Fifty Shades Darker

Christian takes my hand, and we head to the emergency stairs.

“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels,” he mutters to me in disapproval.

No kidding.

“Don’t you like the boots?”

“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens and I think he might say something else, but he stops. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.”

We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is quiet and brooding… apprehensive even; our lighter mood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so much I want to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares pensively out the window.

“Jose is just a friend,” I murmur.

Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth-oh, his mouth is distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me-everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and frowns.

“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”

“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a platitude.

“I mean it.”

“Do you now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of my voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man-this man who has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s wrong. I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shake my head, confused.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy,” he says softly.

What? What does that mean? “But nothing’s changed.” You’re still fifty shades.

“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”

The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door for me, and I clamber out.

“Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than I expected.

“Do what?” Christian is taken aback.

“Say something like that and then just stop.”

“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in the street.”

I flush and glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. I press my lips together as he glares down at me.

“Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads me into the building.

We are in a converted warehouse-brick walls, dark wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It’s airy and modern, and there are several people wandering across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring Jose’s work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp that Jose has realized his dream. Way to go, Jose!

“Good evening and welcome to Jose Rodriguez’s show.” A young woman dressed in black with very short brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings greets us. She glances briefly at me, then much longer than is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me, blinking as she blushes.

My brow creases. He’s mine-or was. I try hard not to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks again.

“Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this, too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to a table laden with drinks and snacks.

How does she know my name?

“You know her?” Christian frowns.

I shake my head, equally puzzled.

He shrugs, distracted. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”

His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads for the open bar.

“Ana!”

Jose comes barreling through a throng of people.

Holy cow! He’s wearing a suit. He looks good and he’s beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me hard. And it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. My friend, my only friend while Kate is away. Tears pool in my eyes.

“Ana, I’m so glad you made it,” he whispers in my ear, then pauses and abruptly holds me at arm’s length, staring at me.

“What?”

“Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mio, have you lost weight?”

I blink back my tears. “Jose, I’m fine. I’m just so happy for you.” Crap-not him, too. “Congratulations on the show.” My voice wavers as I see his concern etched on his oh-so-familiar face, but I have to hold myself together.

“How did you get here?” he asks.

“Christian brought me,” I say, suddenly apprehensive.

“Oh.” Jose’s face falls and he releases me. “Where is he?” His expression darkens.

“Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s direction and see he’s exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I look his way and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I’m paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into me, and we’re lost for a moment staring at each other.

Holy cow… This beautiful man wants me back, and deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.

“Ana!” Jose distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the here and now. “I am so glad you came-listen, I should warn you-”

Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. “Jose, the journalist from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.

“How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t help but grin back-he’s so happy. “Catch you later, Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall lanky photographer.

Jose’s photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are both monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to many of the landscapes. In one taken out near the lake at Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflected in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the tranquility and the peace. It’s stunning.

Christian joins me, and I take a deep breath and swallow, trying to recover some of my earlier equilibrium. He hands me my glass of white wine.

“Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds more normal.

He looks quizzically at me.

“The wine.”

“No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lake photo.

“Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?” I can’t help the pride in my voice. His eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me.

“Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches Christian. “Can I have a picture, sir?”

“Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise.

“Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos. “Miss…?” he asks.

“Steele,” I reply.

“Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off.

“I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet. There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.”

Christian’s mouth twitches with a smile. “That explains your inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates, Anastasia-only with you. But you know that.” His eyes burn with sincerity.