Chapter 3
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SATURDAY AT THE STORE is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrick—the two other part-timers—and I are besieged by customers. But there's a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I'm sitting behind the counter at the register discreetly eating my bagel. I'm engrossed in the task, checking catalog numbers against the items we need and the items we've ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I make sure the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up … and find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who's standing at the counter, staring at me.
Heart failure.
"Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise." His gaze is unwavering and intense.
Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy with his tousled hair and in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can't locate my brain or my voice.
"Mr. Grey," I whisper, because that's all I can manage. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he's enjoying some private joke.
"I was in the area," he says by way of explanation. "I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele." His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel … or something.
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding at a frantic tempo, and for some reason I'm blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He's not merely good-looking—he's the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he's here. Here in Clayton's Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.
"Ana. My name's Ana," I mutter. "What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?"
He smiles, and again it's like he's privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I've-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.
"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," he murmurs, his expression both cool and amused.
Cable ties?
"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" I mutter, my voice soft and wavering. Get a grip, Steele.
A slight frown mars Grey's rather lovely brow. "Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele," he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I'm concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet—my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I'm so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.
"They're with the electrical goods, aisle eight." My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he's handsome.
"After you," he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.
With my heart almost strangling me—because it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouth—I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton's? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain—probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells—comes the thought: He's here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.
"Are you in Portland on business?" I ask, and my voice is too high, like I've got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool, Ana!
"I was visiting the WSU farming division. It's based in Vancouver. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish, wayward thoughts.
"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" I tease.
"Something like that," he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.
He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton's. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.
"These will do," he says with his oh-so-secret smile.
"Is there anything else?"
"I'd like some masking tape."
Masking tape?
"Are you redecorating?" The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?
"No, not redecorating," he says quickly, then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he's laughing at me.
Am I that funny? Funny looking?
"This way," I murmur, embarrassed. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."
I glance behind me as he follows.
"Have you worked here long?" His voice is low, and he's gazing at me, concentrating hard. I blush brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I'm fourteen years old—gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front, Steele!
"Four years," I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.
"I'll take that one," Grey says softly, pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I've touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.
"Anything else?" My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.
"Some rope, I think." His voice mirrors mine, husky.
"This way." I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and move toward the aisle.
"What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope … twine … cable cord …" I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.
"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please."
Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.
"Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don't look at his mouth!
"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey."
He arches a brow.
"What is your thing, Anastasia?" he asks, his voice soft, and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him, unable to express myself. I'm on shifting tectonic plates. Try to be cool, Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
"Books," I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas way out of its league.
"What kind of books?" He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?
"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."
He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he's just very bored and trying to hide it.
"Anything else you need?" I have to get off this subject—those fingers on that face are beguiling.
"I don't know. What else would you recommend?"
What would I recommend? I don't even know what you're doing.
"For a do-it-yourselfer?"
He nods, his eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my gaze strays to his snug jeans.
"Coveralls," I reply, and I know I'm no longer screening what's coming out of my mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, amused yet again.
"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.
"I could always take them off." He smirks.
"Um." I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," he says dryly.
I try to dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.
"Do you need anything else?" I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.
He ignores my inquiry.
"How's the article coming along?"
He's finally asked me an easy question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double-talk … a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it were a life raft, and I go for honesty.
"I'm not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person." I feel like I've come up for air—at last, a normal topic of conversation. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."
"What sort of photographs does she want?"
Okay. I hadn't factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don't know.
"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps …"
"You'd be willing to do a photo shoot?" My voice is squeaky again. Kate will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought—of all the silly, ridiculous …
"Kate will be delighted—if we can find a photographer." I'm so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he's taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.
Oh my. Christian Grey's lost look.
"Let me know about tomorrow." Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. "My card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning."
"Okay." I grin up at him. Kate is going to be thrilled.
"Ana!"
Paul has materialized at the other end of the aisle. He's Mr. Clayton's youngest brother. I'd heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn't expecting to see him today.
"Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey." Grey frowns as I turn away from him.
Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I'm having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-charts attractive control freak Grey, it's great to talk to someone who's normal. Paul hugs me hard, taking me by surprise.
"Ana, hi, it's so good to see you!" he gushes.
"Hello, Paul, how are you? You home for your brother's birthday?"
