“We could always air-drop.”
“Christian, the expense of an airdrop—”
“I know. Let’s see what our NGO friends come back with.”
“Okay,” she says and sighs. “I’m also waiting for the all-clear from the State Department.”
I roll my eyes. Fucking red tape. “If we have to grease some palms—or get Senator Blandino to intervene—let me know.”
“So the next topic is where to site the new plant. You know the tax breaks in Detroit are huge. I sent you a summary.”
“I know. But God, does it have to be Detroit?”
“I don’t know what you have against the place. It meets our criteria.”
“Okay, get Bill to check out potential brownfield sites. And let’s do one more site search to see if any other municipality would offer more favorable terms.”
“Bill has already sent Ruth out there to meet with the Detroit Brownfield Redevelopment Authority, who couldn’t be more accommodating, but I’ll ask Bill to do a final check.”
My phone buzzes.
“Yes,” I growl at Andrea—she knows I hate being interrupted in a meeting.
“I have Welch for you.”
My watch says 11:30. That was quick. “Put him through.”
I signal for Ros to stay.
“Mr. Grey?”
“Welch. What news?”
“Miss Steele’s last exam is tomorrow, May twentieth.”
Damn. I don’t have long.
“Great. That’s all I need to know.” I hang up.
“Ros, bear with me one moment.”
I pick up the phone. Andrea answers immediately.
“Andrea, I need a blank notecard to write a message within the next hour,” I say, and hang up. “Right, Ros, where were we?”
AT 12:30 OLIVIA SHUFFLES into my office with lunch. She’s a tall, willowy girl with a pretty face. Sadly, it’s always misdirected at me with longing. She’s carrying a tray with what I hope is something edible. After a busy morning, I’m starving. She trembles as she puts it on my desk.
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.”
“Sounds cool. In the chopper, or do you want to drive?”
“It’s a helicopter, Elliot, and I’ll drive us down. Come by the office at lunchtime and we’ll head out.”
“Thanks, bro. I owe you.” Elliot hangs up.
Elliot has always had a problem containing himself. As do the women he associates with: whoever the unfortunate girl is, she’s just another in a long, long line of his casual liaisons.
“Mr. Grey. What would you like to do for food this weekend?”
“Just prepare something light and leave it in the fridge. I may be back on Saturday.”
Or I may not.
She didn’t give you a second glance, Grey.
Having spent a great deal of my working life managing others’ expectations, I should be better at managing my own.
ELLIOT SLEEPS MOST OF the way to Portland. Poor fucker must be fried. Working and fucking: that’s Elliot’s raison d’être. He sprawls out in the passenger seat and snores.
Some company he’s going to be.
It’ll be after three when we arrive in Portland, so I call Andrea on the hands-free.
“Mr. Grey,” she answers in two rings.
“Can you have two mountain bikes delivered to The Heathman?”
“For what time, sir?”
“Christian, the expense of an airdrop—”
“I know. Let’s see what our NGO friends come back with.”
“Okay,” she says and sighs. “I’m also waiting for the all-clear from the State Department.”
I roll my eyes. Fucking red tape. “If we have to grease some palms—or get Senator Blandino to intervene—let me know.”
“So the next topic is where to site the new plant. You know the tax breaks in Detroit are huge. I sent you a summary.”
“I know. But God, does it have to be Detroit?”
“I don’t know what you have against the place. It meets our criteria.”
“Okay, get Bill to check out potential brownfield sites. And let’s do one more site search to see if any other municipality would offer more favorable terms.”
“Bill has already sent Ruth out there to meet with the Detroit Brownfield Redevelopment Authority, who couldn’t be more accommodating, but I’ll ask Bill to do a final check.”
My phone buzzes.
“Yes,” I growl at Andrea—she knows I hate being interrupted in a meeting.
“I have Welch for you.”
My watch says 11:30. That was quick. “Put him through.”
I signal for Ros to stay.
“Mr. Grey?”
“Welch. What news?”
“Miss Steele’s last exam is tomorrow, May twentieth.”
Damn. I don’t have long.
“Great. That’s all I need to know.” I hang up.
“Ros, bear with me one moment.”
I pick up the phone. Andrea answers immediately.
“Andrea, I need a blank notecard to write a message within the next hour,” I say, and hang up. “Right, Ros, where were we?”
AT 12:30 OLIVIA SHUFFLES into my office with lunch. She’s a tall, willowy girl with a pretty face. Sadly, it’s always misdirected at me with longing. She’s carrying a tray with what I hope is something edible. After a busy morning, I’m starving. She trembles as she puts it on my desk.
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.”
“Sounds cool. In the chopper, or do you want to drive?”
“It’s a helicopter, Elliot, and I’ll drive us down. Come by the office at lunchtime and we’ll head out.”
“Thanks, bro. I owe you.” Elliot hangs up.
Elliot has always had a problem containing himself. As do the women he associates with: whoever the unfortunate girl is, she’s just another in a long, long line of his casual liaisons.
“Mr. Grey. What would you like to do for food this weekend?”
“Just prepare something light and leave it in the fridge. I may be back on Saturday.”
Or I may not.
She didn’t give you a second glance, Grey.
Having spent a great deal of my working life managing others’ expectations, I should be better at managing my own.
ELLIOT SLEEPS MOST OF the way to Portland. Poor fucker must be fried. Working and fucking: that’s Elliot’s raison d’être. He sprawls out in the passenger seat and snores.
Some company he’s going to be.
It’ll be after three when we arrive in Portland, so I call Andrea on the hands-free.
“Mr. Grey,” she answers in two rings.
“Can you have two mountain bikes delivered to The Heathman?”
“For what time, sir?”
