I used to have my nightmares under control. Maybe one every couple of weeks, but nothing like this—night after night.
Since she left.
I turn over and lie flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. When she slept beside me, I slept well. I need her in my life, in my bed. She was the day to my night. I’m going to get her back.
How?
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?”
She wants hearts and flowers. Can I give her that? I frown, trying to recall the romantic moments in my life…And there’s nothing…except with Ana. The “more.” The gliding, and IHOP, and taking her up in Charlie Tango.
Maybe I can do this. I drift back to sleep, the mantra in my head: She’s mine. She’s mine…and I smell her, feel her soft skin, taste her lips, and hear her moans. Exhausted, I fall into an erotic, Ana-filled dream.
I wake suddenly. My scalp tingles, and for a moment I think whatever’s disturbed me is external rather than internal. I sit up and rub my head and slowly scan the room.
In spite of the carnal dream, my body has behaved. Elena would be pleased. She texted yesterday, but Elena’s the last person I want to talk to—there’s only one thing I want to do right now. I get up and pull on my running gear.
I’m going to check on Ana.
HER STREET IS QUIET except for the rumble of a delivery truck and the out-of-tune whistling of a solitary dog walker. Her apartment is in darkness, the curtains to her room closed. I keep a silent vigil from my stalker’s hide, staring up at the windows and thinking. I need a plan—a plan to win her back.
As dawn’s light brightens her window, I turn my iPod up loud, and with Moby blaring in my ears I run back to Escala.
“I’LL HAVE A CROISSANT, Mrs. Jones.”
She stills in surprise and I raise a brow.
“Apricot preserves?” she asks, recovering.
“Please.”
“I’ll heat up a couple for you, Mr. Grey. Here’s your coffee.”
“Thank you, Gail.”
She smiles. Is it just because I’m having croissants? If it makes her that happy, I should have them more often.
IN THE BACK OF the Audi, I plot. I need to get up close and personal with Ana Steele, to begin my campaign to win her back. I call Andrea, knowing that at 7:15 she won’t be at her desk yet, and I leave a voice mail. “Andrea, as soon as you’re in, I want to run through my schedule for the next few days.” There—step one in my offensive is to make time in my schedule for Ana. What the hell am I supposed to be doing this week? Currently, I don’t have a clue. Normally I’m on this shit, but lately I’ve been all over the place. Now I have a mission to focus on. You can do this, Grey.
But deep down I wish I had the courage of my convictions. Anxiety unfurls in my gut. Can I convince Ana to take me back? Will she listen? I hope so. This has to work. I miss her.
“MR. GREY, I CANCELED all your social events this week, apart from the one for tomorrow—I don’t know what the occasion is. Your calendar says Portland, that’s it.”
Yes! The fucking photographer!
I beam at Andrea, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Thanks, Andrea. That’s all for now. Send in Sam.”
“Sure, Mr. Grey. Would you like some more coffee?”
“Please.”
“With milk?”
“Yes. Latte. Thank you.”
She smiles politely and leaves.
This is it! My in! The photographer! Now…what to do?
MY MORNING HAS BEEN back-to-back meetings, and my staff have been watching me nervously, waiting for me to explode. Okay, that’s been my modus operandi for the last few days—but today I feel clearer, calmer, and present; able to deal with everything.
It’s now lunchtime; my workout with Claude has gone well. The only fly in the ointment is that there’s no more news about Leila. All we know is that she’s split up with her husband and she could be anywhere. If she surfaces, Welch will find her.
I’m famished. Olivia sets a plate down on my desk.
“Your sandwich, Mr. Grey.”
“Chicken and mayonnaise?”
“Um…”
I stare at her. She just doesn’t get it.
Olivia offers an inept apology.
“I said chicken with mayonnaise, Olivia. It’s not that hard.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grey.”
“It’s fine. Just go.” She looks relieved but scrambles to leave the room.
I buzz Andrea.
“Sir?”
“Come in here.”
Andrea appears at the doorway, looking calm and efficient.
“Get rid of that girl.”
Andrea pulls herself up straight.
“Sir, Olivia is Senator Blandino’s daughter.”
“I don’t care if she’s the Queen of fucking England. Get her out of my office.”
“Yes, sir.” Andrea flushes.
“Get someone else to help you,” I offer in a gentler tone. I don’t want to alienate Andrea.
“Yes, Mr. Grey.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
She smiles and I know she’s back on board. She’s a good PA; I don’t want her to quit because I’m being an asshole. She exits, leaving me to my chicken sandwich—no mayo—and my campaign plan.
Portland.
I know the form of e-mail address for employees at SIP. I think Anastasia will respond better in writing; she always has. How to begin?
Dear Ana
No.
Dear Anastasia
No.
Dear Miss Steele
Shit!
HALF AN HOUR LATER I’m still staring at a blank computer screen. What the hell do I say?
Come back…please?
Forgive me.
I miss you.
Let’s try it your way.
I put my head in my hands. Why is this so difficult?
Keep it simple, Grey. Just cut the crap.
I take a deep breath and tap out an e-mail. Yes…this will do. Andrea buzzes me.
“Ms. Bailey is here to see you, sir.”
“Tell her to wait.”
