Grey

  We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths and colors. Absentmindedly, my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she accept? When I glance at her she's examining her knotted fingers. She can't look at me...this is promising. I select the longer ties. They are more flexible, after all, as they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.

  "These will do."

  "Is there anything else?" she says quickly--either she's being super-attentive or she wants to get me out of the store, I don't know which.

  "I'd like some masking tape."

  "Are you redecorating?"

  "No, not redecorating." Oh, if you only knew...

  "This way," she says. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."

  Come on, Grey. You don't have much time. Engage her in some conversation. "Have you worked here long?" Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. For some reason she's embarrassed. Christ, this girl is shy. I don't have a hope in hell. She turns quickly and walks down the aisle toward the section labeled Decorating. I follow her eagerly, like a puppy.

  "Four years," she mumbles as we reach the masking tape. She bends down and grasps two rolls, each a different width.

  "I'll take that one." The wider tape is much more effective as a gag. As she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly. It resonates in my groin. Damn!

  She pales. "Anything else?" Her voice is soft and husky.

  Christ, I'm having the same effect on her that she has on me. Maybe...

  "Some rope, I think."

  "This way." She scoots up the aisle, giving me another chance to appreciate her fine ass.

  "What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope...twine...cable cord..."

  Shit--stop. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom.

  "I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please." It's coarser and chafes more if you struggle against it...my rope of choice.

  A tremor runs through her fingers, but she measures out five yards like a pro. Pulling a utility knife from her right pocket, she cuts the rope in one swift gesture, coils it neatly, and ties it off with a slipknot. Impressive.

  "Were you a Girl Scout?"

  "Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey."

  "What is your thing, Anastasia?" Her pupils dilate as I stare.

  Yes!

  "Books," she answers.

  "What kind of books?"

  "Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."

  British literature? The Brontes and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts-and-flowers types.

  That's not good.

  "Anything else you need?"

  "I don't know. What else would you recommend?" I want to see her reaction.

  "For a do-it-yourselfer?" she asks, surprised.

  I want to hoot with laughter. Oh, baby, DIY is not my thing. I nod, stifling my mirth. Her eyes flick down my body and I tense. She's checking me out!

  "Coveralls," she blurts out.

  It's the most unexpected thing I've heard her say since the "Are you gay?" question.

  "You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." She gestures to my jeans.

  I can't resist. "I could always take them off."

  "Um." She flushes beet red and stares down.

  I put her out of her misery. "I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing." Without a word, she turns and walks briskly up the aisle, and I follow in her enticing wake.

  "Do you need anything else?" she says, sounding breathless as she hands me a pair of blue coveralls. She's mortified, eyes still cast down. Christ, she does things to me.

  "How's the article coming along?" I ask, in the hope she might relax a little.

  She looks up and gives me a brief relieved smile.

  Finally.

  "I'm not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person."

  It's the longest sentence she's uttered since we first met, and she's talking about someone else, not herself. Interesting.

  Before I can comment, she adds, "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."

  The tenacious Miss Kavanagh wants photographs. Publicity stills, eh? I can do that. It will allow me to spend time with the delectable Miss Steele.

  "What sort of photographs does she want?"

  She gazes at me for a moment, then shakes her head, perplexed, not knowing what to say.

  "Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps..." I can stay in Portland. Work from a hotel. A room at The Heathman, perhaps. I'll need Taylor to come down, bring my laptop and some clothes. Or Elliot--unless he's screwing around, which is his usual MO over the weekend.

  "You'd be willing to do a photo shoot?" She cannot contain her surprise.

  I give her a brief nod. Yeah, I want to spend more time with you...

  Steady, Grey.

  "Kate will be delighted--if we can find a photographer." She smiles and her face lights up like a cloudless dawn. She's breathtaking.

  "Let me know about tomorrow." I pull my wallet from my jeans. "My card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning." And if she doesn't, I'll head on back to Seattle and forget about this stupid venture.

  The thought depresses me.

  "Okay." She continues to grin.

  "Ana!" We both turn as a young man dressed in casual designer gear appears at the far end of the aisle. His eyes are all over Miss Anastasia Steele. Who the hell is this prick?

  "Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey." She walks toward him, and the asshole engulfs her in a gorilla-like hug. My blood runs cold. It's a primal response.

  Get your fucking paws off her.

  I fist my hands and am only slightly mollified when she doesn't return his hug.

  They fall into a whispered conversation. Maybe Welch's facts were wrong. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. He looks the right age, and he can't take his greedy little eyes off her. He holds her for a moment at arm's length, examining her, then stands with his arm resting on her shoulder. It seems like a casual gesture, but I know he's staking a claim and telling me to back off. She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot.

  Shit. I should go. I've overplayed my hand. She's with this guy. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his reach, touching his arm, not his hand, shrugging him off. It's clear they aren't close.

  Good.

  "Er...Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." She gives me an odd look that I don't understand and continues, "I've known Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton, where he's studying business administration." She's babbling, giving me a long explanation and telling me they're not together, I think. The boss's brother, not a boyfriend. I'm relieved, but the extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown. This woman has really gotten under my skin.

