Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (47 page)

I oblige, and he sits beside me while Mrs. Jones busies herself with breakfast. Gosh, it’s unnerving having someone else listen to our conversation.

“Have you bought your air ticket?”

“No, I’ll buy it when I get home—over the Internet.”

He leans on his elbow, rubbing his chin.

“Do you have the money?”

Oh no
.

“Yes,” I say with mock patience as if I’m talking to a small child.

He raises a censorious eyebrow at me.
Crap
.

“Yes, I do, thank you,” I amend rapidly.

“I have a jet. It’s not scheduled to be used for three days; it’s at your disposal.”

I gape at him. Of course he has a jet, and I have to resist my
body’s natural inclination to roll my eyes at him. I want to laugh. But I don’t, as I can’t read his mood.

“We’ve already made serious misuse of your company’s aviation fleet. I wouldn’t want to do it again.”

“It’s my company, it’s my jet.” He sounds almost wounded.
Oh, boys and their toys!

“Thank you for the offer. But I’d be happier taking a scheduled flight.”

He looks like he wants to argue further but decides against it.

“As you wish.” He sighs. “Do you have much preparation to do for your interview?”

“No.”

“Good. You’re still not going to tell me which publishing houses?”

“No.”

His lips curl up in a reluctant smile. “I am a man of means, Miss Steele.”

“I am fully aware of that, Mr. Grey. Are you going to track my phone?” I ask innocently.

“Actually, I’ll be quite busy this afternoon, so I’ll have to get someone else to do it.” He smirks.

Is he joking?

“If you can spare someone to do that, you’re obviously overstaffed.”

“I’ll send an e-mail to the head of human resources and have her look into our head count.” His lips twitch to hide his smile.

Oh, thank the Lord, he’s recovered his sense of humor
.

Mrs. Jones serves us breakfast and we eat quietly for a few moments. After clearing the pans, tactfully, she heads out of the living area. I peek up at him.

“What is it, Anastasia?”

“You know, you never did tell me why you don’t like to be touched.”

He blanches, and his reaction makes me feel guilty for asking.

“I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told anybody.” His voice is quiet as he gazes at me impassively.

And it’s clear to me that he’s never confided in anyone. Doesn’t he have any close friends? Perhaps he told Mrs. Robinson? I want to ask him, but I can’t—I can’t pry that invasively. I shake my head at the realization. He really is an island.

“Will you think about our arrangement while you’re away?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Will you miss me?”

I gaze at him, surprised by his question.

“Yes,” I answer honestly.

How could he mean so much to me in such a short time? He’s got right under my skin … literally. He smiles and his eyes light up.

“I’ll miss you, too. More than you know,” he breathes.

My heart warms at his words. He really is trying hard. He gently strokes my cheek, bends down, and kisses me softly.

It is late afternoon, and I sit nervous and fidgeting in the lobby waiting for Mr. J. Hyde of Seattle Independent Publishing. This is my second interview today, and the one I’m most anxious about. My first interview went well, but it was for a larger conglomerate with offices based throughout the United States, and I would be one of many editorial assistants there. I can imagine being swallowed up and spat out pretty quickly in such a corporate machine. SIP is where I want to be. It’s small and unconventional, championing local authors, and has an interesting and quirky roster of clients.

My surroundings are sparse, but I think it’s a design statement rather than frugality. I am seated on one of two dark green chesterfield couches made of leather—not unlike the couch that Christian has in his playroom. I stroke the leather appreciatively and wonder idly what Christian does on that couch. My mind wanders as I think of the possibilities … no—I must not go there now. I flush at my wayward and inappropriate thoughts.
The receptionist is a young African-American woman with large silver earrings and long straightened hair. She has a bohemian look about her, the sort of woman I could be friendly with. The thought is comforting. Every few moments she glances up at me, away from her computer, and smiles reassuringly. I tentatively return her smile.

