Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

was odd. Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . . what? Love?  
    Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an overwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to do with his upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? My thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

    The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I suspect it’s Kate’s plum dress and the black high-heeled boots I’ve stolen from her closet, but I don’t dwell on the thought. I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first paycheck. The dress is looser on me than it was, but I pretend not to notice.
    Finally, it’s five thirty, and I collect my jacket and purse, trying to quell my nerves. I’m going to see him !
    “Do you have a date tonight?” Jack asks as he strolls past my desk on his way out.
    “Yes. No. Not really.”
    He cocks an eyebrow at me, his interest clearly piqued. “Boyfriend?”
    I flush. “No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend.”
    “Maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drink after work. You’ve had a stellar first week, Ana. We should celebrate.” He smiles and some unknown emotion flits across his face, making me uneasy.  
    Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through the double doors. I frown at his retreating back. Drinks with the boss, is that a good idea?  
    I shake my head. I have an evening of Christian Grey to get through first. How am I going to do this? I hurry into the restroom to make last-minute adjustments.
    In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look at my face. I am my usual pale self, dark circles round my too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted.  
    Jeez, I wish I knew how to use makeup. I apply some mascara and eyeliner and pinch my cheeks, hoping to bring some color their way. Tidying my hair so that it hangs artfully down my back, I take a deep breath. This will have to do.
    Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and a wave to Claire at reception. I think she and I could become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head for the doors. Smiling broadly, he hurries over to open them for me.
    “After you, Ana,” he murmurs.
    “Thank you.” I smile, embarrassed.
    Outside on the curb, Taylor is waiting. He opens the rear door of the car. I glance hesitantly at Jack who has followed me out. He’s looking toward the Audi SUV in dismay.  
    I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—Christian Grey—wearing his gray suit, no tie, his white shirt open at the collar.   His gray eyes are glowing.  
    My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he’s scowling at me. Oh no!
    “When did you last eat?” he snaps as Taylor closes the door behind me.
    Crap. “Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too.”
    “I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.” His eyes blaze.
    Holy shit. “Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—and a banana.”
    “When did you last have a proper meal?” he asks acidly.
    Taylor slips into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and pulls out into the traffic.
    I glance up and Jack is waving at me, though how he can see me through the dark glass, I don’t know. I wave back.
    “Who’s that?” Christian snaps.
    “My boss.” I peek up at the beautiful man beside me, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.
    “Well? Your last meal?”
    “Christian, that really is none of your concern,” I murmur, feeling extraordinarily brave.
    “Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.”
    No, it doesn’t. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes heavenward, and Christian narrows his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle the giggle that threatens to bubble up. Christian’s face softens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and I see a trace of a smile kiss his beautifully sculptured lips.
    “Well?” he asks, his voice softer.
    “Pasta alla vongole, last Friday,” I whisper.
    He closes his eyes as fury and possibly regret, sweeps across his face. “I see,” he says, his voice expressionless. “You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Anastasia,” he scolds.
    I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Why does he always make me feel like an errant child?
    He shifts and turns toward me. “How are