I wander into the thankfully empty waiting room where Christian is talking on the phone, pacing. As he speaks, he gazes out of the window at the panoramic view of Portland. He turns to me when I shut the door, and he looks angry.
"How far above the limit? . . . I see . . . All charges, everything. Ana's father is in the ICU - I want you to throw the f**king book at him, Dad . . . Good. Keep me informed." He hangs up.
"The other driver?"
He nods. "Some drunken trailer trash from Southeast Portland." He sneers, and I'm shocked by his terminology and his derisory tone. He walks over to me, and his tone softens.
"Finished with Ray? Do you want to go?"
"Um . . . no." I peer up at him, still reeling at his display of contempt.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Ray's being taken to radiology for a CT scan to check the swelling in his brain. I'd like to wait for the results."
"Okay. We'll wait." He sits down and holds out his hands. As we're alone, I go willingly and curl up in his lap.
"This is not how I envisaged spending today," Christian murmurs into my hair.
"Me neither, but I'm feeling more positive now. Your mom was very reassuring. It was kind of her to come last night."
Christian strokes my back soothingly, resting his chin on my head.
"My mom is an amazing woman."
"She is. You're very lucky to have her."
Christian nods.
"I should call my mom. Tell her about Ray," I murmur and Christian stiffens. "I'm surprised she hasn't called me." I add in a moment of realization. In fact, I feel hurt. It's my birthday after all, and she was there when I was born. Why hasn't she called?
"Maybe she did," Christian says. I fish my BlackBerry out of my pocket. It shows no missed calls, but quite a few texts: happy birthdays from Kate, Jose, Mia, and Ethan. Nothing from my mother. I shake my head despondently.
"Call her now," he says softly. I do, but there's no reply, just the answering machine. I don't leave a message. How can my own mother forget my birthday?
"She's not there. I'll call later when I know the results of the brain scan."
Christian tightens his arms around me, nuzzling my hair once more, and wisely makes no comment on my mother's lack of maternal concern. I feel rather than hear the buzz of his BlackBerry. He doesn't let me stand up but fishes it awkwardly out of his pocket.
"Andrea," he snaps, businesslike again. I make another move to stand and he stops me, frowning and holding me tightly around my waist. I nestle back against his chest and listen to the one-sided conversation.
"Good . . . ETA is what time? . . . And the other, um . . . packages?"
Christian glances at his watch. "Does the Heathman have all the details? . . . Good . . . Yes. It can hold until Monday morning, but email just in case - I'll print, sign, and scan it back to you . . . They can wait. Go home, Andrea . . . No, we're good, thank you." He hangs up.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes."
"Is this your Taiwan thing?"
"Yes." He shifts beneath me.
"Am I too heavy?"
He snorts. "No, baby."
"Are you worried about the Taiwan thing?"
"No."
"I thought it was important."
"It is. The shipyard here depends on it. There are lots of jobs at stake."
Oh!
"We just have to sell it to the unions. That's Sam and Ros's job. But the way the economy's heading, none of us have a lot of choice."
I yawn.
"Am I boring you, Mrs. Grey?" He nuzzles my hair again, amused.
"No! Never . . . I'm just very comfortable on your lap. I like hearing about your business."
"You do?" He sounds surprised.
"Of course." I lean back to gaze directly at him. "I like hearing any bit of information you deign to share with me." I smirk, and he regards me with amusement and shakes his head.
"Always hungry for more information, Mrs. Grey."
"Tell me." I urge him as I snuggle up against his chest again.
"Tell you what?"
"Why you do it."
"Do what?"
"Work the way you do."
"A guy's got to earn a living." He's amused.
"Christian, you earn more than a living." My voice is full of irony. He frowns and is quiet for a moment. I think he's not going to divulge any secrets, but he surprises me.
"I don't want to be poor," he says, his voice low. "I've done that. I'm not going back there again. Besides . . . it's a game," he murmurs.
"It's about winning. A game I've always found very easy."
"Unlike life," I murmur to myself. Then I realize I said the words out loud.
"Yes, I suppose." He frowns. "Though it's easier with you."
Easier with me? I hug him tightly. "It can't all be a game.. You're very philanthropic."
He shrugs, and I know he's growing uncomfortable. "About some things, maybe," he says quietly.
"I love philanthropic Christian," I murmur.
"Just him?"
"Oh, I love megalomaniac Christian, too, and control-freak Christian, sexpertise Christian, kinky Christian, romantic Christian, shy Christian . . . the list is endless."
"That's a whole lot of Christians."
"I'd say at least fifty."
He laughs. "Fifty Shades," he murmurs into my hair.
"My Fifty Shades."
He shifts, tipping my head back, and kisses me. "Well, Mrs. Shades, let's see how your dad is doing."
"Okay."