look up, I’m at Flynn’s office. There’s no way he’s going to be here. The door doesn’t shift—it’s locked. I call him but get his voice mail. I don’t leave a message. I can’t trust myself.
Jamming my hands into the pockets of my jacket and ignoring the commuters on the streets, I trudge on.
Aimless.
When I look up, Elena is locking up the salon, shrouded in her usual black attire. We gaze at each other; she’s on one side of the glass, I’m on the other. She unlocks and opens the door.
“Hello, Christian. You look like shit.”
I stare at her, not knowing what to say.
“Are you coming in?”
I shake my head and step back.
Grey, what are you doing?
Somewhere deep in my subconscious an alarm is sounding.
I ignore it.
Elena sighs and taps a scarlet nail against scarlet lips, her silver ring catching the evening light. “Shall we go for a drink?”
“Yes.”
“The Mile High?”
“No. Somewhere less crowded.”
“I see.” She tries and fails to hide her surprise. “Okay.”
“There’s a bar around the corner.”
“I know the one. It’s a quiet place. Let me grab my purse.”
Standing on the sidewalk while I wait for her, I feel numb.
I’ve just walked out on my pregnant wife.
But right now I’m too mad at her to care.
Grey, what are you doing?
I shake the disquieting voice from my head, and Elena steps out of her salon, locks the door, and with a slight nod of her head indicates right. I jam my hands farther into my pockets and together we walk the rest of the block, around the corner, and into the bar.
It’s had a considerable makeover since I was last here—it’s no longer a dive, but an upscale watering hole, all paneled wood and plush velvet seating. Elena was right—it is quiet except for Billie Holiday’s soft, melancholic voice over the sound system.
Apt.
We slide into a booth, and Elena signals for the waitress.
“Good evening, my name’s Sunny. What can I get you folks?”
“I’d like a glass of your Willamette pinot noir,” Elena says.
“A bottle,” I order, without looking at the waitress. Elena’s eyebrows rise a fraction, but she maintains her familiar air of cool detachment. Maybe that’s why I’m here; that’s what I’m looking for—cool detachment personified.
“Coming right up.” The young woman leaves us.
“So, all is not well in the world of Christian Grey,” Elena observes. “I knew I’d see you again.” Her eyes are fixed on mine and I don’t know what to say. “Like that, is it?” Elena fills the silence between us. “Did you get my text?”
“On my wedding day?”
“Yes.”
“I did. I deleted it.”
“Christian, I can feel your enmity from here. It’s coming off you in waves. But you wouldn’t be here if I was the enemy.”
I blow out a breath and sit back in the booth.
“Why are you here?” she asks, not unreasonably.
Fuck. “I don’t know.” Could I sound any more sullen?
“She’s left you?”
“Don’t.” I give her a glacial stare.
I don’t want to talk about Ana.
Elena purses her lips as the waitress returns. We both sit back and watch as she uncorks our wine and pours a sample into my glass. “I’m sure it’s fine.” I wave in Elena’s direction and the waitress fills each of our glasses in turn.
“Enjoy,” she says brightly, leaving us with the bottle.
Elena reaches for her glass and raises it. “To old friends.” She smirks and takes a sip.
I snort, feeling some of my tension leave my shoulders. “Old friends.” I raise my glass and gulp down a few mouthfuls of wine, not tasting it. Elena frowns and presses her lips together but says nothing, her eyes not leaving mine.
I sigh. She wants me to fill the silence. I’m going to have to say something. “How’s the business?”
“Good. It was generous of you to gift it to me. Thank you for that.”
“It was the least I could do.”
She glances down at her glass as the silence between us expands. Eventually, she breaks it. “As you’re here, I think I should apologize for how I behaved at your parents’ house.”
Well, this is a surprise. It’s not like Mrs. Lincoln to apologize for anything. Her mantra has always been “never apologize, never explain.”
“I said several things that I regret,” she adds quietly.
“We both did, Elena. It’s in the past.”
I offer her more wine, but she declines—her glass is still half full, while mine is empty. I pour myself another.
She sighs. “My social circle is considerably diminished. I miss your mother. It hurts that she won’t see me.”
“It’s probably not a good idea