"Yep. You're looking well, Ana, really well." He grins as he examines me at arm's length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It's good to see Paul, but he's always been overfamiliar.
When I glance up at Christian Grey, he's watching us like a hawk, his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line. He's changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else—someone cold and distant.
"Paul, I'm with a customer. Someone you should meet," I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grey's expression. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they size each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.
"Er, Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.
"I've known Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton, where he's studying business administration." I'm babbling … Stop now!
"Mr. Clayton." Grey holds his hand out, his look unreadable.
"Mr. Grey." Paul returns his handshake. "Wait up—not the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?" Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grey gives him a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Wow—is there anything I can get you?"
"Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." His expression is impassive, but his words … it's like he's saying something else entirely. It's baffling.
"Cool," Paul responds. "Catch you later, Ana."
"Sure, Paul." I watch him disappear toward the stockroom. "Anything else, Mr. Grey?"
"Just these items." His tone is clipped and cool. Damn … have I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the register. What is his problem?
I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties.
"That will be forty-three dollars, please." I glance up at Grey, and I wish I hadn't. He's watching me closely, intently. It's unnerving.
"Would you like a bag?" I ask as I take his credit card.
"Please, Anastasia." His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic bag.
"You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?" He's all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.
"Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh—and Anastasia, I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging female hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he's just left before I return to planet Earth.
Okay—I like him. There, I've admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I've never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it's a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely. No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Kate and organize a photo shoot.
NOVEL - FIFTY SHADES OF GREY
AUTHOR - E. L. JAMES
Please report us if you find any errors so we can fix it asap!
SATURDAY AT THE STORE is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrick—the two other part-timers—and I are besieged by customers. But there's a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I'm sitting behind the counter at the register discreetly eating my bagel. I'm engrossed in the task, checking catalog numbers against the items we need and the items we've ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I make sure the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up … and find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who's standing at the counter, staring at me.
Heart failure.
"Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise." His gaze is unwavering and intense.
Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy with his tousled hair and in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can't locate my brain or my voice.
"Mr. Grey," I whisper, because that's all I can manage. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he's enjoying some private joke.
"I was in the area," he says by way of explanation. "I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele." His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel … or something.
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding at a frantic tempo, and for some reason I'm blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He's not merely good-looking—he's the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he's here. Here in Clayton's Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.
"Ana. My name's Ana," I mutter. "What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?"
He smiles, and again it's like he's privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I've-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.
"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," he murmurs, his expression both cool and amused.
Cable ties?
"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" I mutter, my voice soft and wavering. Get a grip, Steele.
A slight frown mars Grey's rather lovely brow. "Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele," he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I'm concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet—my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I'm so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.
"They're with the electrical goods, aisle eight." My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he's handsome.
"After you," he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.
With my heart almost strangling me—because it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouth—I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton's? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain—probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells—comes the thought: He's here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.
"Are you in Portland on business?" I ask, and my voice is too high, like I've got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool, Ana!
"I was visiting the WSU farming division. It's based in Vancouver. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish, wayward thoughts.
"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" I tease.
"Something like that," he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.
He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton's. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.
"These will do," he says with his oh-so-secret smile.
"Is there anything else?"
"I'd like some masking tape."
Masking tape?
"Are you redecorating?" The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?
"No, not redecorating," he says quickly, then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he's laughing at me.
Am I that funny? Funny looking?
"This way," I murmur, embarrassed. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."
I glance behind me as he follows.
"Have you worked here long?" His voice is low, and he's gazing at me, concentrating hard. I blush brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I'm fourteen years old—gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front, Steele!
"Four years," I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.
"I'll take that one," Grey says softly, pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I've touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.
"Anything else?" My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.
"Some rope, I think." His voice mirrors mine, husky.
"This way." I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and move toward the aisle.
"What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope … twine … cable cord …" I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.
"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please."
Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.
"Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don't look at his mouth!
"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey."
He arches a brow.
"What is your thing, Anastasia?" he asks, his voice soft, and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him, unable to express myself. I'm on shifting tectonic plates. Try to be cool, Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
"Books," I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas way out of its league.
"What kind of books?" He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?
"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."
He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he's just very bored and trying to hide it.
"Anything else you need?" I have to get off this subject—those fingers on that face are beguiling.
"I don't know. What else would you recommend?"
What would I recommend? I don't even know what you're doing.
