Later that evening, I call Ray, my stepdad, Mom's Husband Number Two, the man I consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It's a brief conversation. In fact, it's not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. Ray is not a talker. But he's still alive, he's still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when he's not. Ray is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him.
Friday night, Kate and I are debating what to do with our evening - we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers - when the doorbell rings.
Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Jose, clutching a bottle of champagne.
"Jose! Great to see you!" I give him a quick hug. "Come in."
Jose is the first person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as lost and lonely as I did.
We recognized a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we've been friends ever since.
Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we discovered that both Ray and Jose Senior were in the same army unit together. As a result, our fathers have become firm friends too.
Jose is studying engineering and is the first in his family to make it to college. He's pretty damn bright, but his real passion is photography. Jose has a great eye for a good picture.
"I have news." He grins, his dark eyes twinkling.
"Don't tell me - you've managed not to get kicked out for another week," I tease, and he scowls playfully at me.
"The Portland Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month."
"That's amazing - congratulations!" Delighted for him, I hug him again. Kate beams at him too.
"Way to go Jose! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial changes on a Friday evening." She grins.
"Let's celebrate. I want you to come to the opening." Jose looks intently at me. I flush.
"Both of you, of course," he adds, glancing nervously at Kate.
Jose and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, he'd like to be more. He's cute and funny, but he's just not for me. He's more like the brother I never had. Katherine often teases me that I'm missing the need-a-boyfriend gene, but the truth is - I just haven't met anyone who... well, whom I'm attracted to, even though part of me longs for those trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights.
Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me. Perhaps I've spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in reality, nobody's ever made me feel like that.
Until very recently, the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers.
NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful interview. Are you g*y, Mr. Grey I wince at the memory. I know I've dreamt about him most nights since then, but that's just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely?
I watch Jose open the bottle of champagne. He's tall, and in his jeans and t-shirt he's all shoulders and muscles, tanned skin, dark hair and burning dark eyes. Yes, Jose's pretty hot, but I think he's finally getting the message: we're just friends. The cork makes its loud pop, and Jose looks up and smiles.
Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, John and Patrick - the two other part-timers
- and I are all rushed off our feet. But there's a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I'm sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly eating my bagel. I'm engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we've ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up... and find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey who's standing at the counter, staring at me intently.
Heart failure.
"Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise." His gaze is unwavering and intense.
Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking bootsI think my mouth has popped open, and I can't locate my brain or my voice.
"Mr. Grey," I whisper, because that's all I can manage. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he's enjoying some private joke.
"I was in the area," he says by way of explanation. "I need to stock up on a few things.
It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele." His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel... or something.
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I'm blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He's not merely good-looking - he's the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he's here. Here in Clayton's Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.
"Ana. My name's Ana," I mutter. "What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?"
He smiles, and again it's like he's privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I've-worked-in-this-shop-for-years fa?ade. I can do this.
"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," he murmurs, his gray eyes cool but amused.
Cable ties?
"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" I mutter, my voice soft and wavery.
Get a grip, Steele. A slight frown mars Grey's rather lovely brow.
"Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele," he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I'm concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet - my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I'm so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.
"They're in with the electrical goods, aisle eight." My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he's handsome. I blush.
"After you," he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.With my heart almost strangling me - because it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouth - I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland?
Why is he here at Clayton's And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells - comes the thought: he's here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see meThe idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.
"Are you in Portland on business?" I ask, and my voice is too high, like I've got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Ana!
"I was visiting the WSU farming division. It's based at Vancouver. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," he says matter-of-factly. See?
Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.