“Sure.”
My conversation with Bill is lengthy. Ruth has done an excellent job scouting all of the available brownfield sites in Detroit. Two are viable for the tech plant we want to build, and Bill is certain that Detroit has the available labor force we require.
My heart sinks.
Does it have to be Detroit?
I have vague memories of the place: drunks, hobos, and crackheads shouting at us on the streets; the seedy dive we called home; and a young, broken woman, the crack whore I called Mommy, staring into space while she sat in a drab, grimy room filled with stale air and dust motes.
And him.
I shudder. Don’t think about him…or her.
But I can’t help it. Ana has said nothing about my nocturnal confession. I’ve never mentioned the crack whore to anyone. Perhaps that’s why Ana attacked me this morning: she thinks I need some TLC.
Fuck that.
Baby. I’ll take your body if you offer it up. I’m doing just fine. But even as the thought pops into my head I wonder if I’m “just fine.” I ignore my unease; it’s something to discuss with Flynn when he’s back.
Right now, I’m hungry. I hope she’s gotten her sweet butt out of that shower, because I need to eat.
ANA IS STANDING AT the kitchen counter talking to Mrs. Jones, who has set places for our breakfast.
“Would you like something to eat?” asks Mrs. Jones.
“No thank you,” Ana says.
Oh no you don’t.
“Of course you’ll have something to eat,” I growl at both of them. “She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. What would you like, sir?” she replies, without batting an eyelid.
“Omelet, please, and some fruit. Sit,” I tell Ana, pointing to one of the barstools. She does, and I take a seat beside her while Mrs. Jones makes our breakfast.
“Have you bought your air ticket?” I ask.
“No, I’ll buy it when I get home, over the Internet.”
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes,” she says, as if I’m five years old, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder, flattening her lips, peeved, I think. I arch an eyebrow in censure. I could always spank you again, sweetheart.
“Yes, I do, thank you,” she says quickly, in a more subdued tone.
That’s better.
“I have a jet. It’s not scheduled to be used for three days; it’s at your disposal.” This will be a “no.” But at least I can offer.
Her lips part in shock and her expression transforms, from stunned to impressed and exasperated in equal measure. “We’ve already made serious misuse of your company’s aviation fleet. I wouldn’t want to do it again,” she says nonchalantly.
“It’s my company, it’s my jet.”
She shakes her head. “Thank you for the offer. But I’d be happier taking a scheduled flight.”
Surely most women would jump at the opportunity of taking a private jet, but it seems material wealth really doesn’t impress this girl—or she doesn’t like to feel indebted to me. I’m not sure which. Either way, she’s a stubborn creature.
“As you wish.” I sigh. “Do you have much preparation to do for your interview?”
“No.”
“Good.” I ask but she still won’t tell me which of the publishing houses she’s seeing. Instead she gives me a sphinxlike smile. There’s no way she’s divulging this secret.
“I’m a man of means, Miss Steele.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey. Are you going to track my phone?”
Trust her to remember that. “Actually, I’ll be quite busy this afternoon, so I’ll have to get someone else to do it,” I answer, smirking.
“If you can spare someone to do that, you’re obviously overstaffed.”
Oh, she’s sassy today.
“I’ll send an e-mail to the head of human resources and have her look into our head count.” This is what I like: our banter. It’s refreshing and fun, and unlike anything I’ve known before.
Mrs. Jones serves us breakfast, and I’m pleased to see Ana relishing her food. When Mrs. Jones leaves the kitchen Ana peers up at me.
“What is it, Anastasia?”
“You know, you never did tell me why you don’t like to be touched.”
Not this again!
“I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told anybody.” My voice is low to conceal my frustration. Why does she persist with these questions? She eats another couple of mouthfuls of her pancakes.
“Will you think about our arrangement while you’re away?” I ask.
“Yes.” She’s earnest.
“Will you miss me?”
Grey!
She turns to face me, as surprised as I am by the question. “Yes,” she says after a moment, her expression open and honest. I was expecting a smart remark, yet I get the truth. And strangely, I find her admission comforting.
“I’ll miss you, too,” I mutter. “More than you know.” My apartment will be a little quieter without her, and a little emptier. I stroke her cheek and kiss her. She gives me a sweet smile before returning to her breakfast.
“I’ll brush my teeth, then I should go,” she announces, once she’s finished.
“So soon. I thought you might stay longer.”
She’s taken aback. Did she think I’d kick her out?
“I’ve prevailed upon you and taken up your time for long enough, Mr. Grey. Besides, don’t you have an empire to run?”
“I can play hooky.” Hope swells in my chest and my voice. And I’ve just cleared my morning.
“I have to prep for my interviews. And get changed.” She eyes me warily.
“You look great.”
“Why, thank you, Sir,” she says graciously. But her cheeks are coloring their familiar rosy pink, like her ass last night. She’s embarrassed. When will she learn to take a compliment?
Rising, she takes her plate to the sink.
“Leave that. Mrs. Jones will do it.”
“Okay. I’m just going to brush my teeth.”
“Please feel free to use my toothbrush,” I offer, with sarcasm.
“I had every intention of doing so,” she says, and sashays out of the room. That woman has an answer for everything.
