marshal my thoughts. What do I want to say? I think I said it all in my e-mail.
Perhaps he’ll give me some answers. I hope so. I can’t help my nerves. My
heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty. I don’t want to
fight. But sometimes he’s so difficult, and I need to stand my ground.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing the foyer, and it’s once more neat
and tidy. The table is upright and a new vase is in place with a gorgeous
array of pale pink and white peonies. I quickly check the paintings as we
wander through—the Madonnas all look to be intact. The broken foyer door
is fixed and operational once more, and Prescott kindly opens it for me.
She’s been so quiet today. I think I prefer her this way.
I drop my briefcase in the hall and head into the great room. I stop. Holy fuck.
215 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
“Good evening, Mrs. Grey,” Christian says softly. He’s standing by the piano,
dressed in a tight black T-shirt, and jeans . . . those jeans—
the ones he wore in the playroom. Oh my. They are over washed pale blue
denim, snug, ripped at the knee and hot. He saunters over to me, his feet
bare, the top button of the jeans undone, his smoldering eyes never lea一ving
mine.
“Good to ha一ve you home. I’ve been waiting for you.”
216 | P a g e
E L JAMES