Chapter 8 (1/2)

They fall into a whispered conversation. Maybe Welch’s facts were wrong. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. He looks the right age, and he can’t take his greedy little eyes off her. He holds her for a moment at arm’s length, examining her, then stands with his arm resting on her shoulder. It seems like a casual gesture, but I know he’s staking a claim and telling me to back off. She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot.

Shit. I should go. I’ve overplayed my hand. She’s with this guy. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his reach, touching his arm, not his hand, shrugging him off. It’s clear they aren’t close.

Good.

“Er…Paul, this is Christian Grey. Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” She gives me an odd look that I don’t understand and continues, “I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Princeton, where he’s studying business administration.” She’s babbling, giving me a long explanation and telling me they’re not together, I think. The boss’s brother, not a boyfriend. I’m relieved, but the extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown. This woman has really gotten under my skin.

“Mr. Clayton.” My tone is deliberately clipped.

“Mr. Grey.” His handshake is limp, like his hair. Asshole. “Wait up—not the Christian Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?”

Yeah, that’s me, you prick.

In a heartbeat I watch him morph from territorial to obsequious.

“Wow—is there anything I can get you?”

“Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She’s been very attentive.” Now fuck off.

“Cool,” he gushes, all white teeth and deferential. “Catch you later, Ana.”

“Sure, Paul,” she says, and he ambles off to the back of the store. I watch him disappear.

“Anything else, Mr. Grey?”

“Just these items,” I mutter. Shit, I’m out of time, and I still don’t know if I’m going to see her again. I have to know whether there’s a hope in hell she might consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a submissive who knows nothing? She’s going to need substantial training. Closing my eyes, I imagine the interesting possibilities this presents…getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be up for this? Or do I have it all wrong?

She walks back to the cashier’s counter and rings up my purchases, all the while keeping her eyes on the register.

Look at me, damn it! I want to see her face again and gauge what she’s thinking.

Finally she raises her head. “That will be forty-three dollars, please.”

Is that all?

“Would you like a bag?” she asks, as I pass her my AmEx.

“Please, Anastasia.” Her name—a beautiful name for a beautiful girl—flows smoothly over my tongue.