black T-shirt. I busy myself in the kitchen fixing lunch. I have found salmon steaks in the fridge, and I’m poaching them with lemon, making a salad, and boiling some baby potatoes. I feel extraordinarily relaxed and happy, on top of the world—literally. Turning toward the large window, I stare out at the glorious blue sky. All that talking . . . all that sexing . . . hmm. A girl could get used to that.
Taylor emerges from the study, interrupting my reverie. I turn down my iPod and take out an ear bud.
“Hi, Taylor.”
“Ana.” He nods.
“Your daughter okay?”
“Yes, thanks. My ex-wife thought she had appendicitis, but she was overreacting as usual.” Taylor rolls his eyes, surprising me. “Sophie’s fine, though she has a nasty stomach bug.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiles.
“Has Charlie Tango been located?”
“Yes. The recovery team is on its way. She should be back at Boeing Field late tonight.”
“Oh, good.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Will that be all, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes of course.” I flush . . . will I ever get used to Taylor calling me ma’am? It makes me feel so old, at least thirty.
He nods and heads out of the great room. Christian is still on the phone. I am waiting for the potatoes to boil. It gives me an idea. Fetching my purse, I fish out my Blackberry. There’s a text from Kate.
*C U this evening. Looking forward to a loooooong chat*
I text back.
*Same here*
It will be good to talk to Kate.
Calling up the e-mail program, I type a quick message to Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Lunch
Date: June 18, 2011 13:12
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
I am e-mailing to inform you that your lunch is nearly ready.
And that I had some mind-blowing, kinky fuckery earlier today.
Birthday kinky fuckery is to be recommended.
And another thing—I love you.
A x
(Your fiancée)
I listen carefully for a reaction, but he’s still on the phone. I shrug. Perhaps he’s just too busy. My Blackberry vibrates.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Kinky Fuckery
Date: June 18, 2011 13:15
To: Anastasia Steele
What aspect was most mind-blowing?
I’m taking notes.
Christian Grey
Famished and Wasting Away After the Mornings Exertions CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
PS: I love your signature
PPS: What happened to the art of conversation?
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Famished?
Date: June 18, 2011 13:18
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
May I draw your attention to the first line of my previous e-mail informing you that your lunch is indeed almost ready . . . so none of this famished and wasting away nonsense. With regard to the mind-blowing aspects of the kinky fuckery . . . frankly—all of it. I’d be interested in reading your notes. And I like my bracketed signature, too.
A x
(Your fiancée)
PS: Since when have you been so loquacious? And you’re on the phone!
I press send and look up, and he’s standing in front of me, smirking. Before I can say anything, he bounds around the kitchen island, sweeps me up in his arms, and kisses me soundly.
“That is all, Miss Steele,” he says, releasing me, and he saunters—in his jeans, bare feet and untucked white shirt—back to his office, leaving me breathless.
I’ve made a watercress, cilantro, and sour cream dip to accompany the salmon, and I’ve set the breakfast bar. I hate interrupting him while he’s working, but now I stand in the doorway of his office. He’s still on the phone, all thoroughly fucked hair and bright gray eyes—a visually nourishing feast. He looks up when he sees me and doesn’t take his eyes off me. He frowns slightly, and I don’t know if it’s at me or because of his conversation.
“Just let them in and leave them alone. Do you understand, Mia?” he hisses and rolls his eyes. “Good.”
I mime eating, and he grins at me and nods.
“I’ll see you later.” He hangs up. “One more call?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“That dress is very short,” he adds.
“You like it?” I give him a quick twirl. It’s one of Caroline Acton’s purchases. A soft turquoise sundress, probably more suitable for the beach, but it’s such a lovely day on so many levels. He frowns and my face falls.
“You look fantastic in it, Ana. I just don’t want anyone else to see you like that.”
“Oh!” I scowl at him. “We’re at home, Christian. No one but the staff.”
His mouth twists, and either he’s trying to hide his amusement or he really doesn’t think that’s funny. But eventually he nods, reassured. I shake my head at him—he’s actually being serious? I head back to the kitchen.
Five minutes later, he’s back in front of me, holding the phone.