Текст книги "Fifty Shades of Grey"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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think, and he sounds so… warm – seductiveeven. My breath hitches, and I flush. I’m sud-

denly conscious that Katherine Kavanagh is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart into

the kitchen to avoid her unwanted scrutiny.

“Err – we’d like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article.” Breathe, Ana, breathe.

My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient

for you, sir?”

I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone.

“I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morn-

ing?”“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy – like a child, not a grown

woman who can vote and drink legally in the State of Washington.

“I look forward to it, Miss Steele.” I visualize the wicked gleam in his gray eyes. How

can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise?I hang up. Kate is in the

kitchen, and she’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on her face.

“Anastasia Rose Steele. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so, so… affected

by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”

“Oh Kate, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t

be so ridiculous,” I snap. She blinks at me with surprise – I very rarely throw my toys out

of the pram – and I briefly relent. “I just find him… intimidating, that’s all.”

“Heathman, that figures,” mutters Kate. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a

space for the shoot.”

“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with her as I open

one of cupboards to make supper.

I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long

legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart

pounding. Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep,I scold myself. I

punch my pillow and try to settle.

The Heathman is nestled in the downtown heart of Portland. Its impressive brown stone

edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s. José, Travis, and I are

traveling in my Beetle, and Kate is in her CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Travis is

José’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Kate has managed to acquire

the use of a room at the Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit

in the article. When she explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Christian Grey

CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparent-

ly Mr. Grey is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing

executive shows us up to the suite – he’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason.

I suspect it’s Kate’s beauty and commanding manner that disarms him, because he’s putty

in her hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.

It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Kate is in full flow.

“José, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” She doesn’t wait for his

reply. “Travis, clear the chairs. Ana, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refresh-

ments? And let Grey know where we are.”

Yes, Mistress.She is so domineering. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told.

Half an hour later, Christian Grey walks into our suite.

Holy Crap!He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and grey flannel pants that

hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp from a shower. My mouth goes dry

looking at him… he’s so freaking hot.Grey is followed into the suite by a man in his

mid-thirties, all buzz-cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the

corner. His hazel eyes watch us impassively.

“Miss Steele, we meet again.” Grey extends his hand, and I shake it, blinking rapidly.

Oh my… he really is, quite… wow. As I touch his hand, I’m aware of that delicious cur-

rent running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic

breathing must be audible.

“Mr. Grey, this is Katherine Kavanagh,” I mutter, waving a hand toward Kate who

comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.

“The tenacious Miss Kavanagh. How do you do?” He gives her a small smile, look-

ing genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling better? Anastasia said you were unwell last

week.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Grey.” She shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid.

I remind myself that Kate has been to the best private schools in Washington. Her family

has money, and she’s grown up confident and sure of her place in the world. She doesn’t

take any crap. I am in awe of her.

“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” She gives him a polite, professional smile.

“It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his gray gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.

“This is José Rodriguez, our photographer,” I say, grinning at José who smiles with

affection back at me. His eyes cool when he looks from me to Grey.

“Mr. Grey,” he nods.

“Mr. Rodriguez,” Grey’s expression changes too as he appraises José.

“Where would you like me?” Grey asks him. His tone sounds vaguely threatening. But

Katherine is not about to let José run the show.

“Mr. Grey – if you could sit here, please? Be careful of the lighting cables. And then

we’ll do a few standing, too.” She directs him to a chair set up against the wall.

Travis switches on the lights, momentarily blinding Grey, and mutters an apology.

Then Travis and I stand back and watch as José proceeds to snap away. He takes several

photographs hand-held, asking Grey to turn this way, then that, to move his arm, then put

it down again. Moving to the tripod, José takes several more, while Grey sits and poses,

patiently and naturally, for about twenty minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and

admire Grey from not-so-afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away from

his cloudy gaze.

“Enough sitting.” Katherine wades in again. “Standing, Mr. Grey?” she asks.

He stands, and Travis scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter on José’s Nikon

starts clicking again.

“I think we have enough,” José announces five minutes later.

“Great,” says Kate. “Thank you again, Mr. Grey.” She shakes his hand, as does José.

“I look forward to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh,” murmurs Grey, and turns to

me, standing by the door. “Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Kate, who shrugs at me. I

notice José scowling behind her.

“Good day to you all,” says Grey as he opens the door, standing aside to allow me out

first.

Holy hell… what’s this about? What does he want?I pause in the hotel corridor, fidg-

eting nervously as Grey emerges from the room followed by Mr. Buzz-Cut in his sharp suit.

“I’ll call you, Taylor,” he murmurs to Buzz-Cut. Taylor wanders back down the cor-

ridor, and Grey turns his burning gray gaze to me. Crap… have I done something wrong?