My flight is booked, my mother is in seventh heaven that I am visiting, I am packed, and Kate has agreed to drive me to the airport. Christian has ordered me to take my BlackBerry and the Mac. I roll my eyes at the memory of his overbearing bossiness, but I realize now that’s just the way he is. He likes control over everything, including me. Yet he’s so unpredictably and disarmingly agreeable, too. He can be tender, good-humored, even sweet. And when he is, it’s so left field and unexpected. He insisted on accompanying me all the way down to my car in the garage. Jeez, I’m only going for a few days; he’s acting like I’m going for weeks. He always keeps me off balance.

“Ana Steele?” A woman with long, black, pre-Raphaelite hair standing by the reception desk distracts me from my introspection. She has the same bohemian, floaty look as the receptionist. She could be in her late thirties, maybe in her forties. It’s so difficult to tell with older women.

“Yes,” I reply, standing awkwardly.

She gives me a polite smile, her cool hazel eyes assessing me. I am wearing one of Kate’s dresses, a black pinafore over a white blouse, and my black pumps. Very interview, I think. My hair is restrained in a tight bun, and for once the tendrils are behaving themselves. She holds her hand out to me.

“Hello, Ana, my name’s Elizabeth Morgan. I’m head of human resources here at SIP.”

“How do you do?” I shake her hand. She looks very casual to be the head of HR.

“Please follow me.”

We go through the double doors behind the reception area into a large brightly decorated open-plan office, and from there
head into a small meeting room. The walls are pale green, lined with pictures of book covers. At the head of the maple conference table sits a young man with red hair tied in a ponytail. Small silver hooped earrings glint in both his ears. He wears a pale blue shirt, no tie, and stone chinos. As I approach him, he stands and gazes at me with fathomless dark blue eyes.

“Ana Steele, I’m Jack Hyde, the acquisitions editor here at SIP, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

We shake hands, and his dark expression is unreadable, though friendly enough, I think.

“Have you traveled far?” he asks pleasantly.

“No, I’ve recently moved to the Pike Street Market area.”

“Oh, not far at all then. Please, take a seat.”

I sit, and Elizabeth takes a seat beside him.

“So why would you like to intern for us at SIP, Ana?” he asks.

He says my name softly and cocks his head to one side, like someone I know—it’s unnerving. Doing my best to ignore the irrational wariness he inspires, I launch into my carefully prepared speech, conscious that a rosy flush is spreading across my cheeks. I look at both of them, remembering the Katherine Kavanagh Successful Interviewing Technique lecture:
Maintain eye contact, Ana!
Boy, that woman can be bossy, too, sometimes. Jack and Elizabeth both listen attentively.

“You have a very impressive GPA. What extracurricular activities did you indulge in at WSU?”

Indulge?
I blink at him. What an odd choice of word. I launch into details of my librarianship at the campus central library and my one experience of interviewing an obscenely rich despot for the student newspaper. I gloss over the fact that I didn’t actually write the article. I mention the two literary societies that I belonged to and conclude with working at Clayton’s and all the useless knowledge I now possess about hardware and DIY. They both laugh, which is the response I’d hoped for. Slowly, I relax and begin to enjoy myself.

Jack Hyde asks sharp, intelligent questions, but I’m not
thrown—I keep up, and when we discuss my reading preferences and my favorite books, I think I hold my own. Jack, on the other hand, appears to only favor American literature written after 1950. Nothing else. No classics—not even Henry James or Upton Sinclair or F. Scott Fitzgerald. Elizabeth says nothing, just nods occasionally and takes notes. Jack, though argumentative, is charming in his way, and my initial wariness dissipates the longer we talk.

“And where do you see yourself in five years’ time?” he asks.

With Christian Grey
, the thought comes involuntarily into my head. My errant mind makes me frown.

“Copyediting, perhaps? Maybe a literary agent, I’m not sure. I am open to opportunities.”

He grins. “Very good, Ana. I don’t have any further questions. Do you?” he directs his question at me.

