Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (7 page)

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised.

“No,” I answer truthfully.

“Good.”

“But you’re very high-handed.”

He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, flushes slightly, too.

“I’m used to getting my own way, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “In all things.”

“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m surprised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic toward him. It’s like he’s trying to warn me off.

“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”

Oh. He still hasn’t said, “Call me Christian.” He
is
a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kate had interviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus, of course, she’s almost blond—well, strawberry blond—like all the women in his office.
And she’s beautiful
, my subconscious reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Christian and Kate. I take a sip of my tea, and Grey eats another small piece of his muffin.

“Are you an only child?” he asks.

Whoa
 … he keeps changing direction.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

Why does he want to know this? It’s so
dull
.

“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano.”

“Your father?”

“My father died when I was a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and a fleeting, troubled look crosses his face.

“I don’t remember him.”

“And your mother remarried?”

I snort.

“You could say that.”

He frowns at me.

“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought.

“Neither are you.”

“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then.” He smirks at me.

Holy shit
. He’s remembering the “gay” question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years to come, I know I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the moment. I start babbling about my mother—anything to block
that
memory.

“My mom is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s currently on her fourth husband.”

Christian raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I haven’t seen my mom for so long. Christian is watching me intently, taking occasional sips of his coffee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth. It’s unsettling.

“Do you get along with your stepfather?”

“Of course. I grew up with him. He’s the only father I know.”

“And what’s he like?”

“Ray? He’s … taciturn.”

“That’s it?” Grey asks, surprised.

I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?

“Taciturn like his stepdaughter,” Grey prompts.

I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.

“He likes soccer—European soccer especially—and bowling,
and fly-fishing, and making furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.

“You lived with him?”

“Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray.”

He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.

“You didn’t want to live with your mom?” he asks.

This really is none of his business
.

“Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And … you know, my mom was newly married.” I stop. My mom never talks about Husband Number Three. Where is Grey going with this? This
is
none of his business.
Two can play at this game
.

“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.

He shrugs.

“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”

Oh … he’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopts three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be proud.

“What do your siblings do?”

“Elliot’s in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef.” His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or himself.

“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk about his family? Is it because he’s adopted?

“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.

“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is he hiding?

“Would you like to go?”

“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me—who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”

He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip … 
oh my
.

“Because?”

I blink rapidly.
Concentrate, Steele
.

“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.”

All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch. “I’d better go. I have to study.”

“For your exams?”

“Yes. They start Tuesday.”

“Where’s Miss Kavanagh’s car?”

“In the hotel parking lot.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey.”

He smiles his odd I’ve-got-a-whopping-big-secret smile.

“You’re welcome, Anastasia. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop.

We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a job, but I’m not sure what for.

“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.

“Mostly.”

He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling.
What an odd question …
And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap—
I just said that out loud?

His lips quirk up in a half smile, and he peers down at me.

“No, Anastasia. I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he says softly.

Oh … 
what does that mean?
He’s not gay. Oh, maybe he is! He must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I
think he’s going to follow up with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement—but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong into the road.

“Shit, Ana!” Grey cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street.

It all happens so fast—one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms and he’s holding me tightly against his chest. I inhale his clean, wholesome scent. He smells of freshly laundered linen and some expensive body wash. It’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and his breath hitches. He’s staring into my eyes, and I hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment, or maybe it’s forever … but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. And for the first time in twenty-one years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on mine.

K
iss me, damn it!
I implore him, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by him. I’m staring at Christian Grey’s mouth, mesmerized, and he’s looking down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening. He’s breathing harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether.
I’m in your arms. Kiss me, please
. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives me a small shake of his head as if in answer to my silent question. When he opens his eyes again, it’s with some new purpose, a steely resolve.

“Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you,” he whispers.
What? Where is this coming from?
Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown, and my head swims with rejection.

“Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says quietly, and he gently pushes me away.

Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the heady proximity to Christian, leaving me wired and weak.
NO!
my psyche screams as he pulls away, leaving me bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, carefully watching my reactions. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and he didn’t do it.
He doesn’t want me
. He really doesn’t want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning.

“I’ve got this,” I breathe, finding my voice. “Thank you,” I mutter, awash with humiliation. How could I have misread the situation between us so utterly? I need to get away from him.

“For what?” He frowns. He hasn’t taken his hands off me.

“For saving me,” I whisper.

“That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?” He releases me, his hands by his sides, and I’m standing in front of him feeling like a fool.

With a shake, I clear my head. I just want to go. All my vague, unarticulated hopes have been dashed. He doesn’t want me.
What was I thinking?
I scold myself.
What would Christian Grey want with you?
my subconscious mocks me. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face the road and note with relief that the green man has appeared. I quickly make my way across, conscious that Grey is behind me. Outside the hotel, I turn briefly to face him but cannot look him in the eye.

“Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot,” I murmur.

“Anastasia … I …” He stops, and the anguish in his voice demands my attention, so I peer unwillingly up at him. His gray eyes are bleak as he runs his hand through his hair. He looks torn, frustrated, his expression stark, all his careful control has evaporated.

“What, Christian?” I snap irritably after he says … nothing. I just want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health.

“Good luck with your exams,” he murmurs.

Huh?
This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big sendoff? Just to wish me luck in my exams?

“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Good-bye, Mr. Grey.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving him a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage.

Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes.
Why am I crying?
I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placing
my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had.
How ridiculous
. Mourning something that never was—my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.

I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay … so I was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball, but I understood that—running and doing something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a serious liability in any sporting field.

Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity—I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So I have always been the one to rebuff any would-be admirers. There was that guy in my chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest—no one except Christian Damn Grey. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Paul Clayton and José Rodriguez, though I’m sure neither of them has been found sobbing alone in dark places. Perhaps I just need a good cry.

Stop! Stop now!
my subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in frustration.
Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about him … Now!
And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.

I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up.
Get it together, Steele
. I head for Kate’s car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of him again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams.

KATE IS SITTING AT
the dining table at her laptop when I arrive. Her welcoming smile fades when she sees me.

“Ana, what’s wrong?”

Oh no … not the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition. I shake my head in a back-off-now-Kavanagh way—but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute.

“You’ve been crying.” She has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious sometimes. “What did that bastard do to you?” she growls, and her face—jeez, she’s scary.

“Nothing, Kate.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my face.

“Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” she says, her voice softening. She stands, her green eyes brimming with concern. She puts her arms around me and hugs me. I need to say something just to get her to back off.