Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (27 page)

My mom is oozing contrition, desperately sorry not to make my graduation. Bob has twisted some ligament, which means he’s hobbling all over the place. Honestly, he’s as accident-prone as I am. He’s expected to make a full recovery, but it means he’s resting up, and my mother has to wait on him hand and sore foot.

“Ana, honey, I’m so sorry,” my mom whines into the phone.

“Mom, it’s fine. Ray will be there.”

“Ana, you sound distracted—are you okay, baby?”

“Yes, Mom,”
Oh, if only you knew
. There’s an obscenely rich guy I’ve met and he wants some kind of strange kinky sexual relationship, in which I don’t get a say in things.

“Have you met someone?”

“No, Mom.” I am so not going there right now.

“Well, darling, I’ll be thinking of you on Thursday. I love you … you know that, honey?”

I close my eyes. Her precious words give me a warm glow inside.

“Love you, too, Mom. Say hi to Bob, and I hope he gets better fast.”

“Will do, honey. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I have strayed into my bedroom with the phone. Idly, I switch the mean machine on and fire up the e-mail program. There’s an e-mail from Christian from late last night or very early this morning, depending on your point of view. My heart rate spikes instantly, and I hear the blood pumping in my ears. Holy crap … perhaps he’s said no—that’s it—maybe he’s canceling dinner. The thought is so painful. I dismiss it quickly and open the e-mail.

My initial feeling is one of relief. He’s willing to discuss my issues at least, and he still wants to meet tomorrow. After some thought, I reply.

He’s even grumpy by e-mail. Doesn’t he understand that I may need to make a quick getaway? Not that my Beetle is quick … but still—I need a means of escape.

I call Ray, who is just about to watch the Sounders play some soccer team from Salt Lake City, so our conversation is mercifully brief. He’s driving down on Thursday for graduation. He wants to take me out afterward for a meal. My heart swells talking to Ray, and a huge lump forms in my throat. He has been my constant through all Mom’s romantic ups and downs. We have a special bond that I treasure. Even though he’s my stepdad, he’s always treated me as his own, and I can’t wait to see him. It’s been too long. His quiet fortitude is what I need now, what I miss. Maybe I can channel my inner Ray for my meeting tomorrow.

Kate and I concentrate on packing, sharing a bottle of cheap red wine as we do. When I finally go to bed, having almost finished packing my room, I feel calmer. The physical activity of boxing everything up has been a welcome distraction, and I’m tired. I want a good night’s rest. I snuggle into my bed and am soon asleep.

PAUL IS BACK FROM
Princeton before he sets off for New York to start an internship with a financing company. He follows me around the store all day asking me for a date. It’s annoying.

“Paul, for the hundredth time, I have a date this evening.”

“No, you don’t, you’re just saying that to avoid me. You’re always avoiding me.”

Yes … you’d think you’d take the hint
.

“Paul, I never thought it was a good idea to date the boss’s brother.”

“You’re finishing here on Friday. You’re not working tomorrow.”

“And I’ll be in Seattle as of Saturday and you’ll be in New York soon. We couldn’t get much farther apart if we tried. Besides, I do have a date this evening.”

“With José?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Paul … oh.” My sigh is exasperated. He’s not going to let this go. “Christian Grey.” I cannot help the annoyance in my voice. But it does the trick. Paul’s mouth falls open, and he gapes at me, struck dumb. Humph—even his
name
renders people speechless.

“You have a date with Christian Grey?” he says finally, once he’s over the shock. Disbelief is evident in his voice.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Paul looks positively crestfallen, stunned even, and a very small part of me resents that he should find this a surprise. My inner goddess does, too. She makes a very vulgar and unattractive gesture at him with her fingers.

After that, he ignores me, and at five I am out the door, pronto.

Kate has lent me two dresses and two pairs of shoes for tonight and for graduation tomorrow. I wish I could feel more enthused about clothes and make an extra effort, but clothes are just not my thing.
What is your thing, Anastasia?
Christian’s softly spoken question haunts me. Shaking my head and endeavoring to quell my nerves, I decide on the plum-colored sheath dress for this evening. It’s demure and vaguely businesslike—after all, I am negotiating a contract.

