Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

birthday.
    Another surprise.
    Don’t be so petulant.
    A x

    He doesn’t reply immediately, and I’m called into a meeting so I can’t dwell on it for too long.

    When I next glance at my Blackberry, to my horror I realize it’s four in the afternoon. Where has the day gone? Still no message from Christian. I decide to e-mail him again.

    From: Anastasia Steele
    Subject: Hello
    Date: June 17, 2011 16:03
    To: Christian Grey

    Are you not talking to me?
    Don’t forget I am going for a drink with José, and that he’s staying with us tonight.
    Please rethink about joining us.
    A x

    He doesn’t reply, and I feel a frisson of unease. I hope he’s okay. Calling his mobile, I get his voicemail. The announcement simply says Grey, leave a message in his most clipped tone.
    “Hi . . . um . . . it’s me. Ana. Are you okay? Call me,” I stutter through my message. I’ve never had to leave one for him before. I flush as I hang up. Of course he’ll know it’s you, idiot! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me. I am tempted to ring his PA Andrea but decide that’s a step too far. Reluctantly I continue my work.

    My phone rings unexpectedly and my heart jumps. Christian ! But no—it’s Kate, my best friend finally!
    “Ana!” she shouts from wherever she is.
    “Kate! Are you back? I’ve missed you.”
    “Me, too. I have so much to tell you. We’re at Sea-Tac—me and my man.” She giggles in a most un-Kate-like way.
    “Cool. I have so much to tell you, too.”
    “See you back at the apartment?”
    “I’m having drinks with José. Join us.”
    “José’s in town? Sure! Text me where.”
    “Okay.” I beam. My best friend is home. After all this time!
    “You good, Ana?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine.”
    “Still with Christian?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Laters!”
    Oh, not her as well. Elliot’s influence knows no bounds.
    “Yeah—laters, baby.” I grin and she hangs up.
    Wow. Kate is home. How am I going to tell her all that has happened? I should write it down so I don’t forget anything.

    An hour later my office phone rings— Christian ? No, it’s Claire.
    “You should see the guy asking for you in reception. How come you know all these hot guys, Ana?”
    José must be here. I glance at the clock—it’s five fifty-five, and a small thrill of excitement pulses through me. I haven’t seen him in ages.
    “Ana, wow! You look great. So grown up.” He grins at me.
    Just because I’m wearing a smart dress . . . jeez!
    He hugs me hard. “And tall,” he mutters in amazement.
    “It’s just the shoes, José. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
    He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black and white check flannel shirt.
    “I’ll grab my things and we can go.”
    “Cool. I’ll wait here.”

    I pick up two Rolling Rocks from the crowded bar and head over to the table where José is seated.
    “You found Christian’s place okay?”
    “Yeah. I haven’t been inside. I just delivered the photos to the service elevator. Some guy named Taylor took them up. Looks like quite a place.”
    “It is. You should see inside.”
    “Can’t wait. Salud, Ana. Seattle agrees with you.”
    I flush as we clink bottles. It’s Christian that agrees with me. “Salud. Tell me about your show and how it went.”
    He beams and launches into the story. He sold all but three of his photos, which has taken care of his student loans and left him some cash to spare.
    “And I’ve been commissioned to do some landscapes for the Portland Tourist Authority. Pretty cool, huh?” he finishes proudly.
    “Oh José—that’s wonderful. Not interfering with your studies though?” I frown at him.
    “Nah. Now that you guys have gone and three of the guys I used to hang out with, I have more time.”
    “No hot babe to keep you busy? Last time I saw you, you had half a dozen women hanging on your every word.” I arch an eyebrow at him.
    “Nah, Ana. None of them are woman enough for me.” He’s all bravado.
    “Oh sure. José Rodriguez, lady killer.” I giggle.
    “Hey—I have my moments, Steele.” He looks vaguely hurt, and I am chastened.
    “Sure you do.” I mollify him.
    “So, how’s Grey?” he asks, his tone changing, becoming cooler.
    “He’s good. We’re good,” I murmur.
    “Serious, you say?”
    “Yes. Serious.”
    “He’s not too old for you?”
    “Oh José. You know what my mom says—I was born old.”
    José’s mouth twists wryly.
    “How is your mom?” And like that, we are out