“Why don’t you choose a table, while I get the drinks. What would you like?” he asks, polite as ever.
　　“I’ll have… um – English Breakfast tea, bag out.”
　　He raises his eyebrows.
　　“No coffee?”
　　“I’m not keen on coffee.”
　　He smiles.
　　“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”
　　For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid – do you take sugar?
　　“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.
　　“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 unnerving. 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 surprised 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 is a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kate had interviewed 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 Montesano.”
　　“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 that memory.
　　“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 making 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 Three. Where is Grey going with this? This is none of his business. Two can play at this game.
　　“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.
　　He shrugs.
　　“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”
　　Oh… he’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopt three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be proud.

　　“What do your siblings do?”
　　“Elliot’s in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef.” His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or himself.
　　“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk about his family? Is it because he’s adopted?
　　“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.
　　“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is he hiding?
　　“Would you like to go?”
　　“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me – who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”
　　He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip… oh my.
　　“Because?”
　　I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Steele.
　　“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Bront? sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.”
　　All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch.
　　“I’d better go. I have to study.”
　　“For your exams?”
　　“Yes. They start Tuesday.”
　　“Where’s Miss Kavanagh’s car?”
　　“In the hotel parking lot.”
　　“I’ll walk you back.”
　　“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey.”
　　He smiles his odd I’ve got a whopping big secret smile.
　　“You’re welcome, Anastasia. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop.
　　We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a position, but I’m not sure what it is.
　　“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.
　　“Mostly.”
　　He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question… And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.
　　“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap - I just said that out loud?
　　His lips quirk up in a half-smile, and he looks down at me.
　　“No, Anastasia. I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he says softly.
　　Oh… what does that mean? He’s not gay? Oh, maybe he is - crap! He must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think he’s going to follow on with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement – but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong onto the road.
　　“Shit, Ana!” Grey cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street.
　　It all happens so fast – one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms, and he’s holding me tightly against his chest. .I inhale his clean, vital scent. He smells of fresh laundered linen and some expensive body-wash. Oh my, it’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.
　　“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hear his breath hitch. He’s staring into my eyes, and I hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment or maybe it’s forever… but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. Oh my. And for the first time in twenty-one years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on me.
　　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 exquisitely sculptured 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 gives me a small shake of 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 up at him, and my head swims with rejection.
　　“Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says quietly, and he 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, watching my reactions carefully. 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 mutter 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,” I whisper.
　　“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 and 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, so 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 murmurs.
　　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 disappear 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. I want 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 the 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, dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.
　　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 have been found sobbing alone in dark places. Perhaps I just need a good cry.
　　Stop! Stop Now! - My subconscious is metaphorically screaming 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! And 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 can 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 at her in a back-off now Kavanagh way – but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute.
　　“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. She puts her arms around me and hugs me. I need to say something just to get her to back off.
　　“I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best that 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 check-up on me.
　　“No. Christian saved me,” I whisper. “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?”
　　Crap. She’s intrigued. I head into the kitchen so that 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 round 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!”
　　“Kate he’s– ” I shrug.
　　“Ana! For heaven’s sake – how many times must I tell you? You’re a total babe,” she interrupts me. Oh no. She’s off on this tirade again.
　　“Kate, please. I need to study.” I cut her short. 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 to 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 own words to me. 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.” I am not going to think about him again for now, I vow to myself, and opening my revision 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’ quote, and I’m angry that I didn’t pounce on this information sooner, when 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 on to 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, 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 final exam is over. I feel the Cheshire cat grin spread over my face. It’s probably the first time all week that I’ve smiled. It’s Friday, and we shall be celebrating tonight, really celebrating. I might even get drunk! I’ve never been drunk before. I glance across the sports hall at Kate, and she’s still scribbling furiously, five minutes to the end. This is it, the end of my academic career. I shall never have to sit in rows of anxious, isolated students again. Inside I’m doing graceful cartwheels around my head, knowing full well that’s the only place I can do graceful cartwheels. Kate stops writing and puts her pen down. She glances across at me, and I catch her Cheshire cat smile too.
　　We head back to our apartment together in her Mercedes, refusing to discuss our final paper. Kate is more concerned about what she’s going to wear to the bar this evening. I am busily fishing around in my purse for my keys.
　　“Ana, there’s a package for you.” Kate is standing on the steps up to the front door holding a brown paper parcel. Odd. I haven’t ordered anything from Amazon recently. Kate gives me the parcel and takes my keys to open the front door. It’s addressed to Miss Anastasia Steele. There’s no sender’s address or name. Perhaps it’s from my mom or Ray.
　　“It’s probably from my folks.”
　　“Open it!” Kate is excited as she heads into the kitchen for our ‘Exams are finished hurrah Champagne’.
　　I open the parcel, and inside I find a half leather box containing three seemingly identical old cloth-covered books in mint condition and a plain white card. Written on one side, in black ink in neat cursive handwriting, is:
　　I recognize the quote from Tess. I am stunned by the irony as I’ve just spent three hours writing about the novels of Thomas Hardy in my final examination. Perhaps there is no irony… perhaps it’s deliberate. I inspect the books closely, three volumes of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I open the front cover. Written in an old typeface on the front plate is:
　　‘London: Jack R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891.’
