orward and kiss him
gently on his lips.
“Okay. Faith and patience, I can live with that.”
“Good. Because Franco’s here.”
“Good. Because Franco’s here.”
Franco is small, dark, and gay. I love him.
“Such beautiful hair!” he gushes with an outrageous,
probably fake Italian accent. I bet he’s from Baltimore or
somewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious. Christian
leads us both into his bathroom, exits hurriedly, and
reenters carrying a chair from his room.
“I’ll lea一ve you two to it,” he mutters.
“Grazie, Mr. Grey.” Franco turns to me. “Bene,
Anastasia, what shall we do with you?”
Christian is sitting on his couch, plowing through what look
like spreadsheets. Soft, mellow classical music drifts
through the great room. A woman sings passionately,
pouring her soul into the song. It’s breathtaking. Christian
glances up and smiles, distracting me from the music.
“See! I tell you he like it,” Franco enthuses.
“You look lovely, Ana,” Christian says appreciatively.
“My work ‘ere is done,” Franco exclaims.
Christian rises and strolls toward us. “Thank you,
Franco.”
Franco turns, grasps me in an overwhelming bear hug,
and kisses both my cheeks. “Never let anyone else be
cutting your hair, bellissima Anastasia!”
I laugh, slightly embarrassed by his familiarity. Christian
shows him to the foyer door and returns moments later.
“I’m glad you kept it long,” he says as he walks
toward me, his eyes bright. He takes a strand between his
fingers.
“So soft,” he murmurs, gazing down at me. “Are you
still mad at me?”
I nod and he smiles.
“What precisely are you mad at me about?”
I roll my eyes. “You want the list?”
“There’s a list?”
“A long one.”
“Can we discuss it in bed?”
“Can we discuss it in bed?”
“No.” I pout at him childishly.
“Over lunch, then. I’m hungry, and not just for food,”
he gives me a salacious smile.
“I am not going to let you dazzle me with your
sexpertise.”
He stifles a smile. “What is bothering you specifically,
Miss Steele? Spit it out.”
Okay.
“What’s bothering me? Wel
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