I find two welcome hair ties at the same time in my bag and quickly tie my hair in pigtails. Yes! The more girly I look, perhaps the safer I'll be from Bluebeard. I take my iPod out of the bag and plug my headphones in. There's nothing like music to cook by. I slip it into the breast pocket of Christian's shirt, turn it up loud, and start dancing.
Holy hell, I'm hungry.
I am daunted by his kitchen. It's so sleek and modern and none of the cupboards have handles. It takes me a few seconds to deduce that I have to push the cupboard doors to open them. Perhaps I should cook Christian breakfast. He was eating an omelet the other day... um, yesterday at the Heathman. Jeez, so much has happened since then. I check in the fridge, where there are plenty of eggs, and decide I want pancakes and bacon. I set about making some batter, dancing my way round the kitchen.
Being busy is good. It allows a bit of time to think but not too deeply. Music blaring in my ears also helps to stave off deep thought. I came here to spend the night in Christian Grey's bed, and managed it, even though he doesn't let anyone in his bed. I smile, mission accomplished. Big time. I grin. Big, big time, and I'm distracted by the memory of last night. His words, his body, his lovemaking... I close my eyes as my body hums at the recollection, and my muscles contract deliciously deep in my belly. My subconscious scowls at me... fucking - not lovemaking - she screams at me like a harpy . I ignore her, but deep down I know she has a point. I shake my head to concentrate on the task at hand.
There is a state-of-the-art range. I think I have the hang of it. I need somewhere to keep the pancakes warm, and I start on the bacon. Amy Studt is singing in my ear about misfits. This song used to mean so much to me, that's because I'm a misfit. I have never fitted in anywhere and now... I have an indecent proposal to consider from King Misfit himself. Why is he this wayNature or NurtureIt's so alien to anything I know.
I put the bacon under the grill, and while it's cooking, I whisk some eggs. I turn, and Christian is sitting on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, leaning on it, his face supported by his steepled hands. He's still wearing the t-shirt he's slept in. Just-fucked hair really, really suits him, as does his designer stubble. He looks both amused and bewildered.
I freeze, flush, then gather myself and pull the headphones out of my ears, my knees weak at the sight of him.
"Good morning, Miss Steele. You're very energetic this morning," he says dryly.
"I slept well," I stutter my explanation. His lips try to mask his smile.
"I can't imagine why." He pauses and frowns. "So did I, after I came back to bed."
"Are you hungry?"
"Very," he says with an intense look, and I don't think he's referring to food.
"Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?"
"Sounds great."
"I don't know where you keep your placemats." I shrug, trying desperately hard not to look flustered.
"I'll do that. You cook. Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your... err... dancing?"
I stare down at my fingers, knowing that I am turning puce.
"Please, don't stop on my account. It's very entertaining." His tone is one of wry amusement.
I purse my lips. Entertaining ehMy subconscious has doubled over in laughter at me.
I turn and continue to whisk the eggs, probably beating them a little harder than they need.
In a moment, he's beside me. He gently pulls my pigtail.
"I love these," he whispers. "They won't protect you." Hmm Bluebeard...
"How would you like your eggs?" I ask tartly. He smiles.
"Thoroughly whisked and beaten," he smirks.
I turn back to the task at hand, trying to hide my smile. He's hard to stay mad at. Especially when he's being so uncharacteristically playful. He opens a drawer and takes out two black slate placemats for the breakfast bar. I pour the egg mix into a pan, pull out the bacon and turn it over, and put it back under the grill.
When I turn back round, there is orange juice on the table, and he's making coffee.