, a一vuncular.” Christian is testing the word and
meaning. I laugh.
“Oh, Christian, grow up, for hea一ven’s sake.”
His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but
then he frowns as if considering my statement. “I’m trying,”
he says eventually.
“That you are. Very.” I answer softly but then roll my
eyes at him.
“What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at
“What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at
me, Anastasia.” He grins.
I smirk at him. “Well, if you beha一ve yourself, maybe
we can relive some of those memories.”
His mouth twists with humor. “Beha一ve myself?” He
raises his eyebrows. “Really, Miss Steele—what makes
you think I want to relive them?”
“Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas
when I said that.”
“You know me so well already,” he says dryly.
“I’d like to know you better.”
He smiles softly. “And I you, Anastasia.”
“Thanks, Mac.” Christian shakes McConnell’s hand and
steps on the dock.
“Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana,
great to meet you.”
I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian
and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.
“Good day, Mac, and thank you.”
He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian
takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina’s
promenade.
“Where’s Mac from?” I ask, curious about his accent.
“Ireland . . . Northern Ireland,” Christian corrects
himself.
“Is he your friend?”
“Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace.”
“Do you ha一ve many friends?”
He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do . . . I don’t
cultivate friendships. There’s only—” He stops, his frown
deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs.
Robinson.
“Hungry?” he asks, trying to change the subject.
I nod. Actually, I’m famished.
“We’ll eat where I left the car. Come.”
Next to SP’s is a small Italian bistro called Bee’s. It
reminds me of the place in Portland—a few tables and
booths, the décor very crisp and modern with a large
black and white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta
serving as a mur
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