“Are you happy with a stir-fry? It’s quick.”
“Stir-fry sounds good.” Christian grins, no doubt figuring out my ulterior motive for a
speedy meal.
“Have they worked for you long?”
“Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones about the same. Why didn’t you have any food
in the apartment?”
“You know why,” I murmur, flushing.
“It was you who left me,” he mutters disapprovingly.
“I know,” I reply in a small voice, not wanting that reminder.
We reach the checkout and silently stand in line.
If I hadn’t left, would he have offered the vanilla alternative? I wonder idly.
“Do you have anything to drink?” He pulls me back to the present.
“Beer . . . I think.”
“I’ll get some wine.”
Oh dear. I’m not sure what sort of wine is available in Ernie’s Supermarket. Christian
remerges empty handed, grimacing with a look of disgust.
“There’s a good liquor store next door,” I say quickly.
“I’ll see what they have.”
Maybe we should just go to his place, then we wouldn’t have all this hassle. I watch as
he strolls purposefully and with easy grace out of the door. Two women coming in stop and
stare. Oh yes, eye my Fifty Shades, I think despondently.
I want the memory of him in my bed, but he’s playing hard to get. Maybe I should, too.
My inner goddess nods frantically in agreement. And as I stand in line, we come up with
a plan. Hmm . . .
Christian carries the grocery bags into the apartment. He’s carried them as we’ve walked
back to the apartment from the store. He looks odd. Not his usual CEO demeanor at all.
“You look very—domestic.”
“No one has ever accused me of that before,” he says dryly. He places the bags on the
kitchen island. As I start to unload them, he takes out a bottle of white wine and searches
for a corkscrew.
“This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in that drawer there.” I point with
my chin.
This feels so . . . normal. Two people, getting to know each other, having a meal. Yet
it’s so strange. The fear that I’d always felt in his presence has gone. We’ve already done
so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and yet I hardly know him.
“What are you thinking about?” Christian interrupts my reverie as he shrugs out of his
pinstripe jacket and places it on the couch.
“How little I know you, really.”
He gazes at me and his eyes soften. “You know me better than anyone.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” Mrs. Robinson comes unbidden, and very unwelcome, into
my mind.