I shower, shave my legs and underarms, wash my hair, and then spend a good half hour drying it so that it falls in soft waves to my breasts and down my back. I slip a comb in to keep one side off my face and apply mascara and some lip gloss. I rarely wear
makeup—it intimidates me. None of my literary heroines had to deal with makeup—maybe I’d know more about it if they had. I slip on the plum-colored stilettos that match the dress, and I’m ready by six thirty.

“Well?” I ask Kate.

She grins.

“Boy, you scrub up well, Ana.” She nods with approval. “You look hot.”

“Hot! I’m aiming for demure and businesslike.”

“That, too, but most of all hot. The dress really suits you and your coloring. The way it clings.” She smirks.

“Kate!” I scold.

“Just keeping it real, Ana. The whole package—looks good. Keep the dress. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.”

My mouth presses in a hard line.
Oh, you so have that the wrong way around
.

“Wish me luck.”

“You need luck for a date?” Her brow furrows, puzzled.

“Yes, Kate.”

“Well, then—good luck.” She hugs me, and I am out the front door.

I have to drive in my bare feet—Wanda, my sea-blue Beetle, wasn’t built to be driven by stiletto-wearers. I pull up outside the Heathman at six fifty-eight precisely and hand my car keys to the valet for parking. He looks askance at my Beetle, but I ignore him. Taking a deep breath and mentally girding my loins, I head into the hotel.

Christian is leaning casually against the bar, drinking a glass of white wine. He’s dressed in his customary white linen shirt, black jeans, black tie, and black jacket. His hair is as tousled as ever. I sigh. I stand for a few seconds in the entrance of the bar, gazing at him, admiring the view. He glances, nervously I think, toward the entrance and stills when he sees me. Blinking a couple of times, he then smiles a slow, lazy, sexy smile that renders me speechless and all molten inside. Making a supreme effort not to bite my lip,
I move forward, aware that I, Anastasia Steele of Clumsyville, am in high stilettos. He walks gracefully over to meet me.

“You look stunning,” he murmurs as he leans down to briefly kiss my cheek. “A dress, Miss Steele. I approve.” Taking my arm, he leads me to a secluded booth and signals for the waiter.

“What would you like to drink?”

My lips quirk up in a quick, sly smile as I sit and slide into the booth—well, at least he’s asking me.

“I’ll have what you’re having, please.” See! I can play nice and behave myself. Amused, he orders another glass of Sancerre and slides in opposite me.

“They have an excellent wine cellar here,” he says. Putting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, his eyes alive with some unreadable emotion. And there it is … that familiar pull and charge from him, it connects somewhere deep inside me. I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, my heart palpitating. I must keep my cool.

“Are you nervous?” he asks softly.

“Yes.”

He leans forward.

“Me, too,” he whispers conspiratorially. My eyes shoot up to meet his.
Him? Nervous? Never
. I blink, and he smiles his adorable lopsided smile at me. The waiter arrives with my wine, a small dish of mixed nuts, and another of olives.

“So, how are we going to do this?” I ask. “Run through my points one by one?”

“Impatient as ever, Miss Steele.”

“Well, I could ask you what you thought of the weather today.”

He smiles, and his long fingers reach down to collect an olive. He pops it in his mouth, and my eyes linger on his mouth, that mouth, that’s been on me … all parts of me. I flush.

“I thought the weather was particularly unexceptional today.” He smirks.

“Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?”

“I am, Miss Steele.”

“You know this contract is legally unenforceable.”

“I am fully aware of that, Miss Steele.”

“Were you going to tell me that at any point?”

He frowns. “You’d think I’d coerce you into something you don’t want to do, and then pretend that I have a legal hold over you?”

“Well … yes.”

“You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Anastasia, it doesn’t matter if it’s legal or not. It represents an arrangement that I would like to make with you—what I would like from you and what you can expect from me. If you don’t like it, then don’t sign. If you do sign and then decide you don’t like it, there are enough get-out clauses so you can walk away. Even if it were legally binding, do you think I’d drag you through the courts if you did decide to run?”

I take a long sip of my wine. My subconscious taps me hard on the shoulder. You must keep your wits about you.
Don’t drink too much
.

“Relationships like this are built on honesty and trust,” he continues. “If you don’t trust me—trust me to know how I’m affecting you, how far I can go with you, how far I can take you—if you can’t be honest with me, then we really can’t do this.”