Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (50 page)

Holy crap
. He’s written an essay like we’re back at school—
and most of it’s good
. My heart is in my mouth as I reread his epistle, and I huddle on the spare bed practically hugging my Mac. Make our agreement a year? I have the power! Jeez, I’m going to have to think about that.
Take him literally
, that’s what my mother says. He doesn’t want to lose me. He’s said that twice! He wants to make this work, too.
Oh, Christian, so do I!
He’s going to try to stay away! Does this mean he might fail to stay away? Suddenly, I hope so. I want to see him. We’ve been apart less than twenty-four hours, and knowing that I can’t see him for four days, I realize how much I miss him. How much I love him.

“Ana, honey.” The voice is soft and warm, full of love and sweet memories of times gone by.

A gentle hand brushes my face. My mom wakes me, and I’m wrapped around my laptop, hugging it to me.

“Ana, sweetheart,” she continues in her soft, singsong voice while I surface from sleep, blinking in the pale pink light of dusk.

“Hi, Mom.” I stretch out and smile.

“We’re going out for dinner in thirty minutes. You still want to come?” she asks kindly.

“Oh yes, Mom, of course.” I try very hard but fail to stifle my yawn.

“Now that’s an impressive piece of technology.” She points to my laptop.

Oh, crap
.

“Oh … this?” I strive for casual, surprised nonchalance.

Will Mom notice? She seems to have grown more astute since I acquired a “boyfriend.”

“Christian lent it to me. I think I could pilot the space shuttle with it, but I just use it for e-mails and Internet access.”

Really, it’s nothing
. Eyeing me suspiciously, she sits down on the bed and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

“Has he e-mailed you?”

Oh, double crap
.

“Yeah.” My nonchalance is wearing thin, and I flush.

“Perhaps he’s missing you, huh?”

“I hope so, Mom.”

“What does he say?”

Oh, triple crap
. I frantically try to think of something acceptable from that e-mail I can tell my mother. I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear about Doms and bondage and gagging, but then I can’t tell her because there’s the NDA.

“He’s told me to enjoy myself but not too much.”

“Sounds reasonable. I’ll leave you to get ready, honey.” Leaning over, she kisses my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ana. It’s wonderful to see you.” And with that loving statement, she leaves.

Hmm, Christian and reasonable
 … two concepts that I thought were mutually exclusive, but after his e-mail, maybe all things are possible. I shake my head. I will need time to digest his words. Probably after dinner—and I can reply to him then. I climb out of bed and quickly slip out of my T-shirt and shorts and head to the shower.

I have brought Kate’s gray halter-neck dress that I wore for my graduation. It’s the only dressy item I have. One good thing about the heat is that the creases have dropped out, so I think it will do for the golf club. As I dress, I open up the laptop. There is nothing new from Christian, and I feel a stab of disappointment. Very quickly, I type him an e-mail.

I press “send,” and immediately the image of that evil witch Mrs. Robinson comes into my mind. I just can’t picture it. Christian being beaten by someone as old as my mother, it’s just so wrong. Again I wonder what damage she’s wrought. My mouth sets in a hard, grim line. I need a doll to stick pins in, maybe that way I can vent some of the anger I feel at this stranger.

For some unknown reason, his words leap off the screen and make me gasp. Oh … he wants to play games.

“Ana!” My mother calls me, making me jump.
Shit
. Why do I feel so guilty?

“Just coming, Mom.”

I dash into the hall, where Bob and my mother are waiting. My mother frowns.

“Darling—are you feeling okay? You look a bit flushed.”

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“You look lovely, dear.”

“Oh, this is Kate’s dress. You like it?”

Her frown deepens.

“Why are you wearing Kate’s dress?”

Oh … no
.

“Well, I like this one and she doesn’t,” I improvise quickly.

She regards me shrewdly while Bob oozes impatience with his hangdog, hungry look.

“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow,” she says.

“Oh, Mom, you don’t need to do that. I have plenty of clothes.”

“Can’t I do something for my own daughter? Come on, Bob’s starving.”

“Too right,” moans Bob, rubbing his stomach and assuming a fake pained expression.

I giggle as he rolls his eyes, and we head out the door.

Later when I’m in the shower, cooling under the lukewarm water, I reflect on how much my mother has changed. Seeing her at dinner, she was in her element: funny and flirty and among many friends at the golf club. Bob was warm and attentive … they seem so good for each other. I’m really pleased for her. It means I can stop worrying about her and second-guessing her decisions and put the dark days of Husband Number Three behind us both. Bob is a keeper. And she’s giving me good advice.
When did that start happening?
Since I met Christian.
Why is that?

When I’m done, I dry myself quickly, keen to get back to Christian. There’s an e-mail waiting for me, sent just after I left for dinner a few hours ago.