Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades #3)(76)
Author: E.L. James

"Don’t what?"

"Look at me like that."

"Fuck the paperwork," I mutter, grinning. He laughs, and it’s such a carefree, boyish sound. He tugs me into his arms and tilts my head up.

"Someday, I’ll rent this elevator for a whole afternoon."

"Just the afternoon?" I arch my brow.

"Mrs. Grey, you are greedy."

"When it comes to you, I am."

"I’m very glad to hear it." He kisses me gently, a chaste kiss. And I don’t know if it’s because we are in this elevator or because he’s not touched me in over twenty-four hours or if he’s just my intoxicating husband, but desire unwinds and stretches lazily deep in my belly. I run my fingers into his hair and deepen the kiss, pushing him against the wall and bringing my body flush against his. He groans into my mouth and cups my head, cradling me as we kiss – really kiss, our tongues exploring the oh-so-familiar but still ohso-new, oh-so-exciting territory that is the other’s mouth. My inner goddess swoons, bringing my libido back from purdah. I caress his dear, dear face in my hands.

"Ana," he breathes.

"I love you, Christian Grey. Don’t forget that," I whisper as I gaze into darkening gray eyes.

The elevator comes smoothly to a halt and the doors open.

"Let’s go and see your father before I decide to rent this today." He kisses me quickly, takes my hand, and leads me into the lobby. As we walk past the concierge, Christian gives a discreet signal to the kindly middle-aged man standing behind the desk. He nods and picks up his phone. I glance questioningly at Christian, and he gives me his secret smile. Oh no . . . what’s this? I frown at him, and for a moment he looks nervous.

"Where’s Taylor?" I ask.

"We’ll see him shortly."

Of course, he’s probably fetching the car. "Sawyer?"

"Running errands."

What errands?

Christian avoids the revolving door, and I know it’s so he doesn’t have to release my hand. The thought warms me. Outside it’s a mild late-summer morning, but the scent of the coming fall is in the breeze. I glance around, looking for the Audi SUV and Taylor. No sign. Christian’s hand tightens around mine, and I look up at him. He seems anxious.

"What is it?"

He shrugs. The hum of an approaching car engine distracts me. It’s throaty . . . familiar. As I turn to find the source of the noise, it stops suddenly. Taylor is climbing out of a sleek white sports car parked in front of us. What?

Oh shit! It’s an R8. I whip my head back to Christian, who’s watching me warily. "You can buy me one for my birthday . . . a white one, I think."

"Happy birthday," he says, and I know he’s gauging my reaction. I gape at him because that’s all I can do. He holds out a key.

"You are completely over the top," I whisper. He’s bought me a f**king Audi R8! Holy shit. Just like I asked! My face splits in a huge grin, and my inner goddess does a backflip off the high dive. I jump up and down on the spot in a moment of unguarded and unbridled overexcitement. Christian’s expression mirrors mine, and I dance forward into his waiting arms. He swings me around.

"You have more money than sense!" I whoop. "I love it! Thank you." He stops and dips me low suddenly, startling me, so that I have to grasp his upper arms.

"Anything for you, Mrs. Grey." He grins down at me. Oh my. What a very public display of affection. He bends and kisses me. "Come. Let’s go see your dad."

"Yes. And I get to drive?"

He grins down at me. "Of course. It’s yours." He stands me up and releases me, and I hurry around to the driver’s door. Taylor opens it for me, smiling broadly. "Happy birthday, Mrs. Grey."

"Thank you, Taylor." I startle him by giving him a swift hug, which he returns awkwardly. He’s still blushing when I climb into the car, and he closes the door promptly once I’m inside.

"Drive safe, Mrs. Grey," he says gruffly. I beam up at him, barely able to contain my excitement.

"Will do." I promise, putting the key in the ignition as Christian stretches out beside me.

"Take it easy. Nobody chasing us now," he warns. When I turn the key, the engine thunders to life. I check the rearview and side mirrors, and spotting a rare moment of clear traffic, execute a huge perfect Uturn and roar off in the direction of OSHU.