“When would you like someone to start?” I ask.

“As soon as possible,” Elizabeth pipes up. “When could you start?”

“I’m available from next week.”

“That’s good to know,” Jack says.

“If that’s all everyone has to say”—Elizabeth glances at the two of us—“I think that concludes the interview.” She smiles kindly.

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Ana,” Jack says softly as he takes my hand. He squeezes it gently, so that I blink up at him as I say good-bye.

I feel unsettled as I make my way to my car, though I’m not sure why. I think the interview went well, but it’s so hard to say. Interviews seem such artificial situations; everyone on their best behavior trying desperately to hide behind a professional façade. Did my face fit? I shall have to wait and see.

I climb into my Audi A3 and head back to the apartment, though I take my time. I’m on the red-eye with a stopover in Atlanta, but my flight doesn’t leave until 10:25 this evening, so I have plenty of time.

Kate is unpacking boxes in the kitchen when I return.

“How did they go?” she asks, excited. Only Kate can look gorgeous in an oversized shirt, tattered jeans, and a dark blue bandana.

“Good, thanks, Kate. Not sure this outfit was cool enough for the second interview.”

“Oh?”

“Boho chic might have done it.”

Kate raises an eyebrow.

“You and boho chic.” She cocks her head to one side—gah! Why is everyone reminding me of my favorite Fifty Shades? “Actually, Ana, you’re one of the few people who could really pull that look off.”

I grin. “I really liked the second place. I think I could fit in there. The guy who interviewed me was unnerving, though …” I trail off—shit, I’m talking to Megaphone Kavanagh here.
Shut up, Ana!

“Oh?” The Katherine Kavanagh radar for an interesting tidbit of information swoops into action—a tidbit that will only resurface at some inopportune and embarrassing moment, which reminds me.

“Incidentally, will you please stop winding Christian up? Your comment about José at dinner yesterday was out of line. He’s a jealous guy. It doesn’t do any good, you know.”

“Look, if he wasn’t Elliot’s brother I’d have said a lot worse. He’s a real control freak. I don’t know how you stand it. I was trying to make him jealous—give him a little help with his commitment issues.” She holds her hands up defensively. “But if you don’t want me to interfere, I won’t,” she says hastily at my scowl.

“Good. Life with Christian is complicated enough, trust me.”

Jeez, I sound like him
.

“Ana.” She pauses, staring at me. “You’re okay, aren’t you? You’re not running to your mother’s to escape?”

I flush. “No, Kate. It was you who said I needed a break.”

She closes the distance between us and takes my hands—a most un-Kate thing to do.
Oh no
 … tears threaten.

“You’re just, I don’t know … different. I hope you’re okay, and whatever issues you’re having with Mr. Moneybags, you can talk to me. And I will try not to wind him up, though frankly it’s like shooting fish in a barrel with him. Look, Ana, if something’s wrong, tell me, I won’t judge. I’ll try to understand.”

I blink back tears. “Oh, Kate.” I hug her. “I think I’ve really fallen for him.”

“Ana, anyone can see that. And he’s fallen for you. He’s mad about you. Won’t take his eyes off you.”

I laugh uncertainly. “Do you think so?”

“Hasn’t he told you?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Have you told him?”

“Not in so many words.” I shrug apologetically.

“Ana! Someone has to make the first move, otherwise you’ll never get anywhere.”

What … tell him how I feel?

“I’m just afraid I’ll frighten him away.”

“And how do you know he’s not feeling the same?”

“Christian, afraid? I can’t imagine him being frightened of anything.” But as I say the words, I imagine him as a small child. Maybe fear was all he knew then. Sorrow grips and squeezes my heart at the thought.

Kate gazes at me with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, rather like my subconscious—all she needs are the half-moon specs.

“You two need to sit down and talk to each other.”

“We haven’t been doing much talking lately.” I blush. Other stuff. Nonverbal communication and that’s okay. Well, much more than okay.