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“I’ve been in Portland on business. Speaking of which, I should get going—I have an important call tomorrow and I need to prepare.”
“But you’ve not had dessert. And it’s apple cobbler.”
Hmm…tempting. But if I stay they’ll quiz me about Ana. “I have to go. I have work to do.”
“Darling, you work too hard,” Grace says, as she starts from her chair.
“Don’t get up, Mom. I’m sure Elliot will help with the dishes after dinner.”
“What?” Elliot scowls. I wink at him, say my good-byes, and turn to leave.
“But we’ll see you tomorrow?” Grace asks, too much hope in her voice.
“We’ll see.”
Shit. It looks like Anastasia Steele is going to meet my family.
I don’t know how I feel about this.
SUNDAY, MAY 29, 2011
* * *
With the Rolling Stones’ “Shake Your Hips” blasting in my ears, I sprint down Fourth Avenue and turn right on Vine. It’s 6:45 in the morning, and it’s downhill all the way…to her apartment. I’m drawn; I just want to see where she lives.
It’s between control freak and stalker.
I chuckle to myself. I’m just running. It’s a free country.
The apartment block is a nondescript redbrick, with dark green painted window frames typical of the area. It’s in a good location near the intersection of Vine Street and Western. I imagine Ana curled up in her bed under her comforter and her cream-and-blue quilt.
I run several blocks and turn down into the market; the vendors are setting up for business. I dodge between the fruit and vegetable trucks and the refrigerated vans delivering the catch of the day. This is the heart of the city—vibrant, even this early on a gray, cool morning. The water on the Sound is a glassy leaden color, matching the sky. But it does nothing to dampen my spirits.
Today’s the day.
AFTER MY SHOWER I don jeans and a linen shirt, and from my chest of drawers I take out a hair tie. I slip it into my pocket and head into my study to e-mail Ana.
* * *
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 five—it’s one of mine.
Code for the elevator: 1880.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
A moment or two later, there’s a response.
* * *
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
An image of Ana tethered to her bed with my tie comes to mind. I shift in my chair. I hope she’s brought that bed to Seattle.
* * *
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.
She doesn’t respond, so I hunt through the refrigerator for some breakfast. Gail has left me some croissants and, for lunch, a Caesar salad with chicken, enough for two. I hope Ana will eat this; I don’t mind having it two days in a row.
Taylor appears while I’m eating my breakfast.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey. Here are the Sunday papers.”
“Thanks. Anastasia is coming over at one today, and a Dr. Greene at one thirty.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else on the agenda today?”
“Yes. Ana and I will be going to my parents’ for dinner this evening.”
Taylor cocks his head, looking momentarily surprised, but he remembers himself and leaves the room. I return to my croissant and apricot jam.
Yeah. I’m taking her to meet my parents. What’s the big deal?
I CAN’T SETTLE. I’M restless. It’s 12:15 p.m. Time is crawling today. I give up on work and, grabbing the Sunday papers, wander back into the living room, where I switch on some music and read.
To my surprise there’s a photograph of Ana and me on the local news page, taken at the graduation ceremony at WSU. She looks lovely, if a little startled.
I hear the double doors open, and there she is…Her hair is loose, a little wild and sexy, and she’s wearing that purple dress she wore to dinner at The Heathman. She looks gorgeous.
Bravo, Miss Steele.
“Hmm, that dress.” My voice is full of admiration as I saunter toward her. “Welcome back, Miss Steele,” I whisper, and, holding her chin, I give her a tender kiss on the lips.
“Hi,” she says, her cheeks a little rosy.
“You’re on time. I like punctual. Come.” Taking her hand, I lead her to the sofa. “I wanted to show you something.” We both sit, and I pass her The Seattle Times. The photograph makes her laugh. Not quite the reaction I was expecting.
“So I’m your ‘friend’ now,” she teases.
“So it would appear. And it’s in the newspaper, so it must be true.”
I’m calmer now that she’s here—probably because she’s here. She hasn’t run. I tuck her soft, silky hair behind her ear; my fingers are itching to braid it.
“So, Anastasia, you have a much better idea of what I’m about since you were last here.”
“Yes.” Her gaze is intense…knowing.
“And yet you’ve returned.”
She nods, giving me a coy smile.
I can’t believe my luck.