"Whoa!" Christian exclaims, alarmed.

"What?"

"I don’t want you in the ICU beside your father. Slow down," he growls, not to be argued with. I ease off the accelerator and grin at him.

"Better?"

"Much," he mutters, trying hard to look stern – and failing miserably.

Ray’s condition is the same. Seeing him grounds me after the heady road trip here. I really should drive more carefully. You can’t legislate for every drunk driver in this world. I must ask Christian what’s become of the ass**le who hit Ray – I’m sure he knows. In spite of the tubes, my father looks comfortable, and I think he has a little more color in his cheeks. While I sit beside my dad and tell him about my morning, Christian wanders off to the waiting room to make phone calls.

Nurse Kellie hovers over him, checking his lines and making notes on his chart. "All his signs are good, Mrs. Grey." She smiles kindly at me.

"That’s very encouraging."

A little later Dr. Crowe appears with two nursing assistants.

"Mrs. Grey," he greets me warmly. "Time to take your father up to radiology. We’re giving him a CT scan. To see how his brain is doing."

"Will you be long?"

"Up to an hour."

"I’ll wait. I’d like to know."

"Sure thing, Mrs. Grey."

I wander into the thankfully empty waiting room where Christian is talking on the phone, pacing. As he speaks, he gazes out of the window at the panoramic view of Portland. He turns to me when I shut the door, and he looks angry.

"How far above the limit? . . . I see . . . All charges, everything. Ana’s father is in the ICU – I want you to throw the f**king book at him, Dad . . . Good. Keep me informed." He hangs up.

"The other driver?"

He nods. "Some drunken trailer trash from Southeast Portland." He sneers, and I’m shocked by his terminology and his derisory tone. He walks over to me, and his tone softens.

"Finished with Ray? Do you want to go?"

"Um . . . no." I peer up at him, still reeling at his display of contempt.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing. Ray’s being taken to radiology for a CT scan to check the swelling in his brain. I’d like to wait for the results."

"Okay. We’ll wait." He sits down and holds out his hands. As we’re alone, I go willingly and curl up in his lap.

"This is not how I envisaged spending today," Christian murmurs into my hair.

"Me neither, but I’m feeling more positive now. Your mom was very reassuring. It was kind of her to come last night."

Christian strokes my back soothingly, resting his chin on my head.

"My mom is an amazing woman."

"She is. You’re very lucky to have her."

Christian nods.

"I should call my mom. Tell her about Ray," I murmur and Christian stiffens. "I’m surprised she hasn’t called me." I add in a moment of realization. In fact, I feel hurt. It’s my birthday after all, and she was there when I was born. Why hasn’t she called?

"Maybe she did," Christian says. I fish my BlackBerry out of my pocket. It shows no missed calls, but quite a few texts: happy birthdays from Kate, Jose, Mia, and Ethan. Nothing from my mother. I shake my head despondently.

"Call her now," he says softly. I do, but there’s no reply, just the answering machine. I don’t leave a message. How can my own mother forget my birthday?

"She’s not there. I’ll call later when I know the results of the brain scan."

Christian tightens his arms around me, nuzzling my hair once more, and wisely makes no comment on my mother’s lack of maternal concern. I feel rather than hear the buzz of his BlackBerry. He doesn’t let me stand up but fishes it awkwardly out of his pocket.

"Andrea," he snaps, businesslike again. I make another move to stand and he stops me, frowning and holding me tightly around my waist. I nestle back against his chest and listen to the one-sided conversation.

"Good . . . ETA is what time? . . . And the other, um . . . packages?"

Christian glances at his watch. "Does the Heathman have all the details? . . . Good . . . Yes. It can hold until Monday morning, but email just in case – I’ll print, sign, and scan it back to you . . . They can wait. Go home, Andrea . . . No, we’re good, thank you." He hangs up.