I hang up and take a moment, and with my heart pounding, I press send.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you get my flowers?
Since she left.
I turn over and lie flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. When she slept beside me, I slept well. I need her in my life, in my bed. She was the day to my night. I’m going to get her back.
How?
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?”
She wants hearts and flowers. Can I give her that? I frown, trying to recall the romantic moments in my life…And there’s nothing…except with Ana. The “more.” The gliding, and IHOP, and taking her up in Charlie Tango.
Maybe I can do this. I drift back to sleep, the mantra in my head: She’s mine. She’s mine…and I smell her, feel her soft skin, taste her lips, and hear her moans. Exhausted, I fall into an erotic, Ana-filled dream.
I wake suddenly. My scalp tingles, and for a moment I think whatever’s disturbed me is external rather than internal. I sit up and rub my head and slowly scan the room.
In spite of the carnal dream, my body has behaved. Elena would be pleased. She texted yesterday, but Elena’s the last person I want to talk to—there’s only one thing I want to do right now. I get up and pull on my running gear.
I’m going to check on Ana.
HER STREET IS QUIET except for the rumble of a delivery truck and the out-of-tune whistling of a solitary dog walker. Her apartment is in darkness, the curtains to her room closed. I keep a silent vigil from my stalker’s hide, staring up at the windows and thinking. I need a plan—a plan to win her back.
As dawn’s light brightens her window, I turn my iPod up loud, and with Moby blaring in my ears I run back to Escala.
“I’LL HAVE A CROISSANT, Mrs. Jones.”
She stills in surprise and I raise a brow.
“Apricot preserves?” she asks, recovering.
“Please.”
“I’ll heat up a couple for you, Mr. Grey. Here’s your coffee.”
“Thank you, Gail.”
She smiles. Is it just because I’m having croissants? If it makes her that happy, I should have them more often.
IN THE BACK OF the Audi, I plot. I need to get up close and personal with Ana Steele, to begin my campaign to win her back. I call Andrea, knowing that at 7:15 she won’t be at her desk yet, and I leave a voice mail. “Andrea, as soon as you’re in, I want to run through my schedule for the next few days.” There—step one in my offensive is to make time in my schedule for Ana. What the hell am I supposed to be doing this week? Currently, I don’t have a clue. Normally I’m on this shit, but lately I’ve been all over the place. Now I have a mission to focus on. You can do this, Grey.
But deep down I wish I had the courage of my convictions. Anxiety unfurls in my gut. Can I convince Ana to take me back? Will she listen? I hope so. This has to work. I miss her.
“MR. GREY, I CANCELED all your social events this week, apart from the one for tomorrow—I don’t know what the occasion is. Your calendar says Portland, that’s it.”
Yes! The fucking photographer!
I beam at Andrea, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Thanks, Andrea. That’s all for now. Send in Sam.”
“Sure, Mr. Grey. Would you like some more coffee?”
“Please.”
“With milk?”
“Yes. Latte. Thank you.”
She smiles politely and leaves.
This is it! My in! The photographer! Now…what to do?
MY MORNING HAS BEEN back-to-back meetings, and my staff have been watching me nervously, waiting for me to explode. Okay, that’s been my modus operandi for the last few days—but today I feel clearer, calmer, and present; able to deal with everything.
It’s now lunchtime; my workout with Claude has gone well. The only fly in the ointment is that there’s no more news about Leila. All we know is that she’s split up with her husband and she could be anywhere. If she surfaces, Welch will find her.
I’m famished. Olivia sets a plate down on my desk.
“Your sandwich, Mr. Grey.”
“Chicken and mayonnaise?”
“Um…”
I stare at her. She just doesn’t get it.
Olivia offers an inept apology.
“I said chicken with mayonnaise, Olivia. It’s not that hard.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grey.”
“It’s fine. Just go.” She looks relieved but scrambles to leave the room.
I buzz Andrea.
“Sir?”
“Come in here.”
Andrea appears at the doorway, looking calm and efficient.
“Get rid of that girl.”
Andrea pulls herself up straight.
“Sir, Olivia is Senator Blandino’s daughter.”
“I don’t care if she’s the Queen of fucking England. Get her out of my office.”
“Yes, sir.” Andrea flushes.
“Get someone else to help you,” I offer in a gentler tone. I don’t want to alienate Andrea.
“Yes, Mr. Grey.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
She smiles and I know she’s back on board. She’s a good PA; I don’t want her to quit because I’m being an asshole. She exits, leaving me to my chicken sandwich—no mayo—and my campaign plan.
Portland.
I know the form of e-mail address for employees at SIP. I think Anastasia will respond better in writing; she always has. How to begin?
Dear Ana
No.
Dear Anastasia
No.
Dear Miss Steele
Shit!
HALF AN HOUR LATER I’m still staring at a blank computer screen. What the hell do I say?
Come back…please?
Forgive me.
I miss you.
Let’s try it your way.
I put my head in my hands. Why is this so difficult?
Keep it simple, Grey. Just cut the crap.
I take a deep breath and tap out an e-mail. Yes…this will do. Andrea buzzes me.
“Ms. Bailey is here to see you, sir.”
“Tell her to wait.”
I hang up and take a moment, and with my heart pounding, I press send.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you get my flowers?
