think Carrick’s wrong,” I mumble eventually, and I realize that I sound like the surly teen my father still thinks I am.
“Of course he is. No matter what my views are on your relationship with Mrs. Lincoln, over the years you’ve demonstrated a constant commitment to her. I think it’s your regret at terminating all contact with her that is wearing on your conscience.”
“There’s no regret!” I snap. “I’ve done this willingly.”
“Guilt, then?”
I sigh. “Guilt? I don’t feel guilty.” Do I?
John remains impassive.
“Hence the nightmares?” I ask.
“Maybe.” He taps his lip with his index finger. “You’re giving up a long-standing pivotal relationship to please your parents.”
“It’s not for my parents. It’s for Ana.”
He nods. “You are rejecting everything you know for Anastasia, the woman you love. It’s a huge step.” He smiles once more. “In the right direction, if you ask me.”
I gaze at him, not knowing what to say.
“Think about all I’ve said. Time’s up,” he says. “We can continue talking about this when I see you next.”
I get up, feeling somewhat bemused. Flynn, as ever, has given me a great deal to chew on. But until we speak again, I have one outstanding question. “How’s Leila?”
“Making good progress.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“It is. I’ll see you next week.”
Taylor is waiting outside in the Q7.
“I’m going to walk home,” I inform him. I need some time to think. “I’ll see you back at Escala.”
He gives me a pained look.
“What?”
“Sir, I’d be much more comfortable if you rode in the car.”
Oh, yes. Someone’s trying to kill me.
I scowl as Taylor opens the rear door, but resigned, I climb inside.
Am I no longer master of my own universe?
My dark mood worsens.
“Where’s Ana?” I ask Mrs. Jones when I enter the living room.
“Good evening, Mr. Grey. I believe she’s in the shower.”
“Thanks.”
“Dinner in twenty minutes?” she asks as she stirs a pot on the stove. The aroma is tantalizing.
“Make it thirty.” Ana in the shower has possibilities. Mrs. Jones tries to hide her smile, but I see it and ignore it. I go in search of my girl. She’s not in the bathroom but the bedroom, standing at the window, wrapped in a towel and dewy from her shower.
“Hi,” she says with a huge smile that vanishes as I approach. “What’s wrong?”
Before I can reply, I wrap her in my arms and hold her tight, inhaling her sweet, just-showered fragrance. It soothes my soul.
“Christian. What is it?” She runs her hands up my back, pressing me close.
“I just want to hold you.” I bury my face in her hair that’s twisted into a chaotic topknot.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice is tinged with tension. I hate it when she’s anxious. I bring my hand up to cradle her head, tip it back, then press my lips to hers and kiss her, pouring my anxiety into our kiss. She responds immediately, caressing my face, opening up to me, her tongue sparring with mine.
Oh, Ana.
When she pulls away we’re both winded, and I’m hard.
Fucking hard. For her.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, gently cajoling me and scrutinizing my face for clues.
“Later,” I murmur against her lips, and start walking her backward to the bed. She grabs at my lapels and tries to divest me of my jacket while her towel falls to the floor, leaving her naked in my arms.