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Christian is eating at the breakfast bar. His forkful of omelet stops in midair when he sees me. He frowns.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?”

“Work.” I smile sweetly.

“I don’t think so.” Christian snorts with amused derision. “Dr. Singh said a week off.”

“Christian, I am not spending the day lounging in bed on my own. So I may as well go to work. Good morning, Gail.”

“Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Jones tries to hide a smile. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Please.”

“Granola?”

“I’d prefer scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast.” Mrs. Jones grins and Christian registers his surprise.

“Very good, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones says.

“Ana, you are not going to work.”

“But—”

“No. It’s simple. Don’t argue.” Christian is adamant. I glare at him, and only then do I notice that he’s in the same pajama bottoms and T-shirt he was wearing last night.

“Are you going to work?” I ask.

“No.”

Am I going crazy? “It is Monday, right?” He smiles. “Last time I looked.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you playing hooky?”

“I’m not leaving you here on your own to get into trouble. And Dr. Singh said it would be a week before you could go back to work. Remember?” I slide onto a bar stool beside him and hoist my skirt up a little. Mrs. Jones places a cup of tea in front of me.“You look good,” Christian says. I cross my 491/551

legs. “Very good. Especially here.” He traces a finger over the bare flesh that shows above my thigh-highs. My pulse quickens as his finger runs across my skin. “This skirt is very short,” he murmurs, vague disapproval in his voice as his eyes follow his finger.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

Christian gazes at me, mouth twisted in an amused yet exasperated smirk.

“Really, Mrs. Grey?”

I blush.

“I’m not sure this look is suitable for the workplace,” he murmurs.

“Well, since I’m not going to work, that’s a moot point.”

“Moot?”

“Moot,” I mouth.

Christian smirks again and resumes eating his omelet. “I have a better idea.”

“You do?”

He glances at me through long lashes, gray eyes darkening. I inhale sharply.

Oh, my. About time.

“We can go see how Elliot’s getting on with the house.” What? Oh! Tease! I vaguely remember we were supposed to do that before Ray was injured.

“I’d love to.”

“Good.” He grins.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“No. Ros is back from Taiwan. That all went well. Today, everything’s fine.”

“I thought you were going to Taiwan.” He snorts again. “Ana, you were in the hospital.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah—oh. So today I’m spending some quality time with my wife.” He smacks his lips together as he takes a sip of coffee.

“Quality time?” I can’t disguise the hope in my voice.

Mrs. Jones places my scrambled eggs in front of me, again failing to hide her smile.

Christian smirks. “Quality time.” He nods.

I am too hungry to flirt anymore with my husband.

“It’s good to see you eat,” he murmurs. Rising, he leans over and kisses my hair. “I’m going to shower.”

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“Um . . . can I come and scrub your back?” I mumble through a mouth full of toast and scrambled egg.

“No. Eat.”

Leaving the breakfast bar, he tugs his T-shirt over his head, treating me to the sight of his finely sculptured shoulders and naked back as he saunters out of the great room. I stop mid-chew. He’s doing this on purpose. Why?

Christian is relaxed on the drive north. We’ve just left Ray and Mr. Rodriguez watching soccer on the new flat-screen television that I suspect Christian has bought for Ray’s hospital room.

Christian has been laid back ever since “the talk.” It’s as if a weight has been lifted; Mrs. Robinson’s shadow no longer looms so large over us, maybe because I’ve decided to let it go—or because he has, I don’t know. But I feel closer to him now than I ever have before. Perhaps because he’s finally confided in me. I hope he continues to do so. And he’s more accepting of the baby, too. He hasn’t gone out and bought a crib yet, but I have high hopes.

I gaze at him, drinking him in as he drives. He looks casual, cool . . . sexy with his tousled hair, Ray-Bans, pinstripe jacket, white linen shirt, and jeans.

He glances at me and clasps my leg above the knee, his fingers stroking gently. “I’m glad you didn’t change.”

I did slip on a denim jacket and change to flats, but I’m still wearing the short skirt. His hand lingers above my knee. I put my hand on his.

“Are you going to continue to tease me?”

“Maybe.” Christian smiles.

“Why?”

“Because I can.” He grins, boyish as ever.

“Two can play at that game,” I whisper.

His fingers move tantalizingly up my thigh. “Bring it on, Mrs. Grey.” His grin broadens.

I pick up his hand and put it back on his knee. “Well, you can keep your hands to yourself.”

He smirks. “As you wish, Mrs. Grey.”

Dammit. This game is going to backfire on me.

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Christian turns into the driveway of our new house. He stops at the keypad and punches in a number, and the ornate white metal gates swing open. We roar up the tree-lined lane under leaves that are a blend of green, yellow, and burnished copper. The tall grass in the meadow is turning gold, but there are still a few yellow wildflowers dotted among the grass. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, and the salty tang of the Sound is in the air mixed with the scent of the coming fall.

This is such a tranquil and beautiful place. And to think we’re going to make our home here.

The lane curves around, and our house comes into view. Several large trucks, sides emblazoned with GREY CONSTRUCTION, are parked out front. The house is decked in scaffolding, and several workmen in hard hats are busy on the roof.

Christian pulls up outside the portico and switches off the engine. I can sense his excitement.

“Let’s go find Elliot.”

“Is he here?”

“I hope so. I’m paying him enough.”

I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.

“Yo, Bro!” Elliot shouts from somewhere. We both glance around.

“Up here!” He’s up on the roof, waving down at us and beaming from ear to ear. “About time we saw you here. Stay where you are. I’ll be right down.” I glance at Christian, who shrugs. A few minutes later, Elliot appears at the front door.

“Hey, bro.” He shakes Christian’s hand. “And how are you, little lady?” He picks me up and swings me around.

“Better, thanks,” I giggle breathlessly, my ribs protesting. Christian frowns at him, but Elliot ignores him.

“Let’s head over to the site office. You’ll need one of these.” He taps his hard hat.

The house is a shell. The floors are covered in a hard fibrous material that looks like burlap; some of the original walls have disappeared and new ones have taken their place. Elliot leads us through, explaining what’s happening, while men—and a few women—work everywhere around us. I’m relieved to see the stone staircase with its intricate iron balustrade is still in place and draped completely in white dustsheets.

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In the main living area, the back wall has been removed to make way for Gia’s glass wall, and work is beginning on the terrace. In spite of the mess, the view is still stunning. The new work is sympathetic and in keeping with the old-world charm of the house . . . Gia’s done well. Elliot patiently explains the processes and gives us a rough timeframe for each. He’s hoping we can be in by Christmas, although Christian thinks this is optimistic.