by E. L. James
Jeez, he could be discussing the weather. I decide to email him once we’ve finished packing, he can be such fun one minute, and then he can be so formal and stuffy. It’s difficult to keep up. Honestly, it’s like an email to an employee. I roll my eyes at it defiantly and join Kate to pack.
Kate and I are in the kitchen when there’s a knock at the door. Taylor stands on the porch, looking immaculate in his suit. I notice the trace of ex-army in his buzz cut, trim physique, and his cool stare.
“Miss Steele,” he says. “I’ve come for your car.”
“Oh yes, of course. Come in, I’ll fetch the keys.”
Surely this is above and beyond the call of duty. I wonder again at Taylor’s job description. I hand him the keys, and we walk in an uncomfortable silence for me - toward the light blue Beetle. I open the door and remove the flashlight from the glove box. That’s it.
I have nothing else that’s personal in the Wanda. Goodby,, Wanda. Thank you. I caress her roof as I close the passenger door.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Grey?” I ask.
“Four years, Miss Steele.”
Suddenly, I have an overwhelming urge to bombard him with questions. What this man must know about Christian, all his secrets. But then he’s probably signed an NDA.
I look nervously at him. He has the same taciturn expression as Ray, and I warm to him.
“He’s a good man, Miss Steele,” he says, and he smiles slightly. With that, he gives me a little nod, climbs into my car, and drives away.
Apartment, Beetle, Claytons – it’s all change now. I shake my head as I wander back inside. And the biggest change of all is Christian Grey. Taylor thinks he’s a good man.
Can I believe him?
José joins us with a Chinese take-out at eight. We’re done. We’re packed and ready to go. He brings several bottles of beer, and Kate and I sit on the couch while he’s cross-legged on the floor between us. We watch crap TV, drink beer, and as the evening wears on, we fondly and loudly reminisce as the beer takes effect. It’s been a good four years.
The atmosphere between José and I has returned to normal, the attempted kiss forgotten. Well, it’s been swept under the rug that my inner goddess is lying on, eating grapes and tapping her fingers, waiting not so patiently for Sunday. There’s a knock on the door, and my heart leaps into my throat. Is it?
Kate answers the door and is nearly knocked off her feet by Elliot. He seizes her in a Hollywood-style clinch that moves quickly into a European art house embrace. Honestly…
get a room. José and I stare at each other. I’m appalled at their lack of modesty.
“Shall we walk down to the bar?” I ask José, who nods frantically. We are too uncomfortable with the unrestrained sexing unfolding in front of us. Kate looks up at me, flushed and bright-eyed.
“José and I are going for a quick drink.” I roll my eyes at her. Ha! I can still roll my eyes in my own time.
“Okay,” she grins.
“Hi Elliot, bye Elliot.”
He winks a big blue eye at me, and José and I are out of the door, giggling like teenagers. As we stroll down to the bar, I put my arm through José’s. God, he’s so uncomplicated
- I hadn’t really appreciated that before.
“You’ll still come to the opening of my show, won’t you?”
“Of course, José, when is it?”
“June 9.”
“What day is that?” I suddenly panic.
“It’s a Thursday.”
“Yeah I should make that… and you will visit us in Seattle?”
“Try and stop me.” He grins.
It’s late when I arrive back from the bar. Kate and Elliot are nowhere to be seen but boy can they be heard. Holy shit. I hope I’m not that loud. I know Christian isn’t. I flush at the thought and escape to my room. After a brief not-at-all-awkward-thank-goodness hug, José has gone. I don’t know when I’ll see him again, probably his photographic show, and once again, I’m blown away that he finally has an exhibition. I shall miss him and his boy-ish charm. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the Beetle, I know he’ll freak when he finds out, and I can only deal with one man at a time freaking out at me. Once in my room, I check the mean machine, and of course, there’s an email from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Where Are You?
Date: May 27 2011 22:14
To: Anastasia Steele
‘I am at work. I will email you when I get home.’
Are you still at work or have you packed your phone, BlackBerry and MacBook?
Call me, or I may be forced to call Elliot.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Crap… José… shit.
I grab my phone. Five missed calls and one voice message. Tentatively, I listen to the message. It’s Christian.
‘I think you need to learn to manage my expectations. I am not a patient man. If you say you are going to contact me when you finish work, then you should have the decency to do so. Otherwise, I worry, and it’s not an emotion I’m familiar with, and I don’t tolerate it very well. Call me.’
Double crap. Will he ever give me a break? I scowl at the phone. He is suffocating me. With a deep dread uncurling in my stomach, I scroll down to his number and press dial. My heart is in my mouth as I wait for him to answer. He’d probably like to beat seven shades of shit out of me . The thought is depressing.
“Hi,” he says softly, and his response knocks me off balance because I am expecting his anger, but if anything, he sounds relieved.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“I was worried about you.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I’m fine.”
He pauses for a beat.
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He is crisply polite.
“Yes. We finished packing and Kate and I shared a Chinese take-out with José.” I close my eyes tightly as I say José’s name. Christian says nothing.
