“They’ll do anytime from six a.m.”
“Even better. Have them ready from then. Send me the address.”
“Will do.”
There’s a knock on the door—my luggage and room service have arrived simultaneously. The food smells delicious: fried green tomatoes and shrimp and grits. Well, I’m in the South.
While I eat I contemplate my strategy with Ana. I could pay a visit to her mom’s tomorrow at breakfast. Bring bagels. Then take her soaring. That’s probably the best plan. She hasn’t been in touch all day, so I guess she’s mad. I reread her last message once I’ve finished dinner.
What the hell has she got against Elena? She knows nothing about our relationship. What we had happened a long time ago and now we’re just friends. What right does Ana have to be mad?
And if it wasn’t for Elena, God knows what would have happened to me.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Taylor.
“Good evening, sir. Happy with your room?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“I have the paperwork for the Brunswick Soaring Association here.”
I scan the hire agreement. It looks fine. I sign it and give it back to him. “I’ll drive myself tomorrow. I’ll see you there?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there from six.”
“I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“Shall I unpack for you, sir?”
“Please. Thanks.”
He nods and takes my suitcase into the bedroom.
I’m restless, and I need to get what I’m going to say to Ana clear in my mind. I glance at my watch; it’s twenty past nine. I’ve left this really late. Perhaps I should have a quick drink first. I leave Taylor to unpack and decide to check out the hotel bar before I speak to Ros again and write to Ana.
The rooftop bar is crowded, but I find a seat at the end of the counter and order a beer. It’s a hip, contemporary place, with moody lighting and a relaxed vibe. I scan the bar, avoiding eye contact with the two women sitting next to me…and a movement captures my attention: a frustrated flip of glossy mahogany hair that catches and refracts the light.
It’s Ana. Fuck.
She’s facing away from me, seated opposite a woman who could only be her mother. The resemblance is striking.
What are the fucking odds?
In all the gin joints…Jesus.
I watch them, transfixed. They’re drinking cocktails—Cosmopolitans, by the look of them. Her mother is stunning: like Ana, but older; she looks late thirties, with long, dark hair, and eyes that are Ana’s shade of blue. She has a bohemian vibe about her…not someone I’d automatically associate with the golf club set. Perhaps she’s dressed that way because she’s out with her young, beautiful daughter.
This is priceless.
Seize the day, Grey.
I fish my phone out of my jeans pocket. It’s time to e-mail Ana. This should be interesting. I’ll test her mood…and I get to watch.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Dinner Companions
Date: June 1 2011 21:40 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
Yes, I had dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She is just an old friend, Anastasia.
Looking forward to seeing you again. I miss you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Her mother looks earnest; maybe she’s concerned for her daughter, or maybe she’s trying to extract information from her.
Good luck, Mrs. Adams.
And for a moment I wonder if they’re discussing me. Her mother stands; it looks like she’s visiting the restroom. Ana checks her purse and pulls out her BlackBerry.
Here we go…
She begins to read, her shoulders hunched over, her fingers flexing and drumming on the table. She starts tapping furiously at the keys. I can’t see her face, which is frustrating, but I don’t think she’s impressed with what she’s just read. A moment later she abandons the phone on the table in what appears to be disgust.
That’s not good.
Her mother returns and signals one of the waiters for another round of drinks. I wonder how many they’ve had.
I check my phone, and sure enough, there’s a response.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: OLD Dinner Companions
Date: June 1 2011 21:42 EST
To: Christian Grey
She’s not just an old friend.
Has she found another adolescent boy to sink her teeth into?
Did you get too old for her?
Is that the reason your relationship finished?
What the hell? My temper simmers as I read.
Isaac is in his late twenties.
Like me.
How dare she?
Is it the drink talking?
Time to declare yourself, Grey.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful…
Date: June 1 2011 21:45 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
This is not something I wish to discuss via e-mail.
How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
She studies her phone, sits up suddenly, and looks around the room.
Showtime, Grey.
I deposit ten bucks on the counter and saunter over to them.
Our eyes meet. She blanches—shocked, I think—and I don’t know how she’ll greet me, or how I’ll contain my temper if she says anything else about Elena.
She tucks her hair behind her ears with restless fingers. A sure sign that she’s nervous. “Hi,” she says, her voice strained and high-pitched.
“Hi.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. She smells amazing, even if she does tense as my lips brush her skin. She looks lovely; she’s caught some sun, and she’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts are straining against the silky material of her top, but hidden by her long hair.
For my eyes only, I hope.
And even though she’s mad, I’m glad to see her. I’ve missed her.
“Christian, this is my mother, Carla.” Ana gestures to her mom.
“Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet you.”
Her mom’s eyes are all over me.
Shit! She’s checking me out. Best ignore it, Grey.
After a longer-than-necessary pause, she reaches out to shake my hand. “Christian.”
“What are you doing here?” Ana asks, her tone accusatory.
“I came to see you, of course. I’m staying in this hotel.”
“You’re staying here?” she squeaks.
Yes. I can’t quite believe it, either. “Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here.” I’m trying to gauge her reaction. So far there’s been: nervous fidgeting, tensing, an accusatory tone, and a strained voice. This is not going well. “We aim to please, Miss Steele,” I add, deadpan, hoping to put her in a good mood.
“Won’t you join us for a drink, Christian?” Mrs. Adams says graciously, and catches the eye of the waiter.
I need something stronger than beer. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I tell the waiter. “Hendrick’s, if you have it, or Bombay Sapphire. Cucumber with the Hendrick’s, lime with the Bombay.”
“And two more Cosmos, please,” Ana adds, with an anxious look at me.