“I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning.”

My heart slams into my mouth. A date? Christian Grey is asking me on a date.He’s

asking if you want a coffee. Maybe he thinks you haven’t woken up yet,my subconscious

whines at me in a sneering mood again. I clear my throat trying to control my nerves.

“I have to drive everyone home,” I murmur apologetically, twisting my hands and

fingers in front of me.

“TAYLOR,” he calls, making me jump. Taylor, who had been retreating down the cor-

ridor, turns and heads back toward us.

“Are they based at the university?” Grey asks, his voice soft and inquiring. I nod, too

stunned to speak.

“Taylor can take them. He’s my driver. We have a large 4x4 here, so he’ll be able to

take the equipment too.”

“Mr. Grey?” Taylor asks when he reaches us, giving nothing away.

“Please, can you drive the photographer, his assistant, and Miss Kavanagh back home?”

“Certainly, sir,” Taylor replies.

“There. Now can you join me for coffee?” Grey smiles as if it’s a done deal.

I frown at him.

“Um – Mr. Grey, err – this really… look, Taylor doesn’t have to drive them home.” I

flash a brief look at Taylor, who remains stoically impassive. “I’ll swap vehicles with Kate,

if you give me a moment.”

Grey smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing, glorious smile. Oh

my… and he opens the door of the suite so I can re-enter. I scoot around him to enter the

room, finding Katherine in deep discussion with José.

“Ana, I think he definitely likes you,” she says with no preamble whatsoever. José

glares at me with disapproval. “But I don’t trust him,” she adds. I raise my hand up in the

hope that she’ll stop talking. By some miracle, she does.

“Kate, if you take the Beetle, can I take your car?”

“Why?”

“Christian Grey has asked me to go for coffee with him.”

Her mouth pops open. Speechless Kate! I savor the moment. She grabs me by my arm

and drags me into the bedroom that’s off the living area of the suite.

“Ana, there’s something about him.” Her tone is full of warning. “He’s gorgeous, I

agree, but I think he’s dangerous. Especially to someone like you.”

“What do you mean, someone like me?” I demand, affronted.

“An innocent like you, Ana. You know what I mean,” she says a little irritated. I flush.

“Kate, it’s just coffee. I’m starting my exams this week, and I need to study, so I won’t

be long.”

She purses her lips as if considering my request. Finally, she fishes her car keys out of

her pocket and hands them to me. I hand her mine.

“I’ll see you later. Don’t be long, or I’ll send out search and rescue.”

“Thanks.” I hug her.

I emerge from the suite to find Christian Grey waiting, leaning up against the wall,

looking like a male model in a pose for some glossy high-end magazine.

“Okay, let’s do coffee,” I murmur, flushing a beet red.

He grins.

“After you, Miss Steele.” He stands up straight, holding his hand out for me to go first.

I make my way down the corridor, my knees shaky, my stomach full of butterflies, and

my heart in my mouth thumping a dramatic uneven beat. I am going to have coffee with

Christian Grey... and I hate coffee.

We walk together down the wide hotel corridor to the elevators. What should I say to

him?My mind is suddenly paralyzed with apprehension. What are we going to talk about?

What on Earth do I have in common with him? His soft, warm voice startles me from my

reverie.

“How long have you known Katherine Kavanagh?”

Oh, an easy questions for starters.

“Since our freshman year. She’s a good friend.”

“Hmm,” he replies, non-committal. What is he thinking?

At the elevators, he presses the call button, and the bell rings almost immediately. The

doors slide open revealing a young couple in a passionate clinch inside. Surprised and

embarrassed, they jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Grey and I step

into the elevator.

I am struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the floor, feeling my

cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Grey through my lashes, he has a hint of a smile

on his lips, but it’s very hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to

the first floor in embarrassed silence. We don’t even have trashy piped music to distract us.

The doors open and, much to my surprise, Grey takes my hand, clasping it with his

long cool fingers. I feel the current run through me, and my already rapid heartbeat accel-

erates. As he leads me out of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple

erupting behind us. Grey grins.

“What is it about elevators?” he mutters.

We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the entrance but Grey avoids

the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s because he’d have to let go of my hand.

Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Grey turns

left and strolls to the corner, where we stop waiting for the lights of the pedestrian crossing

to change. He’s still holding my hand. I’m in the street, and Christian Grey is holding

my hand.No one has ever held my hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to

smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool, Ana,my

subconscious implores me. The green man appears, and we’re off again.

We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coffee House, where Grey releases

me to hold the door open so I can step inside.

“Why don’t you choose a table, while I get the drinks. What would you like?” he asks,

polite as ever.

