Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

think about our arrangement while you’re away?” he asks.
    “Yes.”
    “Will you miss me?”
    I gaze at him, surprised by his question.
    “Yes,” I answer honestly.
    How could he mean so much to me in such a short time? He’s got right under my skin… literally. He smiles and his eyes light up.
    “I’ll miss you, too. More than you know,” he breathes.
    My heart warms at his words. He really is trying, hard. He gently strokes my cheek, bends down, and kisses me softly.

    It is late afternoon, and I sit nervous and fidgeting in the lobby waiting for Mr. J. Hyde of Seattle Independent Publishing. This is my second interview today, and the one I’m most anxious about. My first interview went well, but it was for a larger conglomerate with offices based throughout the US, and I would be one of many editorial assistants there. I can imagine being swallowed up and spat out pretty quickly in such a corporate machine. SIP is where I want to be. It’s small and unconventional, championing local authors, and has an interesting and quirky roster of clients.
    My surroundings are sparse, but I think it’s a design statement rather than frugality. I am seated on one of two dark green chesterfield couches made of leather – not unlike the couch that Christian has in his playroom. I stroke the leather appreciatively and wonder idly what Christian does on that couch. My mind wanders as I think of the possibilities… no – I must not go there now. I flush at my wayward and inappropriate thoughts. The receptionist is a young African-American woman with large silver earrings and long straightened hair. She has a bohemian look about her, the sort of woman I could be friendly with. The thought is comforting. Every few moments she glances at up me, away from her computer, and smiles reassuringly. I tentatively return her smile.
    My flight is booked, my mother is in seventh heaven that I am visiting, I am packed, and Kate has agreed to drive me to the airport. Christian has ordered me to take my BlackBerry and the Mac. I roll my eyes at the memory of his overbearing bossiness, but I realize now that’s just the way he is. He likes control over everything, including me. Yet he’s so unpredictably and disarmingly agreeable, too. He can be tender, good-humored, even sweet. And when he is, it’s so left field and unexpected. He insisted on accompanying me all the way down to my car in the garage. Jeez, I’m only going for a few days; he’s acting like I’m going for weeks. He keeps me on the back foot permanently.
    “Ana Steele?” A woman with long, black, pre-Raphaelite hair standing by the reception desk distracts me from my introspection. She has the same bohemian, floaty look as the receptionist. She could be in her late thirties, maybe in her forties. It’s so difficult to tell with older women.
    “Yes,” I reply, standing awkwardly.
    She gives me a polite smile, her cool hazel eyes assessing me. I am wearing one of Kate’s dresses, a black pinafore over a white blouse, and my black pumps. Very interview, I think. My hair is restrained in a ponytail, and for once the tendrils are behaving themselves. She holds her hand out to me.
    “Hello, Ana, my name’s Elizabeth Morgan. I’m head of Human Resources here at SIP.”
    “How do you do?” I shake her hand. She looks very casual to be the head of HR.
    “Please follow me.”
    We go through the double doors behind the reception area into a large brightly decorated open-plan office, and from there head into a small meeting room. The walls are pale green, lined with pictures of book covers. At the head of the maple conference table sits a young man with red hair tied in a ponytail. Small, silver, hooped earrings glint in both his ears. He wears a pale blue shirt, no tie, and grey flannel trousers. As I approach him, he stands and gazes at me with fathomless dark blue eyes.
    “Ana Steele, I’m Jack Hyde, the commissioning editor here at SIP, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”
    We shake hands, and his dark expression is unreadable, though friendly enough, I think.
    “Have you traveled far?” he asks pleasantly.
    “No, I’ve recently moved to the Pike Street Market area.”
    “Oh, not far at all then. Please, take a seat.”
    I sit, and Elizabeth takes a seat beside him.
    “So why would you like to intern for us at SIP, Ana?” he asks.
    He says my name softly and cocks his head to one side, like someone I know – it’s unnerving. Doing my best to