“My mom is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s currently on her fourth husband.”
Christian raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I haven’t seen my mom for so long. Christian is watching me intently, taking occasional sips of his coffee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth. It’s unsettling.
“Do you get along with your stepfather?”
“Of course. I grew up with him. He’s the only father I know.”
“And what’s he like?”
“Ray? He’s … taciturn.”
“That’s it?” Grey asks, surprised.
I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?
“Taciturn like his stepdaughter,” Grey prompts.
I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.
“He likes soccer—European soccer especially—and bowling, and fly-fishing, and making furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.
“You lived with him?”
“Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray.”
He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.
“You didn’t want to live with your mom?” he asks.
This really is none of his business.
“Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And … you know, my mom was newly married.” I stop. My mom never talks about Husband Number Three. Where is Grey going with this? This is none of his business. Two can play at this game.
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.
He shrugs.
“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”
Oh … he’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopts three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be proud.
“What do your siblings do?”
“Elliot’s in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef.” His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or himself.
“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk about his family? Is it because he’s adopted?
“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.
“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is he hiding?
“Would you like to go?”
“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me—who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”
He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip … oh my.
“Because?”
I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Steele.
“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.”
All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch. “I’d better go. I have to study.”
“For your exams?”
“Yes. They start Tuesday.”
“Where’s Miss Kavanagh’s car?”
“In the hotel parking lot.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey.”
He smiles his odd I’ve-got-a-whopping-big-secret smile.
“You’re welcome, Anastasia. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop.
We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a job, but I’m not sure what for.
“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.
“Mostly.”
He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question … And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap—I just said that out loud?
His lips quirk up in a half smile, and he peers down at me.
“No, Anastasia. I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he says softly.
Oh … what does that mean? He’s not gay. Oh, maybe he is! He must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think he’s going to follow up with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement—but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong into the road.
“Shit, Ana!” Grey cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street.
It all happens so fast—one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms and he’s holding me tightly against his chest. I inhale his clean, wholesome scent. He smells of freshly laundered linen and some expensive body wash. It’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and his breath hitches. He’s staring into my eyes, and I hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment, or maybe it’s forever … but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. And for the first time in twenty-one years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on mine.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
KISS ME, DAMN it! I implore him, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by him. I’m staring at Christian Grey’s mouth, mesmerized, and he’s looking down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening. He’s breathing harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m in your arms. Kiss me, please. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives me a small shake of his head as if in answer to my silent question. When he opens his eyes again, it’s with some new purpose, a steely resolve.
“Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you,” he whispers. What? Where is this coming from? Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown, and my head swims with rejection.
“Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says quietly, and he gently pushes me away.
Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the heady proximity to Christian, leaving me wired and weak. NO! my psyche screams as he pulls away, leaving me bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, carefully watching my reactions. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and he didn’t do it. He doesn’t want me. He really doesn’t want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning.