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?”
“That would be lovely. Dry white if you have it,” she responds.
I switch off the music as Gia joins me by the table.
“Would you like some more wine, Christian?” Ana calls.
“Please, baby.” I watch as she retrieves the wineglasses.
Gia stands beside me. “This is good work, Gia,” I say, as she moves a little too close. “This especially.” I point at the rear elevation of her CAD drawing. “I think Ana has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we’re both pleased with the ideas you’ve come up with.”
“Oh, I’m glad,” Gia coos, and she pats my arm.
Keep your fucking distance. She’s wearing a cloying, rich perfume that’s almost suffocating.
I step out of her reach and call to Ana. “Thirsty here.”
“Coming right up,” Ana responds.
A beat later, she’s back with glasses of wine for each of us, and she inserts herself between Gia and me—deliberately, I think. Has she noticed how Gia is incapable of keeping her hands to herself?
“Cheers.” I offer up my glass in thanks to Ana and take a sip of wine.
“Ana, you have some issues with the glass wall?” Gia prompts.
“Yes. I love it—don’t get me wrong. But I was hoping that we could incorporate it more organically into the house. After all, I fell in love with the house as it was, and I don’t want to make any radical changes.”
“I see.” Gia’s eyes flick to mine, and I look at Ana.
She continues, “I just want the design to be sympathetic, you know, more in keeping with the original house.” Ana glances at me.