My conversation with Bill is lengthy. Ruth has done an excellent job scouting all of the available brownfield sites in Detroit. Two are viable for the tech plant we want to build, and Bill is certain that Detroit has the available labor force we require.
My heart sinks.
Does it have to be Detroit?
I have vague memories of the place: drunks, hobos, and crackheads shouting at us on the streets; the seedy dive we called home; and a young, broken woman, the crack whore I called Mommy, staring into space while she sat in a drab, grimy room filled with stale air and dust motes.
And him.
I shudder. Don’t think about him…or her.
But I can’t help it. Ana has said nothing about my nocturnal confession. I’ve never mentioned the crack whore to anyone. Perhaps that’s why Ana attacked me this morning: she thinks I need some TLC.
Fuck that.
Baby. I’ll take your body if you offer it up. I’m doing just fine. But even as the thought pops into my head I wonder if I’m “just fine.” I ignore my unease; it’s something to discuss with Flynn when he’s back.
Right now, I’m hungry. I hope she’s gotten her sweet butt out of that shower, because I need to eat.
ANA IS STANDING AT the kitchen counter talking to Mrs. Jones, who has set places for our breakfast.
“Would you like something to eat?” asks Mrs. Jones.
“No thank you,” Ana says.
Oh no you don’t.
“Of course you’ll have something to eat,” I growl at both of them. “She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. What would you like, sir?” she replies, without batting an eyelid.
“Omelet, please, and some fruit. Sit,” I tell Ana, pointing to one of the barstools. She does, and I take a seat beside her while Mrs. Jones makes our breakfast.
“Have you bought your air ticket?” I ask.
“No, I’ll buy it when I get home, over the Internet.”
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes,” she says, as if I’m five years old, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder, flattening her lips, peeved, I think. I arch an eyebrow in censure. I could always spank you again, sweetheart.
“Yes, I do, thank you,” she says quickly, in a more subdued tone.
That’s better.
“I have a jet. It’s not scheduled to be used for three days; it’s at your disposal.” This will be a “no.” But at least I can offer.
Her lips part in shock and her expression transforms, from stunned to impressed and exasperated in equal measure. “We’ve already made serious misuse of your company’s aviation fleet. I wouldn’t want to do it again,” she says nonchalantly.
“It’s my company, it’s my jet.”
She shakes her head. “Thank you for the offer. But I’d be happier taking a scheduled flight.”
Surely most women would jump at the opportunity of taking a private jet, but it seems material wealth really doesn’t impress this girl—or she doesn’t like to feel indebted to me. I’m not sure which. Either way, she’s a stubborn creature.
“As you wish.” I sigh. “Do you have much preparation to do for your interview?”
“No.”
“Good.” I ask but she still won’t tell me which of the publishing houses she’s seeing. Instead she gives me a sphinxlike smile. There’s no way she’s divulging this secret.
“I’m a man of means, Miss Steele.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey. Are you going to track my phone?”
Trust her to remember that. “Actually, I’ll be quite busy this afternoon, so I’ll have to get someone else to do it,” I answer, smirking.
“If you can spare someone to do that, you’re obviously overstaffed.”
Oh, she’s sassy today.
“I’ll send an e-mail to the head of human resources and have her look into our head count.” This is what I like: our banter. It’s refreshing and fun, and unlike anything I’ve known before.
Mrs. Jones serves us breakfast, and I’m pleased to see Ana relishing her food. When Mrs. Jones leaves the kitchen Ana peers up at me.
“What is it, Anastasia?”
“You know, you never did tell me why you don’t like to be touched.”
Not this again!
“I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told anybody.” My voice is low to conceal my frustration. Why does she persist with these questions? She eats another couple of mouthfuls of her pancakes.
“Will you think about our arrangement while you’re away?” I ask.
“Yes.” She’s earnest.
“Will you miss me?”
Grey!
She turns to face me, as surprised as I am by the question. “Yes,” she says after a moment, her expression open and honest. I was expecting a smart remark, yet I get the truth. And strangely, I find her admission comforting.
“I’ll miss you, too,” I mutter. “More than you know.” My apartment will be a little quieter without her, and a little emptier. I stroke her cheek and kiss her. She gives me a sweet smile before returning to her breakfast.
“I’ll brush my teeth, then I should go,” she announces, once she’s finished.
“So soon. I thought you might stay longer.”
She’s taken aback. Did she think I’d kick her out?
“I’ve prevailed upon you and taken up your time for long enough, Mr. Grey. Besides, don’t you have an empire to run?”
“I can play hooky.” Hope swells in my chest and my voice. And I’ve just cleared my morning.
“I have to prep for my interviews. And get changed.” She eyes me warily.
“You look great.”
“Why, thank you, Sir,” she says graciously. But her cheeks are coloring their familiar rosy pink, like her ass last night. She’s embarrassed. When will she learn to take a compliment?
Rising, she takes her plate to the sink.
“Leave that. Mrs. Jones will do it.”
“Okay. I’m just going to brush my teeth.”
“Please feel free to use my toothbrush,” I offer, with sarcasm.
“I had every intention of doing so,” she says, and sashays out of the room. That woman has an answer for everything.