“I’ll have… um – English Breakfast tea, bag out.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“No coffee?”

“I’m not keen on coffee.”

He smiles.

“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”

For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subcon-

scious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid – do you take sugar?

“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.

“Anything to eat?”

“No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.

I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to

be served. I could watch him all day… he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and slim, and the way

those pants hang from his hips… Oh my.Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers

through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm… I’d like to do that.The thought comes

unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands

again not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Grey is back, startling me.

I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and

wondering if it would feel soft to touch.I shake my head. He’s carrying a tray, which he

sets down on the small, round, birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small

teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled ‘Twinings English Breakfast’ – my

favorite. He has a coffee which bears a wonderful leaf-pattern imprinted in the milk. How

do they do that?I wonder idly. He’s also bought himself a blueberry muffin. Putting the

tray aside, he sits opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so at

ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get

from A to B without falling flat on my face.

“Your thoughts?” he prompts me.

“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting

opposite Christian Grey in a coffee shop in Portland. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding

something. I pop the teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with

my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, he cocks his head gazing

quizzically at me.

“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.

“I see. Is he your boyfriend?”

Whoa… What?

“Who?”

“The photographer. José Rodriguez.”

I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?

“No. José’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?”

“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His gray gaze holds mine. He’s so un-

nerving. I want to look away but I’m caught – spellbound.

“He’s more like family,” I whisper.

Grey nods slightly, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his

blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated.

“Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.

“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.

“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”

“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you

ask?”“You seem nervous around men.”

Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Grey.

“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my

candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

“You should find me intimidating,” he nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look

down. I like to see your face.”

Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.

“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he breathes. “You’re a

mystery, Miss Steele.

Mysterious? Me?

“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”

“I think you’re very self-contained,” he murmurs.

Am I? Wow… how am I managing that?This is bewildering. Me, self-contained?

No Way.

“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were

blushing about.” He pops a small piece of muffin into his mouth and starts to chew it

slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised.

“No,” I answer truthfully.

“Good.”

“But you’re very high-handed,” I retaliate quietly.

He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, he flushes slightly too.

“I’m used to getting my own way, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “In all things.”

“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m sur-

prised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the

way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic towards him.

It’s like he’s trying to warn me off.

“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends.

That’s the way I like it.”

Oh. He still hasn’t said, ‘Call me Christian.’ He isa control freak, there’s no other

explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kate had in-

terviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus of course she’s almost blonde – well,

strawberry blonde – like all the women in his office. And she’s beautiful,my subconscious

reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Christian and Kate. I take a sip of my tea, and Grey

eats another small piece of his muffin.

“Are you an only child?” he asks.

Whoa… he keeps changing direction.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull.

“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband Bob. My stepdad lives in Monte-

sano.”

“Your father?”

“My father died when I was a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters and a fleeting troubled look crosses his face.

“I don’t remember him.”

“And your mother remarried?”

I snort.

“You could say that.”

He frowns at me.

“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep

thought.

“Neither are you.”

“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions

then.” He smirks at me.

Holy shit.He’s remembering the ‘gay’ question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years

to come, I know, I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall

the moment. I start babbling about my mother – anything to block thatmemory.

“My mom is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s currently on her fourth

husband.”

Christian raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and

pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I

haven’t seen my mom for so long. Christian is watching me intently, taking occasional sips

of his coffee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth. It’s unsettling. Those lips.

“Do you get along with your stepfather?”

“Of course. I grew up with him. He’s the only father I know.”

“And what’s he like?”

“Ray? He’s… taciturn.”

“That’s it?” Grey asks, surprised.

I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?

“Taciturn like his stepdaughter,” Grey prompts.

I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.

“He likes soccer – European soccer especially – and bowling, and fly-fishing, and mak-

ing furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.

“You lived with him?”

“Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray.”

He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.

“You didn’t want to live with your mom?” he asks.

I blush. This really is none of his business.

“Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And… you

know my mom was newly married.” I stop. My mom never talks about Husband Number

Three. Where is Grey going with this? This isnone of his business. Two can play at this

game.

“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.

He shrugs.

“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”

Oh… he’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who

adopt three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business

world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be

proud.

“What do your siblings do?”

“Elliot’s in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some

renowned French chef.” His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his

family or himself.

“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk about his family? Is it

because he’s adopted?

“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.

“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is he hiding?

“Would you like to go?”

“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me – who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of

course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”

He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip… oh my.

“Because?”

I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Steele.

“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to

see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.”

All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my

watch.

“I’d better go. I have to study.”

“For your exams?”

“Yes. They start Tuesday.”

“Where’s Miss Kavanagh’s car?”

