Chapter Two #2
“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 coaxing.
Ray is not a talker. But he’s still alive and he’s still watching soccer on TV (and going bowling or 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 off from our studies, our work, and 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 other that day, and we’ve been friends ever since.
Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we also discovered that Ray and José Senior were in the same army unit together.
As a result, our fathers have become good 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.
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 feigns annoyance.
“Let’s celebrate. I want you to come to the opening.” José looks intently at me, and I flush. “Both of you, of course,” he adds, glancing nervously at Kate.
José and I are good friends, but I know deep down he’d like to be more.
He’s cute and funny, but he’s just not for me.
He’s more like the brother I never had. Katherine 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 the fabled trembling-knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly moments.
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 expectations 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 interview. Are you gay, Mr. Grey? I wince at the memory. I know I’ve dreamed 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, tanned skin, dark hair, and burning dark eyes.
Yes, José’s pretty 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, Patrick—the two other part-timers—and I are besieged by customers.
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 register discreetly eating my bagel.
I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalog 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 make sure 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.
Heart failure.
“Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense.
Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy with his tousled hair and 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 eventually, 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.” 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 at a frantic tempo, 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 reconnected with the rest of my body.
“Ana. My name’s Ana. What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?”
He smiles, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It’s so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years facade. I can do this.
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties.” His expression is both cool and amused.
Cable ties?
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” My voice wavers. Get a grip, Steele.
A slight frown mars Grey’s rather lovely brow. “Please. Lead the way.”
I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet—my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.
“They’re with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he’s handsome.
“After you.” He gestures with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.
With my heart pounding—so hard that I think it’s trying to escape my body—I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section.
Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton’s?
And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain—probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells—comes the thought: He’s here to see you.
No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me?
The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.
“Are you in Portland on business?” I ask, and my voice is too high, like I’ve got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool, Ana!
“I was visiting the WSU environmental science division. It’s based in Vancouver.
I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science,” he says matter-of-factly.
See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty.
I flush at my foolish, wayward thoughts.
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.
“Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.
He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s.
What on earth is he going to do with those?
I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all.
His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.
“These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile.
“Is there anything else?”
“I’d like some masking tape.”
Masking tape?
“Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?
“No, not redecorating,” he says quickly, then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me.
Am I that funny? Funny looking?
“This way,” I mutter, embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”
I glance behind me as he follows.
“Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, concentrating hard.
I blush brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old—gauche, as always, and out of place.
Eyes front, Steele!
“Four years,” I say as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.
“I’ll take that one.” Grey points to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire.
I gasp as a charge runs all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.
“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy.
His eyes widen slightly. “Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky.
“This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and move toward the aisle. “What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope…twine…cable cord…” I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.
“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please.”