always treated me as his own, and I can’t wait to see him. It’s been too long. His quiet

fortitude is what I need now, what I miss. Maybe I can channel my inner Ray for my meet-

ing tomorrow.

Kate and I concentrate on packing, sharing a bottle of cheap red wine as we do. When

I finally go to bed, having almost finished packing my room, I feel calmer. The physical

activity of boxing everything up has been a welcome distraction, and I’m tired. I want a

good night’s sleep. I snuggle into my bed and am soon asleep.

Paul is back from Princeton before he sets off for New York to start an internship with a

financing company. He follows me round the store all day asking me for a date. It’s an-

noying.

“Paul, for the hundredth time, I have a date this evening.”

“No, you don’t, you’re just saying that to avoid me. You’re always avoiding me.”

Yes… you’d think you’d take the hint.

“Paul, I never thought it was a good idea to date the boss’s brother.”

“You’re finishing here on Friday. You’re not working tomorrow.”

“And I’ll be in Seattle as of Saturday and you’ll be in New York soon. We couldn’t get

much further apart if we tried. Besides, I do have a date this evening.”

“With José?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Paul… oh.” My sigh is exasperated. He’s not going to let this go. “Christian Grey.” I

cannot help the annoyance in my voice. But it does the trick. Paul’s mouth falls open, and

he gapes at me, struck dumb. Humph – even his namerenders people speechless.

“You have a date with Christian Grey,” he says finally, once he’s over the shock. Dis-

belief is evident in his voice.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Paul looks positively crestfallen, stunned even, and a very small part resents

that he should find this a surprise. My inner goddess does too. She makes a very vulgar

and unattractive gesture at him with her fingers.

After that, he ignores me, and at five I am out of the door, pronto.

Kate has lent me two dresses and two pairs of shoes for tonight and for graduation

tomorrow. I wish I could feel more enthused about clothes and make an extra effort, but

clothes are just not my thing. What is your thing, Anastasia?Christian’s softly spoken

question haunts me. Shaking my head and endeavoring to quell my nerves, I decide on the

plum-colored sheath dress for this evening. It’s demure and vaguely business-like – after

all, I am negotiating a contract.

I shower, shave my legs and underarms, wash my hair, and then spend a good half-hour

drying it so that it falls in soft waves to my breasts and down my back. I slip a comb in to

keep one side off my face and apply mascara and some lip-gloss. I rarely wear make-up – it

intimidates me. None of my literary heroines had to deal with make-up – maybe I’d know

more about it if they had. I slip on the plum-colored stilettos that match the dress, and I’m

ready by six-thirty.

“Well?” I ask Kate.

She grins.

“Boy, you scrub up well, Ana.” She nods with approval. “You look hot.”

“Hot! I’m aiming for demure and business-like.”

“That too, but most of all, hot. The dress really suits you and your coloring. The way

it clings.” She smirks.

“Kate!” I scold.

“Just keeping it real, Ana. The whole package – looks good. Keep the dress. You’ll

have him eating out of your hand.”

My mouth presses in a hard line. Oh, you so have that the wrong way round.

“Wish me luck.”

“You need luck for a date?” Her brow furrows, puzzled.

“Yes, Kate.”

“Well then – good luck.” She hugs me, and I am out the front door.

I have to drive in my bare feet – Wanda, my sea-blue Beetle, wasn’t built to be driven

by stiletto-wearers. I pull up outside the Heathman at six-fifty-eight precisely and hand my

car keys to the valet for parking. He looks askance at my Beetle, but I ignore him. Taking

a deep breath and mentally girding my loins, I head into the hotel.

Christian is leaning casually against the bar, drinking a glass of white wine. He’s

dressed in his customary white linen shirt, black jeans, black tie, and black jacket. His hair

is as tousled as ever. I sigh. Of course he looks gorgeous. I stand for a few seconds in the

entrance of the bar, gazing at him, admiring the view. He is beyond beautiful. He glances,

nervously I think, toward the entrance and stills when he sees me. Blinking a couple of

times, he then smiles a slow, lazy, sexy smile that renders me speechless and all molten

inside. Making a supreme effort not to bite my lip, I move forward aware that I, Anastasia

Steele of Clumsyville, am in high stilettos. He walks gracefully over to meet me.

“You look stunning,” he murmurs as he leans down to briefly kiss my cheek. “A dress,

Miss Steele. I approve.” Taking my arm, he leads me to a secluded booth and signals for

the waiter.

“What would you like to drink?”

My lips quirk up in a quick, sly smile as I sit and slide into the booth – well, at least

he’s asking me.

“I’ll have what you’re having, please.” See! I can play nice and behave myself.

Amused, he orders another glass of Sancerre and slides in opposite me.

“They have an excellent wine cellar here,” he says, cocking his head to one side.

Putting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers in front of his beautiful mouth,

his gray eyes alive with some unreadable emotion. And there it is… that familiar pull and

charge from him, it connects somewhere deep inside me. I shift uncomfortably under his

scrutiny, my heart palpitating. I must keep my cool.

“Are you nervous?” he asks softly.

“Yes.”

He leans forward.

“Me too,” he whispers conspiratorially. My eyes shoot up to meet his. Him. Nervous.

Never.I blink at him, and he smiles his adorable lopsided smile at me. The waiter arrives

with my wine, a small dish of mixed nuts, and another of olives.

“So, how are we going to do this?” I ask. “Run through my points one by one?”

“Impatient as ever, Miss Steele.”

“Well, I could ask you what you thought of the weather today?”

He smiles, and his long fingers reach down to collect an olive. He pops it in his mouth,

and my eyes linger on his mouth, that mouth, that’s been on me… all parts of me. I flush.

“I thought the weather was particularly unexceptional today,” he smirks.

“Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?”

“I am, Miss Steele.”

“You know this contract is legally unenforceable.”

“I am fully aware of that, Miss Steele.”

“Were you going to tell me that at any point?”

He frowns at me.

“You’d think I’d coerce you into something you don’t want to do, and then pretend that

I have a legal hold over you?”

“Well… yes.”

“You don’t think very highly of me at all, do you?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Anastasia, it doesn’t matter if it’s legal or not. It represents an arrangement that I

would like to make with you – what I would like from you and what you can expect from

me. If you don’t like it, then don’t sign. If you do sign, and then decide you don’t like it,

there are enough get-out clauses so you can walk away. Even if it were legally binding, do

you think I’d drag you through the courts if you did decide to run?”

I take a long draft of my wine. My subconscious taps me hard on the shoulder. You

must keep your wits about you. Don’t drink too much.

“Relationships like this are built on honesty and trust,” he continues. “If you don’t

trust me – trust me to know how I’m affecting you, how far I can go with you, how far I