"For a do-it-yourselfer?"
He nods, his eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my gaze strays to his snug jeans.
"Coveralls," I reply, and I know I'm no longer screening what's coming out of my mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, amused yet again.
"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.
"I could always take them off." He smirks.
"Um." I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," he says dryly.
I try to dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.
"Do you need anything else?" I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.
He ignores my inquiry.
"How's the article coming along?"
He's finally asked me an easy question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double-talk … a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it were a life raft, and I go for honesty.
"I'm not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person." I feel like I've come up for air—at last, a normal topic of conversation. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."
"What sort of photographs does she want?"
Okay. I hadn't factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don't know.
"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps …"
"You'd be willing to do a photo shoot?" My voice is squeaky again. Kate will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought—of all the silly, ridiculous …
"Kate will be delighted—if we can find a photographer." I'm so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he's taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.
Oh my. Christian Grey's lost look.
"Let me know about tomorrow." Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. "My card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning."
"Okay." I grin up at him. Kate is going to be thrilled.
"Ana!"
Paul has materialized at the other end of the aisle. He's Mr. Clayton's youngest brother. I'd heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn't expecting to see him today.
"Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey." Grey frowns as I turn away from him.
Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I'm having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-charts attractive control freak Grey, it's great to talk to someone who's normal. Paul hugs me hard, taking me by surprise.
"Ana, hi, it's so good to see you!" he gushes.
"Hello, Paul, how are you? You home for your brother's birthday?"
"Yep. You're looking well, Ana, really well." He grins as he examines me at arm's length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It's good to see Paul, but he's always been overfamiliar.
When I glance up at Christian Grey, he's watching us like a hawk, his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line. He's changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else—someone cold and distant.
"Paul, I'm with a customer. Someone you should meet," I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grey's expression. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they size each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.
"Er, Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.
"I've known Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton, where he's studying business administration." I'm babbling … Stop now!
"Mr. Clayton." Grey holds his hand out, his look unreadable.
"Mr. Grey." Paul returns his handshake. "Wait up—not the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?" Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grey gives him a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Wow—is there anything I can get you?"
"Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." His expression is impassive, but his words … it's like he's saying something else entirely. It's baffling.
"Cool," Paul responds. "Catch you later, Ana."
"Sure, Paul." I watch him disappear toward the stockroom. "Anything else, Mr. Grey?"
"Just these items." His tone is clipped and cool. Damn … have I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the register. What is his problem?
I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties.
"That will be forty-three dollars, please." I glance up at Grey, and I wish I hadn't. He's watching me closely, intently. It's unnerving.
"Would you like a bag?" I ask as I take his credit card.
"Please, Anastasia." His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic bag.
"You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?" He's all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.
"Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh—and Anastasia, I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging female hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he's just left before I return to planet Earth.
Okay—I like him. There, I've admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I've never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it's a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely. No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Kate and organize a photo shoot.
NOVEL - FIFTY SHADES OF GREY
AUTHOR - E. L. JAMES
SATURDAY AT THE STORE is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrickthe two other part-timersand I are besieged by customers. But there's a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I'm sitting behind the counter at the register discreetly eating my bagel. I'm engrossed in the task, checking catalog numbers against the items we need and the items we've ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I make sure the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance upand find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who's standing at the counter, staring at me.Heart failure."Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise." His gaze is unwavering and intense.Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy with his tousled hair and in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can't locate my brain or my voice."Mr. Grey," I whisper, because that's all I can manage. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he's enjoying some private joke."I was in the area," he says by way of explanation. "I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele." His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramelor something.I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding at a frantic tempo, and for some reason I'm blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He's not merely good-lookinghe's the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he's here. Here in Clayton's Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body."Ana. My name's Ana," I mutter. "What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?"He smiles, and again it's like he's privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I've-worked-in-this-shop-for-years faade. I can do this."There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," he murmurs, his expression both cool and amused.Cable ties?"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" I mutter, my voice soft and wavering. Get a grip, Steele.A slight frown mars Grey's rather lovely brow. "Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele," he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I'm concentrating hard on not falling over my own feetmy legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I'm so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning. "They're with the electrical goods, aisle eight." My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he's handsome."After you," he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.With my heart almost strangling mebecause it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouthI head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton's? