“Anything to eat?”

“No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.

I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to

be served. I could watch him all day… he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and slim, and the way

those pants hang from his hips… Oh my.Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers

through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm… I’d like to do that.The thought comes

unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands

again not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Grey is back, startling me.

I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and

wondering if it would feel soft to touch.I shake my head. He’s carrying a tray, which he

sets down on the small, round, birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small

teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled ‘Twinings English Breakfast’ – my

favorite. He has a coffee which bears a wonderful leaf-pattern imprinted in the milk. How

do they do that?I wonder idly. He’s also bought himself a blueberry muffin. Putting the

tray aside, he sits opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so at

ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get

from A to B without falling flat on my face.

“Your thoughts?” he prompts me.

“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting

opposite Christian Grey in a coffee shop in Portland. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding

something. I pop the teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with

my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, he cocks his head gazing

quizzically at me.

“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.

“I see. Is he your boyfriend?”

Whoa… What?

“Who?”

“The photographer. José Rodriguez.”

I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?

“No. José’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?”

“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His gray gaze holds mine. He’s so un-

nerving. I want to look away but I’m caught – spellbound.

“He’s more like family,” I whisper.

Grey nods slightly, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his

blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated.

“Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.

“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.

“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”

“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you

ask?”“You seem nervous around men.”

Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Grey.

“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my

candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

“You should find me intimidating,” he nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look

down. I like to see your face.”

Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.

“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he breathes. “You’re a

mystery, Miss Steele.

Mysterious? Me?

“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”

“I think you’re very self-contained,” he murmurs.

Am I? Wow… how am I managing that?This is bewildering. Me, self-contained?

No Way.

“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were

blushing about.” He pops a small piece of muffin into his mouth and starts to chew it

slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised.

“No,” I answer truthfully.

“Good.”

“But you’re very high-handed,” I retaliate quietly.

He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, he flushes slightly too.

“I’m used to getting my own way, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “In all things.”

“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m sur-

prised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the

way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic towards him.

It’s like he’s trying to warn me off.

“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends.

That’s the way I like it.”

Oh. He still hasn’t said, ‘Call me Christian.’ He isa control freak, there’s no other

explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kate had in-

terviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus of course she’s almost blonde – well,

strawberry blonde – like all the women in his office. And she’s beautiful,my subconscious

reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Christian and Kate. I take a sip of my tea, and Grey

eats another small piece of his muffin.

“Are you an only child?” he asks.

Whoa… he keeps changing direction.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull.

“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband Bob. My stepdad lives in Monte-

sano.”

“Your father?”

“My father died when I was a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters and a fleeting troubled look crosses his face.

“I don’t remember him.”

“And your mother remarried?”

I snort.

“You could say that.”

He frowns at me.

“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep

thought.

“Neither are you.”

“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions

then.” He smirks at me.

Holy shit.He’s remembering the ‘gay’ question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years

to come, I know, I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall

the moment. I start babbling about my mother – anything to block thatmemory.

“My mom is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s currently on her fourth

husband.”

Christian raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and

pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I

haven’t seen my mom for so long. Christian is watching me intently, taking occasional sips

of his coffee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth. It’s unsettling. Those lips.

“Do you get along with your stepfather?”

“Of course. I grew up with him. He’s the only father I know.”

“And what’s he like?”

“Ray? He’s… taciturn.”

“That’s it?” Grey asks, surprised.

I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?

“Taciturn like his stepdaughter,” Grey prompts.

I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.

“He likes soccer – European soccer especially – and bowling, and fly-fishing, and mak-

ing furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.

“You lived with him?”

“Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray.”

He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.

“You didn’t want to live with your mom?” he asks.

I blush. This really is none of his business.

“Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And… you

know my mom was newly married.” I stop. My mom never talks about Husband Number