　　Holy shit - they are first editions. They must be worth a fortune, and I know immediately who’s sent them. Kate is at my shoulder gazing at the books. She picks up the card.
　　“First Editions,” I whisper.
　　“No.” Kate’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Grey?”
　　I nod.
　　“Can’t think of anyone else.”
　　“What does this card mean?”
　　“I have no idea. I think it’s a warning – honestly he keeps warning me off. I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m beating his door down.” I frown.
　　“I know you don’t want to talk about him, Ana, but he’s seriously into you. Warnings or no.”
　　I have not let myself dwell on Christian Grey for the past week. Okay… so his gray eyes are still haunting my dreams, and I know it will take an eternity to expunge the feel of his arms around me and his wonderful fragrance from my brain. Why has he sent me this? He told me that I wasn’t for him.
　　“I’ve found one Tess first edition for sale in New York at $14,000. But yours looks in much better condition. They must have cost more.” Kate is consulting her good friend Google.
　　“This quote – Tess says it to her mother after Alec D’Urberville has had his wicked way with her.”
　　“I know,” muses Kate. “What is he trying to say?”
　　“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t accept these from him. I’ll send them back with an equally baffling quote from some obscure part of the book.”
　　“The bit where Angel Clare says fuck off?” Kate asks with a completely straight face.
　　“Yes, that bit.” I giggle. I love Kate, she’s so loyal and supportive. I repack the books and leave them on the dining table. Kate hands me a glass of champagne.
　　“To the end of exams and our new life in Seattle,” she grins.
　　“To the end of exams, our new life in Seattle, and excellent results.” We clink glasses and drink.
　　The bar is loud and hectic, full of soon to be graduates out to get trashed. José joins us. He won’t graduate for another year, but he’s in the mood to party and gets us into the spirit of our newfound freedom by buying a pitcher of margaritas for us all. As I down my fifth, I know this is not a good idea on top of the champagne.
　　“So what now Ana?” José shouts at me over the noise.
　　“Kate and I are moving to Seattle. Kate’s parents have bought a condo there for her.”
　　“Dios mio, how the other half live. But you’ll be back for my show.”
　　“Of course, José, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I smile, and he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me close.

　　“It means a lot to me that you’ll be there Ana,” he whispers in my ear. “Another margarita?”
　　“José Luis Rodriguez – are you trying to get me drunk? Because I think it’s working.” I giggle. “I think I’d better have a beer. I’ll go get us a pitcher.”
　　“More drink, Ana!” Kate bellows.
　　Kate has the constitution of an ox. She’s got her arm draped over Levi, one of our fellow English students and her usual photographer on her student newspaper. He’s given up taking photos of the drunkenness that surrounds him. He only has eyes for Kate. She’s all tiny camisole, tight jeans, and high heels, hair piled high with tendrils hanging down softly around her face, her usual stunning self. Me, I’m more of a Converse and t-shirt kind of girl, but I’m wearing my most flattering jeans. I move out of José’s hold and get up from our table. Whoa. Head spin. I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila based cocktails are not a good idea.
　　I make my way to the bar and decide that I should visit the powder room while I am on my feet. Good thinking, Ana. I stagger off through the crowd. Of course, there’s a line, but at least it’s quiet and cool in the corridor. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the boredom of waiting in line. Hmm… Who did I last call? Was it José? Before that a number I don’t recognize. Oh yes. Grey, I think this is his number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time is, maybe I’ll wake him. Perhaps he can tell me why he sent me those books and the cryptic
　　message. If he wants me to stay away, he should leave me alone. I suppress a drunken grin and hit the automatic re-dial. He answers on the second ring.
　　“Anastasia?” He’s surprised to hear from me. Well, frankly, I’m surprised to ring him. Then my befuddled brain registers… how does he know it’s me?
　　“Why did you send me the books?” I slur at him.
　　“Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange.” His voice is filled with concern.
　　“I’m not the strange one, you are,” I accuse. There - that told him, my courage fuelled by alcohol.
　　“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”
　　“What’s it to you?”
　　“I’m – curious. Where are you?”
　　“In a bar.”
　　“Which bar?” He sounds exasperated.
　　“A bar in Portland.”
　　“How are you getting home?”
　　“I’ll find a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected.
　　“Which bar are you in?”
　　“Why did you send me the books, Christian?”
　　“Anastasia, where are you, tell me now.” His tone is so, so dictatorial, his usual control freak. I imagine him as an old time movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old fashioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud.
　　“You’re so… domineering,” I giggle.
　　“Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?”
　　Christian Grey is swearing at me. I giggle again. “I’m in Portland… s’a long way from Seattle.”
　　“Where in Portland?”
　　“Goodnight, Christian.”
　　“Ana!”
