Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,168

it’s only been her since then.”

I blow out a breath. This is not Elliot’s usual M.O.—he’s the most promiscuous person I know. “So, what’s the problem?” I ask.

“I dunno. Is she the one? I dunno.”

We’ve never had this kind of conversation before; there have been so many women in Elliot’s life. I don’t know what to say. “Well, as you know, she kept Ana out late last night, and whenever she’s with Ana, Ana comes back drunk,” I grumble. And she’s a major pain in the ass, but I can’t say that to him.

“Kate’s a good-time girl. Maybe that’s it. I just don’t know how she feels.”

“Dude, I am not the person to ask for advice. Believe me. You’ll have to figure this out for yourself.”

“I guess,” he says.

“Aspen might be the place.”

“Yes. I’ll text her.”

“She’s not with you?”

“No. But I want her to be. I’m just playing it cool.”

“Whatever, dude. I’ll send details of where to go in the morning.”

“It is the morning, bro.”

“True. This trip is a surprise for Ana. Tell Kate. I don’t want her blowing it.”

“Copy.”

“Good night, Elliot.”

“Dude.” He hangs up.

I stand staring at my phone, not quite believing the conversation we’ve just had. Elliot’s never asked me for advice on his love life. Ever. And as I suspected, he’s really fallen for Kavanagh. I don’t get it. She’s the most irritating woman on the planet.

It’s late, and I should head back to bed. But I’m drawn to the piano; some music will quiet my mind. I lift the lid, sit down, and focus. The keys are cool and familiar beneath my fingers, and I start to play Chopin. Melancholic music wraps around me like a soothing blanket, smothering my thoughts, the plaintive, somber notes a perfect match for my frame of mind. I play it once, twice, three times, losing myself in the melody and forgetting everything; it’s just me and the music. While I’m playing the piece for a fourth time, Ana appears at the edge of my vision dressed in her robe. I don’t stop, but I shift to make room for her on the stool. She sits down beside me and lays her head on my shoulder. Kissing her hair, I continue to play.

When I finish, I ask if I woke her.

“Only because you were gone. What’s that piece called?”

“It’s Chopin. It’s one of his preludes in E minor. It’s called ‘Suffocation.’” I almost smile at the irony: it’s what she accuses me of doing to her.

She takes my hand. “You’re really shaken by all this, aren’t you?”

“A deranged asshole gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife. She won’t do as she’s told. She drives me crazy. She safe-words on me.” I close my eyes. “Yeah, I’m pretty shaken up.”

She squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry.”

I press my forehead to hers, and I’m in the confessional, whispering my darkest fear. “I dreamed you were dead. Lying on the floor—so cold—and you wouldn’t wake up.” I swallow down the image that lingers from my nightmare.

“Hey.” Ana’s voice is soothing. “It was just a bad dream.” She holds my head, her hands on my cheeks. “I’m here, and I’m cold without you in bed. Come back to bed, please.” She stands, taking my hand, and after a heartbeat, I follow her.

She slips out of her robe, and we both climb into bed. I hold her close. “Sleep,” she whispers, and kisses my hair, and I shut my eyes.

It’s the warmth I become aware of first, the warmth of her body and the scent of her hair. When I open my eyes, I am wrapped around my wife. I lift my head off her chest.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey,” she says with a soft smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Did you sleep well?” I stretch out beside her, feeling remarkably fresh after such a disturbed night.

“Once my husband stopped making that terrible racket on the piano, yes, I did.”

“Terrible racket? I’ll be sure to e-mail Miss Kathie and let her know.” I grin back at her.

“Miss Kathie?”

“My piano teacher.”

She giggles.

“That’s a lovely sound. Shall we have a better day today?”

“Okay,” she agrees. “What do you want to do?”

“After I have made love to my wife, and she’s cooked me breakfast, I’d like to take her to Aspen.”

Ana looks dumbfounded. “Aspen?”

“Yes.”

“Aspen, Colorado?”

“The very same. Unless they’ve moved it. After all, you did pay twenty-four thousand dollars for the experience.”

She gives me her most superior smile. “That was your money.”

“Our money,” I correct her.

“It was your money when I