“Ana!” We both turn as a young man, casually but expensively dressed, appears at the far end of the aisle. He’s all fucking smiles for Miss Anastasia Steele.
“Er… excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grey.” She walks toward him, and the fucker engulfs her in a gorilla-like hug. My blood runs cold. It’s a primal response.
They fall into a whispered conversation.
“Er… Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” She gives me an odd look that I don’t understand and continues, “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.”
The boss’s brother, not a boyfriend. The extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown.
“Mr. Clayton.” My tone is deliberately clipped.
“Mr. Grey.” He shakes my hand limply.
“Wow-is there anything I can get you?”
“Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She’s been very attentive.”
“Cool,” he gushes all wide-eyed and deferential. “Catch you later, Ana.”
“Sure, Paul,” she says, and he ambles off, thank Christ. I watch him disappear toward the back of the store.
“Anything else, Mr. Grey?”
“Just these items,” I mutter. Shit, I’m out of time, and I still don’t know if I’m going to see her again. I have to know whether there’s a hope in hell she might consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a new submissive, one who knows nothing? Shit. She’s going to need substantial training. I groan inwardly at all the interesting possibilities this presents…fuck me, getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be interested? Or do I have this all wrong?
She heads back to the cashier’s desk and rings up my purchases, all the while keeping her gaze cast down.
Finally she raises her head. “That will be forty-three dollars, please.”
“Would you like a bag?” she asks, slipping into salesclerk mode as I pass her my Amex.
“Please, Anastasia.” Her name-a beautiful name for a beautiful girl-rolls off my tongue.
She packs the items briskly and efficiently into the carrier. This is it. I have to go.
“You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?”
She nods as she hands back my charge card.
“Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps.”
Yes, against my better judgment, I want her. Now I have to wait… fucking wait… again.
About the Author
E L James is a TV executive, wife and mother of two, based in West London. Since early childhood, she dreamt of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel,
[1] William Shakespeare,
[2] Dr. Seuss.
