Chapter Two #3
Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me.
I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious?
Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot.
By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger.
“Were you a Girl Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement.
Don’t look at his mouth!
“Organized group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grey.”
He arches a brow. “What is your thing, Anastasia?” His voice is velvet soft, and his secret smile is back.
I gaze at him, unable to express myself.
I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try to be cool, Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
“Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming, You!
You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas way out of its league.
“What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side.
Why is he so interested?
“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature mainly.”
He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.
“Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject. Those fingers on that face are beguiling.
“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”
What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing!
“For a do-it-yourselfer?”
He nods, his eyes alive with wicked humor.
I flush, and my gaze strays to his snug jeans.
“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, amused yet again.
“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.
“I could always take them off.” He smirks.
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” he says dryly.
I try to dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.
“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.
He ignores my inquiry.
“How’s the article coming along?”
He’s finally asked me an easy question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double-talk…a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it were a life raft, and I go for honesty.
“I’m not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh.
My roommate, she’s the writer. She’s very happy with it.
She’s the editor of the newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn’t do the interview in person.
” I feel like I’ve come up for air—at last, a normal topic of conversation.
“Her only concern is that she doesn’t have any original photographs of you. ”
“What sort of photographs does she want?”
Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don’t know.
“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps…”
“You’d be willing to do a photo shoot?” My voice is squeaky again.
Kate will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off.
And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me.
I dismiss the thought. Of all the silly, ridiculous…
“Kate will be delighted—if we can find a photographer.” I’m so pleased, I smile at him broadly.
His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.
Oh my. Christian Grey’s lost look.
“Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. “My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.”
“Okay.” I grin up at him. Kate is going to be thrilled.
“Ana!”
Paul has materialized at the other end of the aisle. He’s Mr. Clayton’s youngest brother. I’d heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn’t expecting to see him today.
“Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey.”
Grey frowns as I turn away from him.
Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-charts attractive control freak Grey, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal.
Paul hugs me hard, taking me by surprise. “Ana, hi, it’s so good to see you!” he gushes.
“Hello, Paul, how are you? You home for your brother’s birthday?”
“Yep. You’re looking well, Ana. Really well.” He grins as he examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Paul, but he’s always been overfamiliar.
When I glance up at Christian Grey, he’s watching us like a hawk, his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line. He’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else—someone cold and distant.
“Paul, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grey’s expression. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they size each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.
“Er…Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.
“I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often.
He’s back from Princeton, where he’s studying business administration. ” I’m babbling… Stop now!
“Mr. Clayton.” Grey holds his hand out, his look unreadable.
“Mr. Grey.” Paul returns his handshake. “Wait up—not the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?” Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond.
Grey gives him a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Wow—is there anything I can get you?”
“Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She’s been very attentive.” His expression is impassive, but his words… It’s like he’s saying something else entirely. It’s baffling.
“Cool,” Paul responds. “Catch you later, Ana.”
“Sure, Paul.” I watch him disappear toward the stockroom. “Anything else, Mr. Grey?”
“Just these items.” His tone is clipped and cool. Damn…have I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the register. What is his problem?
I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties.
“That will be forty-three dollars, please.” I glance up at Grey, and I wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me closely, intently. It’s unnerving. “Would you like a bag?” I ask as I take his credit card.
“Please, Anastasia.”
His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic bag.
“You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?” He’s all business once more.
I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.
“Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps.” He turns to leave, then pauses.
“Oh—and, Anastasia, I’m glad Miss Kavanagh couldn’t do the interview.
” He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging female hormones.
I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he’s just left before I return to planet earth.
Okay—I like him. There, I’ve admitted it to myself.
I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I’ve never felt like this before.
I find him attractive—very attractive. But it’s a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret.
It was just a coincidence, his coming here.
But still, I can admire him from afar, surely.
No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow.
I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl.
I need to phone Kate and organize a photo shoot.