50 shades freed

Chapter 18

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades freed or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 18

I stir, opening my eyes to a bright September morning. Warm and comfortable between clean, crisp sheets, I take a moment to orientate myself and am overwhelmed by a sense of déja vu. Of course, I'm at the Heathman.

"Shit! Dad!" I gasp out loud, recalling with a gut-wrenching surge of apprehension that twists my heart and starts it pounding why I'm in Portland.

"Hey." Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed. He strokes my cheek with his knuckles, instantly calming me. "I called the ICU this morning. Mark had a good night. It's all good," he says reassuringly.

"Oh, good. Thank you," I mutter, sitting up.

He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. "Good morning, Lou," he whispers and kisses my temple.

"Hi," I mutter. He's up and dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

"Hi," he replies, his eyes soft and warm. "I want to wish you happy birthday. Is that okay?"

I offer him a tentative smile and caress his cheek. "Yes, of course. Thank you. For everything."

His brow furrows. "Everything?"

"Everything."

He looks momentarily confused, but it's fleeting, and his eyes widen with anticipation. "Here." He hands me a small, exquisitely wrapped box with a tiny gift card.

In spite of the worry, I feel about my father, I sense Harry's anxiety and excitement, and it's infectious. I read the card.

For all our firsts on your first birthday as my beloved husband

I love you

H x

Oh my, how sweet is that? "I love you, too," I murmur, smiling at him.

He grins. "Open it."

Unwrapping the paper carefully so it doesn't tear, I find a beautiful red leather box. Cartier. It's familiar, thanks to my second-chance watch. Cautiously, I open the box to discover a delicate charm bracelet of silver, or platinum or white gold—I don't know, but it's absolutely enchanting. Attached to it are several charms: the Eiffel Tower, a London black cab, a helicopter— Charlie Tango, a glider—the soaring, a catamaran—The Anne, a bed, and an ice cream cone? I look up at him, bemused.

"Vanilla?" He shrugs apologetically, and I can't help but laugh. Of course. "Harry, this is beautiful. Thank you. It's great." He grins.

My favorite is the heart. It's a locket.

"You can put a picture or whatever in that."

"A picture of you." I glance at him through my lashes.  "Always in my heart."

He smiles his lovely, heartbreakingly shy smile.

I fondle the last two charms: a letter H—oh yes, I was his first boyfriend to use his first name. I smile at the thought. And finally, there's a key.

"To my heart and soul," he whispers.

Tears prick my eyes. I launch myself at him, curling my arms around his neck and settling into his lap. "It's such a thoughtful present. I love it. Thank you," I murmur against his ear. Oh, he smells so good—clean, of fresh linen, body wash, and Harry. Like home, my home. My threatened tears begin to fall.