　　I hang up. Ha! Though he didn’t tell me about the books. I frown. Mission not accomplished. I am really quite drunk - my head swims uncomfortably as I shuffle with the line. Well, the object of the exercise was to get drunk. I have succeeded. This is what it’s like – probably not an experience to be repeated. The line has moved, and it’s now my turn. I stare blankly at the poster on the back of the toilet door that extols the virtues of safe sex. Holy crap, did I just call Christian Grey? Shit. My phone rings and it makes me jump. I yelp in surprise.
　　“Hi,” I bleat timidly in to the phone. I hadn’t reckoned on this.
　　“I’m coming to get you,” he says and hangs up. Only Christian Grey could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.
　　Holy crap. I pull my jeans up. My heart is thumping. Coming to get me? Oh no. I’m going to be sick… no… I’m fine. Hang on. He’s just messing with my head. I didn’t tell him where I was. He can’t find me here. Besides, it will take him hours to get here from Seattle, and we’ll be long gone by then. I wash my hands and check my face in the mirror. I look flushed and slightly unfocused. Hmm… tequila.
　　I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of beer and eventually return to the table.
　　“You’ve been gone so long.” Kate scolds me. “Where were you?”
　　“I was in line for the restroom.”
　　José and Levi are having some heated debate about our local baseball team. José pauses in his tirade to pour us all beers, and I take a long sip.
　　“Kate, I think I’d better step outside and get some fresh air.”
　　“Ana, you are such a lightweight.”
　　“I’ll be five minutes.”
　　I make my way through the crowd again. I am beginning to feel nauseous, my head is spinning uncomfortably, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet. More unsteady than usual.
　　Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am. My vision has been affected, and I’m really seeing double of everything like in old re-runs of Tom and Jerry Cartoons. I think I’m going to be sick. Why did I let myself get this messed up?
　　“Ana,” José has joined me. “You okay?”
　　“I think I’ve just had a bit too much to drink.” I smile weakly at him.
　　“Me too,” he murmurs, and his dark eyes are watching me intently. “Do you need a hand?” he asks and steps closer, putting his arm around me.
　　“José I’m okay. I’ve got this.” I try and push him away rather feebly.
　　“Ana, please,” he whispers, and now he’s holding me in his arms, pulling me close.
　　“José, what you doing?”
　　“You know I like you Ana, please.” He has one hand at the small of my back holding me against him, the other at my chin tipping back my head. Holy fuck… he’s going to kiss me.
　　“No José, stop – no.” I push him, but he’s a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift him. His hand has slipped into my hair, and he’s holding my head in place.
　　“Please, Ana, cari?a,” he whispers against my lips. His breath is soft and smells too sweet – of margarita and beer. He gently trails kisses along my jaw up to the side of my mouth. I feel panicky, drunk, and out of control. The feeling is suffocating.
　　“José, no,” I plead. I don’t want this. You are my friend, and I think I’m going to throw up.
　　“I think the lady said no.” A voice in the dark says quietly. Holy shit! Christian Grey, he’s here. How? José releases me.
　　“Grey,” he says tersely. I glance anxiously up at Christian. He’s glowering at José, and he’s furious. Crap. My stomach heaves, and I double over, my body no longer able to tolerate the alcohol, and I vomit spectacularly on to the ground.
　　“Ugh – Dios mio, Ana!” José jumps back in disgust. Grey grabs my hair and pulls it out of the firing line and gently leads me over to a raised flowerbed on the edge of the parking lot. I note, with deep gratitude, that it’s in relative darkness.
　　“If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you.” He has one arm around my shoulders – the other is holding my hair in a makeshift ponytail down my back so it’s off my face. I try awkwardly to push him away, but I vomit again… and again. Oh shit… how long is this going to last? Even when my stomach’s empty and nothing is coming up,
　　horrible dry heaves wrack my body. I vow silently that I’ll never ever drink again. This is just too appalling for words. Finally, it stops.
　　My hands are resting on the brick wall of the flowerbed, barely holding me up - vomiting profusely is exhausting. Grey takes his hands off me and passes me a handkerchief. Only he would have a monogrammed, freshly laundered, linen handkerchief. CTG. I didn’t know you could still buy these. Vaguely I wonder what the T stands for as I wipe my mouth. I cannot bring myself to look at him. I’m swamped with shame, disgusted with myself. I want to be swallowed up by the azaleas in the flowerbed and be anywhere but here.
　　José is still hovering by the entrance to the bar, watching us. I groan and put my head in my hands. This has to be the single worst moment of my life. My head is still swimming as I try to remember a worse one – and I can only come up with Christian’s rejection – and this is so, so many shades darker in terms of humiliation. I risk a peek at him. He’s staring down at me, his face composed, giving nothing away. Turning, I glance at José who looks pretty shamefaced himself and, like me, intimidated by Grey. I glare at him. I have a few choice words for my so-called friend, none of which I can repeat in front of Christian Grey CEO. Ana who are you kidding, he’s just seen you hurl all over the ground and into the local flora. There’s no disguising your lack of ladylike behavior.
　　“I’ll err… see you inside,” Jos&