  "Mr. Clayton." My tone is deliberately clipped.

  "Mr. Grey." His handshake is limp, like his hair. Asshole. "Wait up--not the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?"

  Yeah, that's me, you prick.

  In a heartbeat I watch him morph from territorial to obsequious.

  "Wow--is there anything I can get you?"

  "Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." Now fuck off.

  "Cool," he gushes, all white teeth and deferential. "Catch you later, Ana."

  "Sure, Paul," she says, and he ambles off to the back of the store. I watch him disappear.

  "Anything else, Mr. Grey?"

  "Just these items," I mutter. Shit, I'm out of time, and I still don't know if I'm going to see
her again. I have to know whether there's a hope in hell she might consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a submissive who knows nothing? She's going to need substantial training. Closing my eyes, I imagine the interesting possibilities this presents...getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be up for this? Or do I have it all wrong?

  She walks back to the cashier's counter and rings up my purchases, all the while keeping her eyes on the register.

  Look at me, damn it! I want to see her face again and gauge what she's thinking.

  Finally she raises her head. "That will be forty-three dollars, please."

  Is that all?

  "Would you like a bag?" she asks, as I pass her my AmEx.

  "Please, Anastasia." Her name--a beautiful name for a beautiful girl--flows smoothly over my tongue.

  She packs the items briskly. This is it. I have to go.

  "You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?"

  She nods as she hands back my charge card.

  "Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." I can't just leave. I have to let her know I'm interested. "Oh--and Anastasia, I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." She looks surprised and flattered.

  This is good.

  I sling the bag over my shoulder and exit the store.

  Yes, against my better judgment, I want her. Now I have to wait...fucking wait...again. Utilizing willpower that would make Elena proud, I keep my eyes ahead as I take my cell out of my pocket and climb into the rental car. I'm deliberately not looking back at her. I'm not. I'm not. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, where I can see the shop door, but all I see is the quaint storefront. She's not in the window, staring out at me.

  It's disappointing.

  I press 1 on speed dial and Taylor answers before the phone has a chance to ring.

  "Mr. Grey," he says.

  "Make reservations at The Heathman; I'm staying in Portland this weekend, and can you bring down the SUV, my computer, and the paperwork beneath it, and a change or two of clothes."

  "Yes, sir. And Charlie Tango?"

  "Have Joe move her to PDX."

  "Will do, sir. I'll be with you in about three and a half hours."

  I hang up and start the car. So I have a few hours in Portland while I wait to see if this girl is interested in me. What to do? Time for a hike, I think. Maybe I can walk this strange hunger out of my system.

  IT'S BEEN FIVE HOURS with no phone call from the delectable Miss Steele. What the hell was I thinking? I watch the street from the window of my suite at The Heathman. I loathe waiting. I always have. The weather, now cloudy, held for my hike through Forest Park, but the walk has done nothing to cure my agitation. I'm annoyed at her for not phoning, but mostly I'm angry with myself. I'm a fool for being here. What a waste of time it's been chasing this woman. When have I ever chased a woman?

  Grey, get a grip.

  Sighing, I check my phone once again in the hope that I've just missed her call, but there's nothing. At least Taylor has arrived and I have all my shit. I have Barney's report on his department's graphene tests to read and I can work in peace.

  Peace? I haven't known peace since Miss Steele fell into my office.

  WHEN I GLANCE UP, dusk has shrouded my suite in gray shadows. The prospect of a night alone again is depressing. While I contemplate what to do my phone vibrates against the polished wood of the desk and an unknown but vaguely familiar number with a Washington area code flashes on the screen. Suddenly my heart is pumping as if I've run ten miles.

  Is it her?

  I answer.

  "Er...Mr. Grey? It's Anastasia Steele."

  My face erupts in a shit-eating grin. Well, well. A breathy, nervous, soft-spoken Miss Steele. My evening is looking up.

  "Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you." I hear her breath hitch and the sound travels directly to my groin.

  Great. I'm affecting her. Like she's affecting me.

  "Um--we'd like to go ahead with the photo shoot for the article. Tomorrow, if that's okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?"

  In my room. Just you, me, and the cable ties.

  "I'm staying at The Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning?"

  "Okay, we'll see you there," she gushes, unable to hide the relief and delight in her voice.

  "I look forward to it, Miss Steele." I hang up before she senses my excitement and how pleased I am. Leaning back in my chair, I gaze at the darkening skyline and run both my hands through my hair.

  How the hell am I going to close this deal?

  SUNDAY, MAY 15, 2011

  * * *

  With Moby blasting in my ears I run down Southwest Salmon Street toward the Willamette River. It's 6:30 in the morning and I'm trying to clear my head. Last night I dreamed of her. Blue eyes, breathy voice...her sentences ending with "sir" as she knelt before me. Since I've met her, my dreams have been a welcome change from the occasional nightmare. I wonder what Flynn would make of that. The thought is disconcerting, so I ignore it and concentrate on pushing my body to its limits along the bank of the Willamette. As my feet pound the walkway, sunshine breaks through the clouds and it gives me hope.

