Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grey’s office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – he’s so young.
    “Miss Kavanagh.” He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”
    So young – and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark-copper-colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
    “Um. Actually–” I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
    “Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grey.”
    “And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.
    “Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English Literature with Kate, um… Katherine… um… Miss Kavanagh at Washington State.”
    “I see,” he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I’m not sure.
    “Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward a white leather-buttoned L-shaped couch.
    His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls, except on the wall by the door where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
    “A local artist. Trouton,” says Grey when he catches my gaze.
    “They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.
    “I couldn’t agree more, Miss Steele,” he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
    Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Kate’s questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he’s trying to suppress a smile.
    “Sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”
    “Take all the time you need, Miss Steele,” he says.
    “Do you mind if I record your answers?”
    “After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?”
    I flush. He’s teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t mind.”
    “Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?”
    “Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.”
    Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily preoccupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
    “Good,” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Grey.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
    “I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look