“In the hotel parking lot.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey.”

He smiles his odd I’ve got a whopping big secretsmile.

“You’re welcome, Anastasia. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he commands, and holds his

hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop.

We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. He at

least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how

our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a position, but I’m

not sure what it is.

“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.

“Mostly.”

He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is

reeling. What an odd question…And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is

it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap – I just said that out loud?

His lips quirk up in a half-smile, and he looks down at me.

“No, Anastasia. I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he says softly.

Oh… what does that mean?He’s not gay? Oh, maybe he is – crap! He must have

lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think he’s going to follow on with some

explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement – but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to

try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip,

stumbling headlong onto the road.

“Shit, Ana!” Grey cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so hard that I fall back

against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up

this one-way street.

It all happens so fast – one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms, and he’s hold-

ing me tightly against his chest. .I inhale his clean, vital scent. He smells of fresh laundered

linen and some expensive body-wash. Oh my,it’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while

the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His

thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hear his breath hitch. He’s staring into my eyes, and I

hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment or maybe it’s forever… but eventually, my at-

tention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. Oh my.And for the first time in twenty-one years,

I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on me.

Kiss me damn it!I implore him, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar

need, completely captivated by him. I’m staring at Christian Grey’s exquisitely sculptured

mouth, mesmerized, and he’s looking down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening.

He’s breathing harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m in your arms.

Kiss me, please.He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives me a small shake of his

head as if in answer to my silent question. When he opens his eyes again, it’s with some

new purpose, a steely resolve.

“Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you,” he whispers.

What? Where is this coming from?Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown up at him,

and my head swims with rejection.

“Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says qui-

etly, and he gently pushes me away.

Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the

heady proximity to Christian, leaving me wired and weak. NO!My psyche screams as

he pulls away, leaving me bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s

length, watching my reactions carefully. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted

to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and he didn’t do it. He doesn’t want me.He

really doesn’t want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning.

“I’ve got this,” I breathe, finding my voice. “Thank you,” I mutter awash with humili-

ation. How could I have misread the situation between us so utterly? I need to get away

from him.

“For what?” he frowns. He hasn’t taken his hands off me.

“For saving me,” I whisper.

“That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what

could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a mo-

ment?” He releases me, his hands by his sides, and I’m standing in front of him feeling

like a fool.

With a shake, I clear my head. I just want to go. All my vague, unarticulated hopes

have been dashed. He doesn’t want me. What was I thinking?I scold myself. What would

Christian Grey want with you?My subconscious mocks me. I wrap my arms around my-

self and turn to face the road and note with relief that the green man has appeared. I quickly

make my way across, conscious that Grey is behind me. Outside the hotel, I turn briefly to

face him but cannot look him in the eye.

“Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot,” I murmur.

“Anastasia… I… ” He stops, and the anguish in his voice demands my attention, so I

peer unwillingly up at him. His gray eyes are bleak as he runs his hand through his hair.

He looks torn, frustrated, his expression stark, all his careful control has evaporated.

“What, Christian?” I snap irritably after he says – nothing. I just want to go. I need to

take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health.

“Good luck with your exams,” he murmurs.

Huh?This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big send off? Just to wish me luck

in my exams?

“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Goodbye, Mr. Grey.” I turn on

my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving him a second glance, I disap-

pear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage.

Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light,

I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and

unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. Why am I crying?I sink to the ground, angry at myself

for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make

myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am.

Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over

the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous.Mourning something that never was –

my dashed hopes, dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.

I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay… so I was always one of the

last to be picked for basketball or volleyball – but I understood that – running and doing

something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a

serious liability in any sporting field.

Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity

– I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So

I have always been the one to rebuff any would be admirers. There was that guy in my

chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest – no one except

Christian damn Grey. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Paul Clayton and José Ro-

driguez, though I’m sure neither of them have been found sobbing alone in dark places.

Perhaps I just need a good cry.

Stop! Stop Now! -My subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded,

leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in frustration. Get in the car, go home, do your

studying. Forget about him… Now!And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.

I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up. Get it together Steele.I head for Kate’s

car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of him again. I can just chalk this

incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams.

Kate is sitting at the dining table at her laptop when I arrive. Her welcoming smile fades

when she sees me.

“Ana what’s wrong?”

Oh no… not the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition. I shake my head at her in a back-off

now Kavanagh way– but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute.

“You’ve been crying,” she has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious

sometimes. “What did that bastard do to you?” she growls, and her face – jeez, she’s scary.

“Nothing Kate.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my

face.“Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” she says, her voice softening. She

stands, her green eyes brimming with concern. She puts her arms around me and hugs me.

I need to say something just to get her to back off.