“Lunch first, then.”
Christian drives toward the waterfront then heads north along the Alaskan Way. It’s another beautiful day in Seattle. It’s been uncharacteristically fine for the last few weeks, I muse.
Christian looks happy and relaxed as we sit back listening to Eva Cassidy’s sweet, soulful voice and cruise down the highway. Have I ever felt this comfortable in his company before? I don’t know.
I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t punish me, and he seems more comfortable with me, too. He turns left, following the coast road, and eventually pulls up in a parking lot opposite a vast marina.
“We’ll eat here. I’ll open your door,” he says in such a way that I know it’s not wise to move, and I watch him move around the car. Will this ever get old?
We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marina stretches out in front of us.
“So many boats,” I murmur in wonder. There are hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes, bobbing up and down on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on the Sound there are dozens of sails in the wind, weaving to and fro, enjoying the fine weather. It’s a wholesome, outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pull my jacket around me.
“Cold?” he asks and pulls me tightly against him.
“No, just admiring the view.”
“I could stare at it all day. Come, this way.”
Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makes his way to the counter. The decor is more New England than West Coast-white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings, and boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It’s a bright, cheery place.
“Mr. Grey!” the barman greets Christian warmly. “What can I get you this afternoon?”
“Dante, good afternoon.” Christian grins as we both slip onto bar stools. “This lovely lady is Anastasia Steele.”
“Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendly smile. He’s black and beautiful, his dark eyes assessing me and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond stud winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.
“What would you like to drink, Anastasia?”
I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh, he’s going to let me choose.
“Please, call me Ana, and I’ll have whatever Christian’s drinking.” I smile shyly at Dante. Fifty’s so much better at wine than I am.
“I’m going to have a beer. This is the only bar in Seattle where you can get Adnam’s Explorer.”
“A beer?”
“Yes.” He grins at me. “Two Explorers, please, Dante.”
Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.
“They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christian says.
He’s asking me.
“Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him.
“Two chowders?” Dante asks.
“Please.” Christian grins at him.
We talk through our meal, as we never have before. Christian is relaxed and calm-he looks young, happy, and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He recounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixing problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s developing, and his dreams of making land in the third world more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny, clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.
In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and my mom, about growing up in the lush forests of Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He demands to know my favorite books and films, and I’m surprised by how much we have in common.
As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s Alec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a short space of time.
It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles the tab with Dante, who wishes us a fond farewell.
“This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say as Christian takes my hand and we leave the bar.
“We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along the waterfront. “I wanted to show you something.”
“I know… and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.”
We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a pleasant afternoon. People are out enjoying their Sunday-walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids run along the promenade.
As we head down the marina, the boats are getting progressively larger. Christian leads me on to the dock and stops in front of a huge catamaran.
“I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is my boat.”
“Wow…,” I murmur in wonder.
“Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heart swells. “She’s been designed from the ground up by the very best naval architects in the world and constructed here in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives, asymmetric dagger boards, a square-topped mainsail-”
“Okay… you’ve lost me, Christian.”
He grins. “She’s a great boat.”
“She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey.”
“That she does, Miss Steele.”
“What’s her name?”
He pulls me to the side so I can see her name:
“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why do you find that strange?”
I shrug. I am surprised-he always seems ambivalent in her presence.
“I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name a boat after her?”
I flush. “No, it’s not that… it’s just…” Shit, how can I put this into words?
“Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan saved my life. I owe her everything.”
I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken admission wash over me. It’s obvious to me, for the first time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained ambivalence toward her?
“Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyes bright, excited.
“Yes, please.” I smile.
He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy scrumptious package. Grasping my hand, he strides up the small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are standing on deck beneath a rigid canopy.
To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquette covered in pale blue leather, which must seat at least eight people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there. The tall blond man opens the sliding doors and emerges-all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed-wearing a faded pink short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He must be in his early thirties.
“Mac.” Christian beams.
“Mr. Grey! Welcome back.” They shake hands.
“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”
“How do you do?” Liam and I shake hands.
“Call me Mac,” he says warmly, and I can’t place his accent. “Welcome aboard, Miss Steele.”
“Ana, please,” I mutter, flushing. He has deep brown eyes.
“How’s she shaping up, Mac?” Christian interjects quickly, and for a moment, I think he’s talking about me.
