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plished so much for a Monday.
I curl up in my white iron bed, wrapping my mother’s quilt around me, close my eyes,
and I’m instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, bleak white cold floors, and
gray eyes.
For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Clayton’s. Kate is
busy too, compiling her last edition of her student magazine before she has to relinquish
it to the new editor while also cramming for her finals. By Wednesday, she’s much better,
and I no longer have to endure the sight of her pink-fla
call my mom in Georgia to check on her, but also so she can wish me luck for my final ex-
ams. She proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into candle making – my mother is all
about new business ventures. Fundamentally she’s bored and wants something to occupy
her time, but she has the attention span of a goldfish. It’ll be something new next week.
She worries me. I hope she hasn’t mortgaged the house to finance this latest scheme. And I
hope that Bob – her relatively new but much older husband – is keeping an eye on her now
that I’m no longer there. He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three.
“How are things with you, Ana?”
For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mom’s full attention.
“I’m fine.”
“Ana? Have you met someone?” Wow… how does she do that?The excitement in her
voice is palpable.
“No, Mom, it’s nothing. You’ll be the first to know if I do.”
“Ana, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.”
“Mom, I’m fine. How’s Bob?” As ever, distraction is the best policy.
Later that evening, I call Ray, my stepdad, Mom’s Husband Number Two, the man I
consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It’s a brief conversation. In fact, it’s
not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coax-
ing. Ray is not a talker. But he’s still alive, he’s still watching soccer on TV, and going
bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when he’s not. Ray is a skilled carpenter and
the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him.
Friday night, Kate and I are debating what to do with our evening – we want some time out
from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers – when the doorbell rings.
Standing on our doorstep is my good friend José, clutching a bottle of champagne.
“José! Great to see you!” I give him a quick hug. “Come in.”
José is the first person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as lost and lonely as I did.
We recognized a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we’ve been friends ever since.
Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we discovered that both Ray and José Senior
were in the same army unit together. As a result, our fathers have become firm friends too.
José is studying engineering and is the first in his family to make it to college. He’s
pretty damn bright, but his real passion is photography. José has a great eye for a good
picture.
“I have news.” He grins, his dark eyes twinkling.
“Don’t tell me – you’ve managed not to get kicked out for another week,” I tease, and
he scowls playfully at me.
“The Portland Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month.”
“That’s amazing – congratulations!” Delighted for him, I hug him again. Kate beams
at him too.
“Way to go José! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial
changes on a Friday evening.” She grins.
“Let’s celebrate. I want you to come to the opening.” José looks intently at me. I flush.
“Both of you, of course,” he adds, glancing nervously at Kate.
José and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, he’d like to be more. He’s
cute and fu
often teases me that I’m missing the need-a-boyfriend gene, but the truth is – I just haven’t
met anyone who… well, whom I’m attracted to, even though part of me longs for those
trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps I’ve spent too long
in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expecta-
tions are far too high. But in reality, nobody’s ever made me feel like that.
Until very recently,the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers.
NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful inter-
view. Are you gay, Mr. Grey?I wince at the memory. I know I’ve dreamt about him most
nights since then, but that’s just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely?
I watch José open the bottle of champagne. He’s tall, and in his jeans and t-shirt he’s
all shoulders and muscles, ta
hot, but I think he’s finally getting the message: we’re just friends. The cork makes its loud
pop, and José looks up and smiles.
Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to
spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, John and Patrick – the two other part-timers
– and I are all rushed off our feet. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton
asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly
eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items
we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer
screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up… and
find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey who’s standing at the counter,
staring at me intently.
Heart failure.
“Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense.
Holy crap. What the hell is hedoing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his
cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open,
and I can’t locate my brain or my voice.
“Mr. Grey,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on
his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke.
“I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things.
It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” His voice is warm and husky like dark
melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something.
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for
some reason I’m blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the
sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not
merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he’s here. Here
in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and
reco
“Ana. My name’s Ana,” I mutter. “What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?”
He smiles, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Tak-
ing a deep breath, I put on my professional I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I
can do this.
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties,” he murmurs, his
gray eyes cool but amused.
Cable ties?
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” I mutter, my voice soft and wavery.
Get a grip, Steele.A slight frown mars Grey’s rather lovely brow.