We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coffee House, where Grey releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.
“Why don’t you choose a table while I get the drinks? What would you like?” he asks, polite as ever.
“I’ll have … um—English Breakfast tea, bag out.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“No coffee?”
“I’m not keen on coffee.”
He smiles.
“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”
For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid—do you take sugar?
“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.
“Anything to eat?”
“No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.
I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to be served. I could watch him all day … he’s tall, broad shouldered, and slim, and the way those pants hang from his hips … Oh my. Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm … I’d like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again, not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Grey is back, startling me.
I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head. He’s carrying a tray, which he sets down on the small, round birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled TWININGS ENGLISH BREAKFAST—my favorite. He has a coffee that bears a wonderful leaf pattern imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly. He’s also bought himself a blueberry muffin. Putting the tray aside, he sits opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so at ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling flat on my face.
“Your thoughts?” he prompts me.
“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Christian Grey in a coffee shop in Portland. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding something. I pop the teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, he cocks his head, gazing quizzically at me.
“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.
“I see. Is he your boyfriend?”
Whoa … What?
“Who?”
“The photographer. José Rodriguez.”
I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?
“No. José’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?”
“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His gaze holds mine. He’s so unnerving. I want to look away but I’m caught—spellbound.
“He’s more like family,” I whisper.
Grey nods, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated.
“Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.
“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.
“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”
“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem nervous around men.”
Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Grey.
“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“You should find me intimidating.” He nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look down. I like to see your face.”
Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.
“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he breathes. “You’re a mystery, Miss Steele.”
Mysterious? Me?
“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”
“I think you’re very self-contained,” he murmurs.
Am I? Wow … how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, self-contained? No way.
“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” He pops a small piece of muffin into his mouth and starts to chew it slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!
“Do you always make such personal observations?”
“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised.
“No,” I answer truthfully.
“Good.”
“But you’re very high-handed.”
He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, flushes slightly, too.
“I’m used to getting my own way, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “In all things.”
“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m surprised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic toward him. It’s like he’s trying to warn me off.
“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”
Oh. He still hasn’t said, “Call me Christian.” He is a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kate had interviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus, of course, she’s almost blond—well, strawberry blond—like all the women in his office. And she’s beautiful, my subconscious reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Christian and Kate. I take a sip of my tea, and Grey eats another small piece of his muffin.
“Are you an only child?” he asks.
Whoa … he keeps changing direction.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull.
“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano.”
“Your father?”
“My father died when I was a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and a fleeting, troubled look crosses his face.
“I don’t remember him.”
“And your mother remarried?”
I snort.
“You could say that.”
He frowns at me.
“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought.
“Neither are you.”
“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then.” He smirks at me.
Holy shit. He’s remembering the “gay” question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years to come, I know I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the moment. I start babbling about my mother—anything to block that memory.