“Cheers, Mr. Grey.” I take a welcome sip. It’s thirst-quenching, cold, and delicious. When I gaze at him, he’s watching me carefully, his mood unreadable. It’s very frustrating . . . I don’t know if he’s still mad at me. I deploy my patented distraction technique.
“Who owns this boat?” I ask.
“A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter’s married to one of the Crown Princes of Europe.” Oh. “Super-rich?”
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Christian looks suddenly wary. “Yes.”
“Like you,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
Oh.
“And like you,” Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink rapidly . . . a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind . . . his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding ceremony.
“All that is mine is now yours,” he says, his voice ringing out clearly reciting his vows from memory.
All mine? Holy cow. “It’s odd. Going from nothing to”—I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundings—“to everything.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
Taylor appears on deck. “Sir, you have a call.” Christian frowns but takes the proffered BlackBerry.
“Grey,” he snaps and rises from his seat to stand at the bow of the yacht.
I gaze out at the sea, tuning out his conversation with Ros—I think—his number two. I am rich . . . stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money . . . just married a rich man. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our conversation about prenups. It was the Sunday after his birthday, and we were seated at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast . . . all of us. Elliot, Kate, Grace, and I were debating the merits of bacon versus sausage, while Carrick and Christian read the Sunday paper . . .
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“Look at this,” squeals Mia as she sets her netbook on the kitchen table in front of us. “There’s a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about you being engaged, Christian.”