ho has
followed me out. He’s looking toward the Audi SUV in
dismay.
I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—
Christian Grey—wearing his gray suit, no tie, his white
shirt open at the collar. His gray eyes are glowing.
My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he’s
scowling at me. Oh no!
“When did you last eat?” he snaps as Taylor closes the
door behind me.
Crap. “Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too.”
“I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.” His
eyes blaze.
Holy shit. “Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—
and a banana.”
“When did you last ha一ve a proper meal?” he asks
acidly.
Taylor slips into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and
pulls out into the traffic.
I glance up and Jack is wa一ving at me, though how he
can see me through the dark glass, I don’t know. I wa一ve
back.
“Who’s that?” Christian snaps.
“My boss.” I peek up at the beautiful man beside me,
and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.
“Well? Your last meal?”
“Christian, that really is none of your concern,” I
murmur, feeling extraordinarily bra一ve.
“Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.”
No, it doesn’t. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes
hea一venward, and Christian narrows his eyes. And for the
first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle
the giggle that threatens to bubble up. Christian’s face
softens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and I see a
trace of a smile kiss his beautifully sculptured lips.
“Well?” he asks, his voice softer.
“Pasta alla vongole, last Friday,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes as fury and possibly regret, sweeps
across his face. “I see,” he says, his voice expressionless.
“You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly
more since then. Please eat, Anastasia,” he scolds.
I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Why
does he always make me feel like an errant child?
He shifts and turns toward me. “How are you?” he
asks, his voice still soft.
Well, I’m shit really . . . I swallow. “If I told you I
was fine,
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