evening?” He is crisply polite.
“Yes. We finished packing and Kate and I shared a Chinese take-out with José.” I close my eyes tightly as I say José’s name. Christian says nothing.
“How about you?” I ask to fill the sudden deafening chasm of silence. I will not let him guilt me out about José.
Eventually, he sighs.
“I went to a fundraising dinner. It was deathly dull. I left as soon as I could.”
He sounds so sad and resigned. My heart clenches. I picture him all those nights ago sat at the piano in his huge living room and the unbearable bittersweet melancholy of the music he was playing.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper, because I ha一ve an urge to hold him. Soothe him. Even though he won’t let me. I want his proximity.
“Do you?” he murmurs blandly. Holy mackerel. This doesn’t sound like him, and my scalp prickles with dawning apprehension.
“Yes,” I breathe. After an eternity, he sighs.
“I’ll see you Sunday?”
“Yes, Sunday,” I murmur, and a thrill courses through my body.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Sir.”
My address catches him unawares, I can tell by his sharp intake of breath.
“Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.” His voice is soft. And we’re both hanging on the phone like teenagers, neither wanting to hang up.
“You hang up,” I whisper. Finally, I sense his smile.
“No, you hang up.” And I know he’s grinning.
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
“Were you very angry with me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still?”
“No.”
“So you’re not going to punish me?”
“No. I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You can hang up now, Miss Steele.”
“Do you really want me to, Sir?”
“Go to bed, Anastasia.”
“Yes, Sir.”
We both stay on the line.
“Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you’re told?” He’s amused and exasperated at once.
“Maybe. We’ll see after Sunday.” And I press ‘end’ on the phone.
Elliot stands and admires his handiwork. He has re-plugged our TV into the satellite system in our Pike Place Market apartment. Kate and I flop on to the couch giggling, impressed
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