Chapter 15 (1/2)

Tuna salad. Okay. She hasn’t fucked this up for once.

She also places three different white cards, all different sizes, with corresponding envelopes on my desk.

“Great,” I mutter. Now go. She scuttles out.

I take one bite of tuna to assuage my hunger, then reach for my pen. I’ve chosen a quote. A warning. I made the correct choice, walking away from her. Not all men are romantic heroes. I’ll take the word “men-folk” out. She’ll understand.

Why didn’t you tell me there was danger? Why didn’t you warn me? Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks…

I slip the card into the envelope provided and on it write Ana’s address, which is ingrained in my memory from Welch’s background check. I buzz Andrea.

“Yes, Mr. Grey.”

“Can you come in, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

She appears at my door a moment later. “Mr. Grey?”

“Take these, package them, and courier them to Anastasia Steele, the girl who interviewed me last week. Here’s her address.”

“Right away, Mr. Grey.”

“They have to arrive by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

“No. Find me a set of replacements.”

“For these books?”

“Yes. First editions. Get Olivia on it.”

“What books are these?”

“Tess of the d’Urbervilles.”

“Yes, sir.” She gives me a rare smile and leaves my office.

Why is she smiling?

She never smiles. Dismissing the thought, I wonder if that will be the last I see of the books, and I have to acknowledge that deep down I hope not.

FRIDAY, MAY 20, 2011

* * *

I’ve slept well for the first time in five days. Maybe I’m feeling the closure I had hoped for, now that I’ve sent those books to Anastasia. As I shave, the asshole in the mirror stares back at me with cool, gray eyes.

Liar.

Fuck.

Okay. Okay. I’m hoping she’ll call. She has my number.

Mrs. Jones looks up when I walk into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”

“Morning, Gail.”

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“I’ll have an omelet. Thank you.” I sit at the kitchen counter as she prepares my food and leaf through The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, then I pore over The Seattle Times. While I’m lost in the papers my phone buzzes.

It’s Elliot. What the hell does my big brother want?

“Elliot?”

“Dude. I need to get out of Seattle this weekend. This chick is all over my junk and I’ve got to get away.”

“Your junk?”

“Yeah. You would know if you had any.”

I ignore his jibe, and then a devious thought occurs to me. “How about hiking around Portland. We could go this afternoon. Stay down there. Come home Sunday.”