Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(147)

Kate and Elliot sit back on the soft velvet seating, hand in hand. They look so happy, their features soft and radiant in the glow from the tea lights flickering in crystal holders on the low table. Christian gestures for me to sit, and I scoot in beside Kate. He takes a seat beside me and anxiously scans the room.

"Show me your ring." I raise my voice over the music. I will be hoarse by the time we leave. Kate beams at me and holds up her hand. The ring is exquisite, a single solitaire in a fine elaborate claw with tiny diamonds on either side. It has a retro Victorian look to it.

"It's beautiful."

She nods in delight and, reaching over, squeezes Elliot's thigh. He leans down and kisses her.

"Get a room," I call out.

Elliot grins.

A young woman with short dark hair and a mischievous smile, wearing regulation, black satin, hot pants, comes to take our order.

"What do you want to drink?" Christian asks.

"You're not picking up the tab for this, too," Elliot grumbles.

"Don't start that shit, Elliot," Christian says mildly.

Despite the objections of Kate, Elliot and Ethan, Christian has paid for the meal we just consumed. He simply waved them aside and would not hear of anyone else paying. I gaze at him lovingly. My Fifty Shades . . . always in control.

Elliot opens his mouth to say something but, wisely perhaps, closes it again.

"I'll have a beer," he says.

"Kate?" Christian asks.

"More champagne, please. The Cristal is delicious. But I'm sure Ethan would prefer a beer." She smiles sweetly— yes, sweetly—at Christian. She is incandescent with happiness. I feel it radiating off her, and it's a pleasure to bask in her joy.

"Ana?"

"Champagne, please."

"Bottle of Cristal, three Peronis, and a bottle of iced mineral water, six glasses," he says in his usual authoritative, no-nonsense manner.

It's kinda hot.

"Thank you, sir. Coming right up." Miss Hot Pants Number Two gives him a gracious smile, but he's spared the fluttering of eyelashes though her cheeks redden a little.

I shake my head in resignation. He's mine, girlfriend.

"What?" he asks me.

"She didn't flutter her eyelashes at you." I smirk.

"Oh. Was she supposed to?" he asks, failing to hide his mirth.

"Women usually do." My tone is ironic.

He grins. "Mrs. Grey, are you jealous?"

"Not in the slightest." I pout at him. And I realize in that moment that I am beginning to tolerate women ogling my husband. Almost. Christian clasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.

"You have nothing to be jealous of, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath tickling me.

"I know."

"Good."

The waitress returns, and moments later I'm sipping another glass of champagne.

"Here." Christian hands me a glass of water. "Drink this."

I frown at him and see, rather than hear, his sigh.

"Three glasses of white wine at dinner and two of champagne, after a strawberry daiquiri and two glasses of Frascati at lunchtime. Drink. Now, Ana."

How does he know about the cocktails this afternoon? I scowl at him. But actually he does have a point. Taking the glass of water, I down it in a most unladylike manner to register my protest at being told what to do . . . again. I wipe my hand across the back of my mouth.

"Good girl," he says, smirking. "You've vomited on me once already. I don't wish to experience that again in a hurry."