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brainprobably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwellscomes the thought: He's here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head."Are you in Portland on business?" I ask, and my voice is too high, like I've got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool, Ana!"I was visiting the WSU farming division. It's based in Vancouver. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish, wayward thoughts."All part of your feed-the-world plan?" I tease."Something like that," he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton's. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet."These will do," he says with his oh-so-secret smile."Is there anything else?""I'd like some masking tape."Masking tape?"Are you redecorating?" The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?"No, not redecorating," he says quickly, then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he's laughing at me.Am I that funny? Funny looking?"This way," I murmur, embarrassed. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."I glance behind me as he follows."Have you worked here long?" His voice is low, and he's gazing at me, concentrating hard. I blush brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I'm fourteen years oldgauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front, Steele!"Four years," I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock. "I'll take that one," Grey says softly, pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I've touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium."Anything else?" My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly."Some rope, I think." His voice mirrors mine, husky."This way." I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and move toward the aisle."What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament ropetwinecable cord" I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow."I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please."Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife."Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don't look at his mouth!"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey."He arches a brow."What is your thing, Anastasia?" he asks, his voice soft, and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him, unable to express myself. I'm on shifting tectonic plates. Try to be cool, Ana, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee."Books," I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas way out of its league."What kind of books?" He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he's just very bored and trying to hide it."Anything else you need?" I have to get off this subjectthose fingers on that face are beguiling."I don't know. What else would you recommend?"What would I recommend? I don't even know what you're doing."For a do-it-yourselfer?"He nods, his eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my gaze strays to his snug jeans."Coveralls," I reply, and I know I'm no longer screening what's coming out of my mouth.He raises an eyebrow, amused yet again."You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans."I could always take them off." He smirks."Um." I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW."I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," he says dryly.I try to dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans."Do you need anything else?" I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.He ignores my inquiry."How's the article coming along?"He's finally asked me an easy question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double-talka question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it were a life raft, and I go for honesty."I'm not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person." I feel like I've come up for airat last, a normal topic of conversation. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you.""What sort of photographs does she want?"Okay. I hadn't factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don't know."Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps""You'd be willing to do a photo shoot?" My voice is squeaky again. Kate will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thoughtof all the silly, ridiculous"Kate will be delightedif we can find a photographer." I'm so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he's taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.Oh my. Christian Grey's lost look."Let me know about tomorrow." Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. "My card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning.""Okay." I grin up at him. Kate is going to be thrilled."Ana!"Paul has materialized at the other end of the aisle. He's Mr. Clayton's youngest brother. I'd heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn't expecting to see him today."Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey." Grey frowns as I turn away from him.Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I'm having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-charts attractive control freak Grey, it's great to talk to someone who's normal. Paul hugs me hard, taking me by surprise."Ana, hi, it's so good to see you!" he gushes."Hello, Paul, how are you? You home for your brother's birthday?""Yep. You're looking well, Ana, really well." He grins as he examines me at arm's length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It's good to see Paul, but he's always been overfamiliar.When I glance up at Christian Grey, he's watching us like a hawk, his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line. He's changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone elsesomeone cold and distant."Paul, I'm with a customer. Someone you should meet," I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grey's expression. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they size each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic."Er, Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more."I've known Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton, where he's studying business administration." I'm babblingStop now!"Mr. Clayton." Grey holds his hand out, his look unreadable."Mr. Grey." Paul returns his handshake. "Wait upnot the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?" Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grey gives him a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes."Wowis there anything I can get you?""Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." His expression is impassive, but his wordsit's like he's saying something else entirely. It's baffling."Cool," Paul responds. "Catch you later, Ana.""Sure, Paul." I watch him disappear toward the stockroom. "Anything else, Mr. Grey?""Just these items." His tone is clipped and cool. Damnhave I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the register. What is his problem?I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties."That will be forty-three dollars, please." I glance up at Grey, and I wish I hadn't. He's watching me closely, intently. It's unnerving."Would you like a bag?" I ask as I take his credit card."Please, Anastasia." His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic bag."You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?" He's all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card."Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Ohand Anastasia, I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging female hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he's just left before I return to planet Earth.OkayI like him. There, I've admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I've never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it's a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely. No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Kate and organize a photo shoot. NOVEL - FIFTY SHADES OF GREY AUTHOR - E. L. JAMES
