“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

His mouth twists and his eyes narrow. “Get in the car,” he orders while opening the

passenger door of the Saab.

Oh, change of direction. My Blackberry buzzes. I haul it out of my purse.

Shit, José!

“Hi!”

“Ana, hi . . .”

I stare at Fifty, who is eyeing me suspiciously. “José,” I mouth at him. He stares impas-

sively at me, but his eyes harden. Does he think I don’t notice? I turn my attention back to

José.“Sorry I haven’t called you. Is it about tomorrow?” I ask José, but stare up at Christian.

“Yeah, listen—I spoke with some guy at Grey’s place, so I know where I’m delivering

the photos, and I should get there between five and six . . . after that, I’m free.”

Oh.

“Well, I’m actually staying with Christian at the moment, and if you want to, he says

you can stay at his place.”

Christian presses his mouth in a hard line. Hmm—some host he is.

José is silent for a moment, absorbing this news. I cringe. I haven’t had a chance to talk

to him about Christian.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “This thing with Grey, it’s serious?”

I turn away from the car and pace to the other side of the sidewalk.

“Yes.”

“How serious?”

I roll my eyes and pause. Why does Christian have to be listening?

“Serious.”

“Is he with you now? That why you’re speaking in monosyllables?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So are you allowed out tomorrow?”

“Of course I am.” I hope. I automatically cross my fingers.

“So where shall I meet you?”

“You could collect me from work,” I offer.

“Okay.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

“What time?”

“Say six?”

“Sure. I’ll see you then, Ana. Looking forward to it. I miss you.”

I grin. “Cool. I’ll see you then.” I switch the phone off and turn.

Christian is leaning against the car watching me carefully, his expression impossible

to read.

“How’s your friend?” he asks coolly.

“He’s well. He’ll pick me up from work, and I think we’ll go for a drink. Would you

like to join us?”

Christian hesitates, his gray eyes cool. “You don’t think he’ll try anything?”

“No!” My tone is exasperated—but I refrain from rolling my eyes.

“Okay,” Christian holds his hands up in defeat. “You hang out with your friend, and I’ll

see you later in the evening.”

I was expecting a fight, and his easy acquiescence throws me off balance.

“See? I can be reasonable.” He smirks.

My mouth twists. We’ll see about that.

“Can I drive?”

Christian blinks at me, surprised by my request.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why, exactly?”

“Because I don’t like to be driven.”

“You managed this morning, and you seem to tolerate Taylor driving you.”

“I trust Taylor’s driving implicitly.”

“And not mine?” I put my hands on my hips. “Honestly—your control freakery knows

no bounds. I’ve been driving since I was fifteen.”

He shrugs in response, as if this is of no consequence whatsoever. Oh—he’s so exas-

perating! Benefit of the doubt? Well, screw that.

“Is this my car?” I demand.

He frowns at me. “Of course it’s your car.”

“Then give me the keys, please. I’ve driven it twice, and only to and from work. Now

you’re having all the fun.” I am in full-on pout mode. Christian’s lips twitch with a re-

pressed smile.

“But you don’t know where we’re going.”

“I’m sure you can enlighten me, Mr. Grey. You’ve done a great job of it so far.”

He gazes at me stunned then smiles, his new shy smile that totally disarms me and

takes my breath away.

“Great job, eh?” he murmurs.

I blush. “Mostly, yes.”

“Well, in that case.” He hands me the keys, walks round to the driver’s door, and opens

it for me.

“Left here,” Christian orders, and we head north toward the I-5. “Hell—gently, Ana.” He

grabs hold of the dashboard.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. I roll my eyes, but don’t turn to look at him. Van Morrison

croons in the background over the car sound system.

“Slow down!”

“I am slowing down!”

Christian sighs. “What did Flynn say?” I hear his anxiety leaching into his voice.

“I told you. He says I should give you the benefit of the doubt.” Damn—maybe I

should have let Christian drive. Then I could watch him. In fact . . . I signal to pull over.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, alarmed.

“Letting you drive.”

“Why?”

“So I can look at you.”

He laughs. “No, no—you wanted to drive. So, you drive, and I’ll look at you.”

I scowl at him. “Keep your eyes on the road!” he shouts.

My blood boils. Right! I pull over to the curb just before a stoplight and storm out

of the car, slamming the door, and stand on the sidewalk, arms folded, I glare at him. He

climbs out of the car.

“What are you doing?” he asks angrily, staring down at me.

“No. What are you doing?”

“You can’t park here.”

“I know that.”

“So why have you?”

“Because I’ve had it with you barking orders. Either you drive or you shut up about

my driving!”

“Anastasia, get back in the car before we get a ticket.”

“No.”

He blinks at me, at a total loss, then runs his hands through his hair, and his anger

becomes bewilderment. He looks so comical all of a sudden, and I can’t help but smile at

him. He frowns.

“What?” he snaps once more.

“You.”

“Oh, Anastasia! You are the most frustrating female on the planet.” He throws his

hands in the air. “Fine—I’ll drive.” I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him to me.

“No—you are the most frustrating man on the planet, Mr. Grey.”

He gazes down at me, his eyes dark and intense, he snakes his arms around my waist

and embraces me, holding me close.

“Maybe we’re meant for each other, then,” he says softly and inhales deeply, his nose

in my hair. I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes. For the first time since this

morning, I feel myself relax.

“Oh . . . Ana, Ana, Ana,” he breathes, his lips pressed against my hair. I tighten my

arms around him, and we stand, immobile, enjoying a moment of unexpected tranquility,

on the street. Releasing me, he opens the passenger door. I climb in and sit quietly, watch-

ing him walk around the car.

Restarting the car, Christian pulls out into the traffic, absentmindedly humming along

to Van Morrison.

Whoa. I’ve never heard him sing, not even in the shower, ever. I frown. He has a lovely

voice—of course. Hmm . . . has he heard me sing?

He wouldn’t be asking you to marry him if he had!My subconscious has her arms

crossed and is wearing Burberry check . . . jeez. The song finishes and Christian smirks.

“You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this car is in your name.”

“Well, good thing I’ve been promoted—I can afford the fine,” I say smugly, staring at

his lovely profile. His lips twitch. Another Van Morrison song starts playing as he takes the

on-ramp to I-5, heading north.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. What else did Flynn say?”

I sigh. “He talked about FFFSTB or something.”

“SFBT. The latest therapy option,” he mutters.

“You’ve tried others?”

Christian snorts. “Baby, I’ve been subjected to them all. Cognitivism, Freud, function-

alism, Gestalt, behaviorism . . . You name it, over the years I’ve done it,” he says and his

tone betrays his bitterness. The rancor in his voice is distressing.

“Do you think this latest approach will help?”

“What did Flynn say?”

“He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future—on where you want to be.”

Christian nods but shrugs at the same time, his expression cautious.