  TWO HOURS LATER AS I jog back to the hotel I pass a coffee shop. Maybe I should take her for coffee.

  Like a date?

  Well. No. Not a date. I laugh at the ridiculous thought. Just a chat--an interview of sorts. Then I can find out a little more about this enigmatic woman and if she's interested, or if I'm on a wild-goose chase. I'm alone in the elevator as I stretch out. Finishing my stretches in my hotel suite, I'm centered and calm for the first time since I arrived in Portland. Breakfast has been delivered and I'm famished. It's not a feeling I tolerate--ever. Sitting down to breakfast in my sweats, I decide to eat before I shower.

  THERE'S A BRISK KNOCK on the door. I open it and Taylor stands on the threshold.

  "Good morning, Mr. Grey."

  "Morning. They ready for me?"

  "Yes, sir. They're set up in room 601."

  "I'll be right down." I close the door and tuck my shirt into my gray pants. My hair is wet from my shower, but I don't give a shit. One glance at the louche fucker in the mirror and I exit to follow Taylor to the elevator.

  Room 601 is crowded with people, lights, and camera boxes, but I spot her immediately. She's standing to the side. Her hair is loose: a lush, glossy mane that falls beneath her breasts. She's wearing tight jeans and chucks with a short-sleeved navy jacket and a white T-shirt beneath. Are jeans and chucks her signature look? While not very convenient, they do flatter her shapely legs. Her eyes, disarming as ever, widen as I approach.

  "Miss Steele, we meet again." She takes my extended hand and for a moment I want to squeeze hers and raise it to my lips.

  Don't be absurd, Grey.

  She turns her delicious pink and waves in the direction of her friend, who is standing too close, waiting for my attention.

  "Mr. Grey, this is Katherine Kavanagh," she says. With reluctance I release her and turn to the persistent Miss Kavanagh. She's tall, striking, and well groomed, like her father, but she has her mother's eyes, and I have her to thank for my introduction to the delightful Miss Steele. That thought makes me feel a little more benevolent toward her.

  "The tenacious Miss Kavanagh. How do you do? I trust you're feeling better? Anastasia said you were unwell last week."

  "I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Grey."

  She has a firm, confident handshake, and I doubt she's ever faced a day of hardship in her privileged life. I wonder why these women are friends. They have nothing in common.

  "Thank you for taking the time to do this," Katherine says.

  "It's a pleasure," I reply, and glance at Anastasia, who rewards me with her telltale flush.

  Is it just me who makes her blush? The thought pleases me.

  "This is Jose Rodriguez, our photographer," Anastasia says, and her face lights up as she introduces him.

  Shit. Is t
his the boyfriend?

  Rodriguez blooms under Ana's sweet smile.

  Are they fucking?

  "Mr. Grey." Rodriguez gives me a dark look as we shake hands. It's a warning. He's telling me to back off. He likes her. He likes her a lot.

  Well, game on, kid.

  "Mr. Rodriguez, where would you like me?" My tone is a challenge, and he hears it, but Katherine intervenes and waves me toward a chair. Ah. She likes to be in charge. The thought amuses me as I sit. Another young man who appears to be working with Rodriguez switches on the lights, and momentarily I'm blinded.

  Hell!

  As the glare recedes I search out the lovely Miss Steele. She's standing at the back of the room, observing the proceedings. Does she always shy away like this? Maybe that's why she and Kavanagh are friends; she's content to be in the background and let Katherine take center stage.

  Hmm...a natural submissive.

  The photographer appears professional enough and absorbed in the job he's been assigned to do. I regard Miss Steele as she watches both of us. Our eyes meet; hers are honest and innocent, and for a moment I reconsider my plan. But then she bites her lip and my breath catches in my throat.

  Back down, Anastasia. I will her to stop staring, and as if she can hear me, she's the first to look away.

  Good girl.

  Katherine asks me to stand as Rodriguez continues to take snaps. Then we're done and this is my chance.

  "Thank you again, Mr. Grey." Katherine surges forward and shakes my hand, followed by the photographer, who regards me with ill-concealed disapproval. His antagonism makes me smile.

  Oh, man...you have no idea.

  "I look forward to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh," I say, giving her a brief polite nod. It's Ana I want to talk to. "Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?" I ask, when I reach her by the door.

  "Sure," she says with surprise.

  Seize the day, Grey.

  I mutter some platitude to those still in the room and usher her out the door, wanting to put some distance between her and Rodriguez. In the corridor she stands fiddling with her hair, then her fingers, as Taylor follows me out.

  "I'll call you, Taylor," I say, and when he's almost out of earshot I ask Ana to join me for coffee, my breath held for her response.

  Her long lashes flicker over her eyes. "I have to drive everyone home," she says with dismay.

  "Taylor," I call after him, making her jump. I must make her nervous and I don't know if this is good or bad. And she can't stop fidgeting. Thinking about all the ways I could make her stop is distracting.