Chapter One #3
He turns and smirks, and for the first time in five days, I relax a little. Perhaps this won’t be so bad.
“How’s the new job?”
“Good, thank you. Interesting.”
“What’s your boss like?”
“Oh, he’s okay.” How can I tell Christian that Jack makes me uncomfortable? Christian glances at me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”
“The obvious?”
“Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes.”
“Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Miss Steele.”
“Well, don’t, then.”
His lips twitch into a smile. “I have missed your smart mouth, Anastasia.”
I inhale sharply and want to shout, I’ve missed you—all of you—not just your mouth!
But I keep quiet and gaze out the glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango’s windshield as we continue south.
The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarus once more, flying far too close.
The dusk follows us from Seattle—the sky is awash with opal, pinks, and aquamarines woven seamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how.
It’s a clear, crisp evening, and the lights of Portland twinkle and wink, welcoming us as Christian sets the helicopter down on the helipad.
We are on top of the brown brick building in Portland we left less than three weeks ago.
It’s been hardly any time at all. Yet I feel like I’ve known Christian for a lifetime.
He powers down Charlie Tango, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, and eventually all I hear is my own breathing through the headphones.
Hmm. Briefly it reminds me of the Thomas Tallis experience.
I blanch. I don’t want to go there right now.
Christian unbuckles his harness and leans across to undo mine.
“Good trip, Miss Steele?” he asks, his voice mild, his eyes glowing.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” He holds out his hand and we climb out of Charlie Tango.
A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet us, grinning broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer from the last time we were here. “Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake Joe’s warmly. “Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around eight or nine.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me. “Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s out of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
Christian takes my hand, and we head to the emergency stairs.
“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels,” he mutters in disapproval.
No kidding.
“Don’t you like the boots?”
“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens and I think he might say something else, but he stops. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.”
We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery.
My anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that during our time in Charlie Tango, we were in the eye of the storm.
Christian is quiet and brooding…apprehensive even; our lighter mood from earlier has dissipated.
There’s so much I want to say, but this journey is too short.
Christian stares pensively out the window and I wonder what he’s thinking about.
“José is just a friend,” I murmur.
Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth is distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and frowns.
“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a platitude.
“I mean it.”
“Do you, now?” I cannot keep the disdain from my voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s wrong. I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shake my head, confused.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy,” he says.
What?
“But nothing’s changed.” You’re still fifty shades.
“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”
The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door for me, and I clamber out.
“Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than I expected.
“Do what?” Christian is taken aback.
“Say something like that and then just stop.”
“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in the street.”
I glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. I press my lips together as he glares at me.
“Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Clasping my hand, he takes me into the building.
We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work.
It’s airy and modern, and there are several people wandering across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José’s work.
For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp that José has realized his dream. Way to go, José!
“Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez’s show.
” A young woman dressed in black with very short brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings greets us.
She glances briefly at me, then much longer than is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me, blinking as she blushes.
My brow creases. He’s mine—or was. I try hard not to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks again.
“Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this, too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to a table laden with drinks and snacks.
“You know her?” Christian frowns.
I shake my head, equally puzzled.
He shrugs, distracted. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”
His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads for the open bar.
“Ana!”
José comes barreling through a throng of people.
Holy cow! He’s wearing a suit. He looks good and he’s beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me hard. And it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. Tears pool in my eyes.
“Ana, I’m so glad you made it,” he whispers in my ear. Abruptly he holds me at arm’s length, examining me.
“What?”
“Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mío, have you lost weight?”
I blink back my tears—not him too. “José, I’m fine. I’m just so happy for you. Congratulations on the show.” My voice wavers as I see the concern etched on his oh-so-familiar face, but I have to hold myself together.
“How did you get here?” he asks.
“Christian brought me.”
“Oh.” José’s face falls and he releases me. “Where is he?” His expression darkens.
“Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s direction and notice that he’s exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line.
Christian glances up and our eyes lock. And in that moment, I’m paralyzed, staring at an impossibly handsome man whose scorching gaze burns into me with some unfathomable emotion…
and for a nanosecond we’re lost in each other.
Holy cow… This beautiful man wants me back, and deep inside my joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.
“Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the now. “I am so glad you came—listen, I should warn you—”
Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. “José, the journalist from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.
“How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t help but grin back—he’s so happy. “Catch you later, Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall, lanky photographer.
José’s photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases.
There are both monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to many of the landscapes.
In one taken near the lake at Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflected in the stillness of the water.
Briefly, I’m transported by the tranquility and the peace. It’s stunning.
Christian joins me, and hands me my glass of white wine.
“Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds more normal.
He looks quizzically at me.
“The wine.”
“No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lake photo.
“Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?” I state, unable to hide my pride in José. Christian’s eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me.
“Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches him. “Can I have a picture, sir?”
“Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise.
“Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos. “Miss…?” he asks.
“Ana Steele,” I reply.
“Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off.
“I looked for pictures of you with dates on the internet. There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.”
Christian’s mouth twitches into a smile. “That explains your inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates, Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His voice is quiet with sincerity.
“So you never took your”—I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear us—“subs out?”
“Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.
Oh, I don’t know what to think about that.
“Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers.
I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way, he does care about me.
“Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let’s look around.” I take his outstretched hand.
We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me. It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man is blatantly staring. Odd.