Chapter 86 (1/2)

“Great. Go ahead.”

“Will do, Mr. Grey.”

I hang up, and I’m tempted to call my mother to check Dr. Greene’s credentials, as they work in the same hospital; but that might provoke too many questions from Grace.

Once in the car I send Ana an e-mail with details about Sunday.

* * *

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Sunday

Date: May 27 2011 13:40

To: Anastasia Steele

Shall I see you at 1 p.m. Sunday?

The doctor will be at Escala to see you at 1:30.

I’m leaving for Seattle now.

I hope your move goes well, and I look forward to Sunday.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Right. All done. I ease the R8 onto the road and roar toward I-5. As I pass the exit for Vancouver I’m inspired. I call Andrea on the hands-free and ask her to organize a housewarming present for Ana and Kate.

“What would you like to send?”

“Bollinger La Grande Année Rosé, 1999 vintage.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“What do you mean, anything else?”

“Flowers? Chocolates? A balloon?”

“Balloon?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of balloons?”

“Well…they have everything.”

“Okay. Good idea—see if you can get a helicopter balloon.”

“Yes, sir. And a message for the card?”

“ ‘Ladies, good luck in your new home. Christian Grey.’ Got that?”

“I have. What’s the address?”

Shit. I don’t know. “I’ll text it to you either later today or tomorrow. Will that work?”

“Yes, sir. I can get it delivered tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Andrea.”

“You’re welcome.” She sounds surprised.

I hang up and floor my R8.

BY 6:30 I’M HOME and my earlier ebullient mood has soured—I still haven’t heard from Ana. I select a pair of cuff links from the drawers in my closet and as I knot my bow tie for the night’s event I wonder if she’s okay. She said she would contact me when she got home; I’ve called her twice, but I’ve heard nothing, and it’s pissing me off. I try her once more and this time I leave a message.

“I think you need to learn to manage my expectations. I’m not a patient man. If you say you are going to contact me when you finish work, then you should have the decency to do so. Otherwise I worry, and it’s not an emotion I’m familiar with, and I don’t tolerate it very well. Call me.”

If she doesn’t call soon I am going to explode.

I’M SEATED AT A table with Whelan, my banker. I’m his guest at a charity function for a nonprofit that aims to raise awareness of global poverty.

“Glad you could make it,” Whelan says.