Suddenly, I’m mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances at the wine list.

“Would you like to choose the wine?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.

“You choose,” I answer, sullen but chastened.

“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please.”

“Er . . . we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”

“A bottle then,” Christian snaps.

“Sir.” He retreats, subdued, and I don’t blame him. I frown at Fifty. What’s eating him?

Oh, me probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for a while.

“You’re very grumpy.”

He gazes at me impassively. “I wonder why that is?”

“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” I smile at him sweetly.

His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he’s trying to stifle his smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Apology accepted, and I’m pleased to inform you I haven’t decided to become a veg-etarian since we last ate.”

“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a moot point.”

“There’s that word again, moot.”

“Moot,” he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He runs his hand through his hair, and he’s serious again. “Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little nervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’ve said . . . nothing.” His gaze is intense and expectant while his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?

“I’ve missed you . . . really missed you, Christian. The past few days have been . . .

difficult.” I swallow, and a lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish since I left him.

This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain almost indescribable. Nothing has come close. But reality hits home, winding me.