Chapter Four
Kiss 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 shakes 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 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’m 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.”
“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 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.
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 says.
Huh? This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big send-off? Just to wish me luck in my exams?
“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Goodbye, Mr. Grey.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving him a second glance, I stride 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 wanting 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 my 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 and dreams.
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 metaphorically screams 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! 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’ll 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 runaway freight train.
“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 and pulls me into a hug.
I need to say something just to get her to back off. “I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best I can do, but it distracts her momentarily from…him.
“Jeez, Ana, are you okay? Were you hurt?” She holds me at arm’s length and does a quick visual checkup.
“No. Christian saved me. But I was quite shaken.”
“I’m not surprised. How was coffee? I know you hate coffee.”
“I had tea. It was fine; nothing to report really. I don’t know why he asked me.”
“He likes you, Ana.” She drops her arms.
“Not anymore. I won’t be seeing him again.” Yes, I manage to sound matter-of-fact.
“Oh?”
Damn it. She’s intrigued.
I head into the kitchen so she can’t see my face. “Yeah…he’s a little out of my league, Kate,” I say as dryly as I can manage.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Kate, it’s obvious.” I whirl around and face her as she stands in the kitchen doorway.
“Not to me,” she says. “Okay, he’s got more money than you, but then he has more money than most people in America!”
I shrug. “Kate, he’s—”
“Ana!” she interrupts me. “For heaven’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you? You’re a total babe.”
Oh no. She’s off on this tirade again.
I cut her short. “Kate, please. I need to study.”
She frowns. “Do you want to see the article? It’s finished. José took some great pictures.”
Do I need a visual reminder of the beautiful Christian I-Don’t-Want-You Grey?
“Sure.” I magic a smile on my face and stroll over to the laptop. And there he is, staring at me in black and white…staring at me and finding me lacking.
I pretend to read the article, all the time meeting his steady gray gaze, searching the photo for some clue as to why he’s not the man for me—his words, not mine.
And it’s suddenly blindingly obvious. He’s too gloriously good-looking.
We are poles apart and from two very different worlds.
I have a vision of myself as Icarus flying too close to the sun and crashing and burning as a result.
His words make sense. He’s not the man for me.
This is what he meant, and it makes his rejection easier to accept…
almost. I can live with this. I understand.
“Very good, Kate,” I manage. “I’m going to study.”
In my bedroom, I vow to myself that I’m not going to think about him again, and opening my course notes, I start to read.
It’s only when I’m in bed, trying to sleep, that I allow my thoughts to drift through my strange morning.
I keep coming back to the “I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” and I’m angry that I didn’t pounce on this information sooner, before I was in his arms mentally begging him with every fiber of my being to kiss me.
He’d said it there and then. He didn’t want me as a girlfriend.
I turn onto my side. Idly, I wonder if perhaps he’s celibate. I close my eyes and begin to drift. Maybe he’s saving himself. Well, not for you. My sleepy subconscious has a final swipe at me before unleashing itself on my dreams.
And that night, I dream of gray eyes and leafy patterns in milk, and I’m running through dark places with eerie strip lighting, and I don’t know if I’m running toward something or away from it… It’s just not clear.
I put my pen down. Finished. My last exam is over. A Cheshire cat grin spreads over my face. It’s probably the first time all week that I’ve smiled. It’s Friday, and we will be celebrating tonight—really celebrating. I might even get drunk! I’ve never been drunk before.