Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(186)

"Do you think that supercilious f*cker is still waiting tables?" Christian asks.

"Supercilious? I thought he was fine."

"He was trying to impress you."

"Well, he succeeded."

Christian's mouth twists in amused disgust.

"Shall we go see?" I offer.

"Lead on, Mrs. Grey."

After lunch and a quick detour to the Heathman to pick up Christian's laptop, we return to the hospital. I spend the afternoon with Ray, reading aloud from one of the manuscripts I've been sent. My only accompaniment is the sound of the machinery keeping him alive, keeping him with me. Now that I know he's making progress, I can breathe a little easier and relax. I'm hopeful. He just needs time to get well. I've got time—I can give him that. I wonder idly if I should try calling Mom again, but decide to do it later. I hold Ray's hand loosely as I read to him, squeezing it occasionally, willing him to be well. His fingers feel soft and warm beneath my touch. He still has the indentation on his finger where he wore his wedding ring—even after all this time.

An hour or two later, I don't know how long, I glance up to see Christian, laptop in hand, standing at the end of Ray's bed with Nurse Kellie.

"It's time to go, Ana."

Oh. I clasp Ray's hand tightly. I don't want to leave him.

"I want to feed you. Come. It's late." Christian sounds insistent.

"I'm about to give Mr. Steele a sponge bath," Nurse Kellie says.

"Okay." I concede. "We'll be back tomorrow morning."

I kiss Ray on his cheek, feeling his unfamiliar stubble beneath my lips. I don't like it . Keep getting better, Daddy. I love you.

"I thought we'd dine downstairs. In a private room," Christian says, a gleam in his eye as he opens the door to our suite.

"Really? Finish what you started a few months ago?"

He smirks. "If you're very lucky, Mrs. Grey."

I laugh. "Christian, I don't have anything dressy to wear."

He smiles, holds out his hand, and leads me into the bedroom. He opens the wardrobe to reveal a large white dress bag hanging inside.

"Taylor?" I ask.

"Christian," he replies, forceful and wounded at once. His tone makes me laugh. Unzipping the bag, I find a navy satin dress and ease it out. It's gorgeous—fitted with thin straps. It looks small.

"It's lovely. Thank you. I hope it fits."

"It will," he says confidently. "And here"—he picks up a shoebox—"shoes to match." He gives me a wolfish smile.

"You think of everything. Thank you." I stretch up and kiss him.

"I do." He hands me yet another bag.

I gaze at him quizzically. Inside is a black strapless bodysuit with a central panel of lace. He caresses my face, tilts my chin, and kisses me.

"I look forward to taking this off you later."

Fresh out of my bath, washed, shaved and feeling pampered, I sit on the edge of the bed and start up the hair dryer. Christian wanders into the bedroom. I think he's been working.

"Here, let me," he says, pointing to the chair in front of the dressing table.

"Dry my hair?"

He nods. I blink at him.

"Come," he says, regarding me intently. I know that expression, and I know better than to disobey. Slowly and methodically he dries my hair, one lock at a time. He's obviously done this before . . . often.

"You're no stranger to this," I murmur. His smile is reflected in the mirror, but he says nothing and continues to brush through my hair. Hmm . . . it's very relaxing.