“How about you?” I ask to fill the sudden deafening chasm of silence. I will not let him guilt me out about José.
Eventually, he sighs.
“I went to a fundraising dinner. It was deathly dull. I left as soon as I could.”
He sounds so sad and resigned. My heart clenches. I picture him all those nights ago sat at the piano in his huge living room and the unbearable bittersweet melancholy of the music he was playing.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper, because I have an urge to hold him. Soothe him.
Even though he won’t let me. I want his proximity.
“Do you?” he murmurs blandly. Holy mackerel. This doesn’t sound like him, and my scalp prickles with dawning apprehension.
“Yes,” I breathe. After an eternity, he sighs.
“I’ll see you Sunday?”
“Yes, Sunday,” I murmur, and a thrill courses through my body.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Sir.”
My address catches him unawares, I can tell by his sharp intake of breath.
“Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.” His voice is soft. And we’re both hanging on the phone like teenagers, neither wanting to hang up.
“You hang up,” I whisper. Finally, I sense his smile.
“No, you hang up.” And I know he’s grinning.
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
“Were you very angry with me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still?”
“No.”
“So you’re not going to punish me?”
“No. I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You can hang up now, Miss Steele.”
“Do you really want me to, Sir?”
“Go to bed, Anastasia.”
“Yes, Sir.”
We both stay on the line.
“Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you�
�re told?” He’s amused and exasperated at once.
“Maybe. We’ll see after Sunday.” And I press ‘end’ on the phone.
Elliot stands and admires his handiwork. He has re-plugged our TV into the satellite system in our Pike Place Market apartment. Kate and I flop on to the couch giggling, impressed by his prowess with a power drill. The flat screen looks odd against the brickwork of the converted warehouse, but no doubt I will get used to it.
“See, baby, easy.” He grins a wide white-toothed smile at Kate, and she almost literally dissolves into the couch.
I roll my eyes at the pair of them.
“I’d love to stay, baby, but my sister is back from Paris. It’s a compulsory family dinner tonight.”
“Can you come by after?” Kate asks tentatively, all soft and un-Katelike.
I stand and make my way over to the kitchen area on the pretense of unpacking one of the crates. They are going to get icky.
“I’ll see if I can escape,” he promises.
“I’ll come down with you.” Kate smiles.
“Laters, Ana.” Elliot grins.
“Bye, Elliot. Say hi to Christian from me.”
“Just hi?” His eyebrows shoot up suggestively.
“Yes.” I flush. He winks at me, and I go crimson as he follows Kate out of the apartment.Elliot is adorable and so different from Christian. He’s warm, open, physical, very physical, too physical, with Kate. They can barely keep their hands off each other – to be honest it’s embarrassing - and I am pea-green with envy.
Kate returns about twenty minutes later with pizza, and we sit, surrounded by crates, in our new open space, eating straight from the box. Kate’s dad has done us proud. The apartment is not large, but it’s big enough, three bedrooms and a large living space that looks out on to Pike Place Market itself. It’s all solid wood floors and red brick, and the kitchen tops are smooth concrete, very utilitarian, very now. We both love that we will be in the heart of the city.
At eight the entry-phone buzzes. Kate leaps up - and my heart leaps into my mouth.
“Delivery, Miss Steele, Miss Kavanagh.” Disappointment flows freely and unexpectedly through my veins. It’s not Christian.
“Second floor, apartment two.”
Kate buzzes the delivery boy in. His mouth falls open when he sees Kate, all tight jeans, t-shirt, hair piled high with escaping tendrils. She has that effect on men. He holds a bottle of champagne with a helicopter-shaped balloon attached. She gives him a dazzling smile to send him on his way and proceeds to read the card out to me.
Ladies, Good luck in your new home, Christian Grey.
Kate shakes her head in disapproval.
“Why can’t he just write ‘from Christian’? And what’s with the weird helicopter balloon?”
“Charlie Tango.”
“What?”
“Christian flew me to Seattle in his helicopter.” I shrug.
Kate stares at me open mouthed. I have to say – I love these occasions – Katherine Kavanagh, silent and floored, they are so rare. I take a brief and luxurious moment to enjoy it.
“Yep, he has a helicopter, which he flew himself,” I state proudly.
“Of course the obscenely rich bastard has a helicopter. Why didn’t you tell me?” Kate looks accusingly at me, but she’s smiling, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
She frowns.
“Are you going to be okay while I’m away?”
“Of course.” I answer reassuringly. New city, no job… nut-job boyfriend.
“Did you give him our address?
“No, but stalking is one of his specialties.” I muse, matter-of-fact.
Kate’s brow knits further.
“Somehow I’m not surprised. He worries me, Ana. At least it’s a good champagne and it’s chilled.”
Of course, only Christian would send chilled champagne or get his secretary to do it…
or maybe Taylor. We open it there and then and find our teacups - they were the last items to be packed.
“Bollinger Grande Année Rosé 1999, an excellent vintage.” I grin at Kate, and we clink teacups.
