Page 156

“Andrea—get me Welch, Barney, then Flynn, then Claude Bastille on the phone. I don’t want to be disturbed at all, not even by my mother…unless…unless Anastasia Steele calls. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. Do you want to go through your schedule now?”
“No. I need coffee and something to eat first.” I scowl at Olivia, who is moving at a snail’s pace toward the elevator.
“Yes, Mr. Grey,” Andrea calls after me as I open the door to my office.
From my briefcase I take the padded envelope that holds my most precious possession—the glider. I place it on my desk, and my mind drifts to Miss Steele.
She’ll be starting her new job this morning, meeting new people…new men. The thought is depressing. She’ll forget me.
No, she won’t forget me. Women always remember the first man they fucked, don’t they? I’ll always hold a place in her memory, for that alone. But I don’t want to be a memory: I want to stay in her mind. I need to stay in her mind. What can I do?
There’s a knock at the door and Andrea appears. “Coffee and croissants for you, Mr. Grey.”
“Come in.”
As she scurries over to my desk her eyes dart to the glider, but wisely she holds her tongue. She places breakfast on my desk.
Black coffee. Well done, Andrea. “Thanks.”
“I’ve left messages for Welch, Barney, and Bastille. Flynn is calling back in five.”
“Good. I want you to cancel any social engagements I have this week. No lunches, nothing in the evening. Get Barney on the phone and find me the number of a good florist.”
She scribbles furiously on her notepad.
“Sir, we use Arcadia’s Roses. Would you like me to send flowers for you?”
“No, give me the number. I’ll do it myself. That’s all.”
She nods and leaves promptly, as if she can’t get out of my office fast enough. A few moments later the phone buzzes. It’s Barney.
“Barney, I need you to make me a stand for a model glider.”
BETWEEN MEETINGS I CALL the florist and order two dozen white roses for Ana, to be delivered to her home this evening. That way she won’t be embarrassed or inconvenienced at work.
And she won’t be able to forget me.
“Would you like a message with the flowers, sir?” the florist asks.
A message for Ana?
What to say?
Come back. I’m sorry. I won’t hit you again.
The words pop unbidden into my head, making me frown.
“Um…something like, ‘Congratulations on your first day at work. I hope it went well.’  ” I spy the glider on my desk. “ ‘And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful. It has pride of place on my desk. Christian.’  ”
The florist reads it back to me.
Damn, it doesn’t express what I want to say to her at all.
“Will that be all, Mr. Grey?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir, and have a nice day.”
I look daggers at the phone. Nice day my ass.
“HEY, MAN, WHAT’S EATING you?” Claude gets up from the floor, where I’ve just knocked him flat on his lean, mean rear end. “You’re on fire this afternoon, Grey.” He rises slowly, with the grace of a big cat reassessing its prey. We are sparring alone in the basement gym at Grey House.
“I’m pissed off,” I hiss.
His expression is cool as we circle each other.
“Not a good idea to enter the ring if your thoughts are elsewhere,” Claude says, amused, but not taking his eyes off me.
“I’m finding it helps.”
“More on your left. Protect your right. Hand up, Grey.”
He swings and hits me on my shoulder, almost knocking me off balance.
“Concentrate, Grey. None of your boardroom bullshit in here. Or is it a girl? Some fine piece of ass finally cramping your cool.” He sneers, goading me. It works: I middle-kick to his side and drop-punch once, then twice, and he staggers back, dreadlocks flying.
“Mind your own fucking business, Bastille.”
“Whoa, we have found the source of the pain,” Claude crows in triumph. He swings suddenly, but I anticipate his action and block him, thrusting up with a punch and a swift kick. He jumps back this time, impressed.
“Whatever shit’s happening in your privileged little world, Grey, it’s working. Bring it on.”
Oh, he is going down. I lunge at him.
THE TRAFFIC IS LIGHT on the way home.
“Taylor, can we make a detour?”
“Where to, sir?”
“Can you drive past Miss Steele’s apartment?”
“Yes, sir.”
I’ve got used to this ache. It seems to be ever-present, like tinnitus. In meetings it’s muted and less obtrusive; it’s only when I’m alone with my thoughts that it flares up and rages inside me. How long does this last?
As we approach her apartment, my heartbeat spikes.
Perhaps I’ll see her.
The possibility is thrilling and unsettling. And I realize that I have thought of nothing but her since she left. Her absence is my constant companion.
“Drive slow,” I instruct Taylor as we near her building.
The lights are on.
She’s home!
I hope she’s alone, and missing me.
Has she received my flowers?
I want to check my phone to see if she’s sent me a message, but I can’t drag my gaze away from her apartment; I don’t want to miss seeing her. Is she well? Is she thinking about me? I wonder how her first day at work went.