I wake early to a gray Sunday morning after a surprisingly refreshing night’s sleep and lie awake staring at my crates. You should really be unpacking these, my subconscious nags, pursing her harpy lips together. No… today’s the day. My inner goddess is beside herself, hopping from foot to foot. Anticipation hangs heavy and portentous over my head like a dark tropical storm cloud. Butterflies flood my belly – as well as a darker, carnal, captivating ache as I try to imagine what he will do to me… and of course, I have to sign that damned contract or do I? I hear the ping of incoming mail from the mean machine on the floor beside my bed.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Life in Numbers
Date: May 29 2011 08:04
To: Anastasia Steele
If you drive you’ll need this access code for the underground garage at Escala: 146963
Park in bay 5 – it’s one of mine.
Code for the elevator: 1880
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: An excellent Vintage
Date: May 29 2011 08:08
To: Christian Grey
Yes Sir. Understood.
Thank you for the champagne and the blow-up Charlie Tango, which is now tied to my bed.
Ana
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Envy
Date: May 29 2011 08:11
To: Anastasia Steele
You’re welcome.
Don’t be late.
Lucky Charlie Tango.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
I roll my eyes at his bossiness, but his last line makes me smile. I head for the bathroom, wondering if Elliot made it back last night and trying hard to rein in my nerves.
I can drive the Audi in high-heels! At 12:55 p.m. precisely, I pull into the garage at Escala and park in bay five. How many bays does he own? The Audi SUV is there, the R8, and two smaller Audi SUVs… hmm. I check my seldom-worn mascara in the light up vanity mirror on my sunshield. Didn’t have one of these in the Beetle.
Go girl! My inner goddess has her pom poms in hand - she’s in cheerleading mode.
In the infinity mirrors of the elevator, I check out my plum dress, well – Kate’s plum dress.
The last time I wore this, he wanted to peel it off me. My body clenches at the thought.
Oh my, the feeling is just exquisite, and I catch my breath. I’m wearing the underwear that Taylor bought for me. I flush at the thought of his buzz-cut roaming the aisles of Agent Provocateur or wherever he bought it. The doors open, and I’m facing the foyer of apartment number one.
Taylor stands at the double doors as I step out of the elevator.
“Good afternoon, Miss Steele,” he says.
“Oh please call me, Ana.”
“Ana,” he smiles.
“Mr. Grey is expecting you.”
I bet he is.
Christian is seated on his living room couch reading the Sunday papers. He glances up as Taylor directs me into the living area. The room is exactly as I remember it – it’s been a whole week since I’ve been here – but it feels so much longer. Christian looks cool and calm – actually, he looks heavenly. He’s in a loose white linen shirt and jeans, no shoes or socks. His hair is tousled and unkempt, and his gray eyes twinkle wickedly at me. He is jaw-droppingly handsome. He rises and strolls towards me, an amused appraising smile on his beautiful sculptured lips.
I stand immobilized at the entrance of the room, paralyzed by his beauty and the sweet anticipation of what’s to come. The familiar charge between us is there, sparking slowly in my belly, drawing me to him.
“Hmm… that dress,” he murmurs approvingly as he gazes down at me. “Welcome back, Miss Steele,” he whispers, an
d clasping my chin, he leans down and proffers a gentle light kiss on my lips. The touch of his lips to mine reverberates throughout my body. My breath hitches.
“Hi,” I whisper as I flush.
“You’re on time. I like punctual. Come.” He takes my hand and leads me to the couch. “I wanted to show you something,” he says as we sit. He hands me the Seattle Times. On page eight, there’s a photograph of the two of us together at the graduation ceremony. Holy crap. I’m in the paper. I check the caption.
Christian Grey and friend at the graduation ceremony at WSU Vancouver.
I laugh.
“So I’m your ‘friend’ now.”
“So it would appear. And it’s in the newspaper, so it must be true.” He smirks.
Sitting beside me, his whole body is turned toward me, one of his legs tucked under the other. Reaching over, he tucks my hair behind my ear with his long index finger. My body comes alive at his touch, waiting and needful.
“So, Anastasia, you have a much better idea of what I’m about since you were last here.”
“Yes.” Where’s he going with this?
“And yet you’ve returned.”
I nod shyly, and his gray eyes blaze. He shakes his head slightly as if he’s struggling with the idea.
“Have you eaten?” he asks out of the blue.
Shit.
“No.”
“Are you hungry?” He’s really trying not to look annoyed.
“Not for food,” I whisper, and his nostrils flare slightly in reaction.
He leans forward and whispers in my ear.
“You are as eager as ever, Miss Steele, and just to let you into a little secret, so am I.
But Dr. Greene is due here shortly.” He sits up. “I wish you’d eat,” he scolds me mildly.
My heated blood cools. Holy cow – the doctor. I’d forgotten.
“What can you tell me about Dr. Greene?” I ask to distract us both.
“She’s the best Ob/Gyn in Seattle. What more can I say?” He shrugs.
“I thought I was seeing your doctor, and don’t tell me you’re really a woman, because I won’t believe you.”
He gives me a don’t-be-ridiculous look.
“I think it’s more appropriate that you see a specialist. Don’t you?” he says mildly.
