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“Good night.”
“Good night, Sir.” Her voice is husky and it takes my breath away.
“Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.”
She stays on the line, her breathing soft. Why doesn’t she hang up? She doesn’t want to?
“You hang up,” she whispers.
She doesn’t want to hang up and my mood lightens immediately. I grin out at the view of Seattle.
“No, you hang up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
“Were you very angry with me?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you still?”
“No.” Now I know you’re safe.
“So you’re not going to punish me?”
“No. I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
“I’ve noticed,” she teases, and that makes me smile.
“You can hang up now, Miss Steele.”
“Do you really want me to, Sir?”
“Go to bed, Anastasia.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She doesn’t hang up, and I know she’s grinning. It lifts my spirits higher. “Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you’re told?” I ask.
“Maybe. We’ll see after Sunday,” she says, temptress that she is, and the line goes dead.
Anastasia Steele, what am I going to do with you?
Actually, I have a good idea, provided that riding crop turns up in time. And with that enticing thought I toss down the rest of the Armagnac and go to bed.
SATURDAY, MAY 28, 2011
“Christian!” Mia squeals with delight and runs toward me, abandoning her cartload of luggage. Throwing her arms around my neck, she hugs me tightly.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
“I’ve missed you, too.” I give her a squeeze in return. She leans back and examines me with intense dark eyes.
“You look good,” she gushes. “Tell me about this girl!”
“Let’s get you and your luggage home first.” I grab her cart, which weighs a ton, and together we head out of the airport terminal toward the parking lot.
“So how was Paris? You appear to have brought most of it home with you.”
“C’est incroyable!” she exclaims. “Floubert, on the other hand, was a bastard. Jesus. He was a horrible man. A crap teacher but a good chef.”
“Does that mean you’re cooking this evening?”
“Oh, I was hoping Mom would cook.”
Mia proceeds to talk nonstop about Paris: her tiny room, the plumbing, Sacré-Coeur, Montmartre, Parisians, coffee, red wine, cheese, fashion, shopping. But mainly about fashion and shopping. And I thought she went to Paris to learn to cook.
I’ve missed her chatter; it’s soothing and welcome. She is the only person I know who doesn’t make me feel…different.
“This is your baby sister, Christian. Her name is Mia.”
Mommy lets me hold her. She is very small. With black, black hair.
She smiles. She has no teeth. I stick out my tongue. She has a bubbly laugh.
Mommy lets me hold the baby again. Her name is Mia.
I make her laugh. I hold her and hold her. She is safe when I hold her.
Elliot is not interested in Mia. She dribbles and cries.
And he wrinkles his nose when she does a poop.
When Mia is crying Elliot ignores her. I hold her and hold her and she stops.
She falls asleep in my arms.
“Mee a,” I whisper.
“What did you say?” Mommy asks, and her face is white like chalk.
“Mee a.”
“Yes. Yes. Darling boy. Mia. Her name is Mia.”
And Mommy starts to cry with happy, happy tears.
I TURN INTO THE driveway, pull up outside Mom and Dad’s front door, unload Mia’s luggage, and carry it into the hall.
“Where is everyone?” Mia is in full pout. The only person around is my parents’ housekeeper—she’s an exchange student, and I can’t remember her name. “Welcome home,” she says to Mia in her stilted English, though she’s looking at me with big cow eyes.
Oh, God. It’s just a pretty face, sweetheart.
Ignoring the housekeeper, I address Mia’s question. “I think Mom is on call and Dad is at a conference. You did come home a week early.”
“I couldn’t stand Floubert another minute. I had to get out while I could. Oh, I bought you a present.” She grabs one of her cases, opens it up in the hallway, and starts rummaging through it. “Ah!” She hands me a heavy square box. “Open it,” she urges, beaming at me. She is an unstoppable force.
Warily I open the box, and inside I find a snow globe containing a black grand piano covered in glitter. It’s the kitschiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“It’s a music box. Here—” She takes it from me, gives it a good shake, and winds a small key on the bottom. A twinkly version of “La Marseillaise” starts to play in a cloud of colored glitter.
What am I going to do with this? I laugh, because it’s so Mia. “That’s great, Mia. Thank you.” I give her a hug and she hugs me back.
“I knew it would make you laugh.”
She’s right. She knows me well.
“So tell me about this girl,” she says. But we’re both distracted as Grace hurries through the door, allowing me a reprieve as mother and daughter embrace. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to meet you, darling,” Grace says. “I’ve been on call. You look so grown up. Christian, can you take Mia’s bags upstairs? Gretchen will give you a hand.”
Really? I’m a porter now?
“Yes, Mom.” I roll my eyes. I don’t need Gretchen mooning over me.
Once that’s done, I tell them that I have an appointment with my trainer. “I’ll be back this evening.” Quickly kissing them both, I leave before I’m pestered with more questions about Ana.
BASTILLE, MY TRAINER, WORKS me hard. Today we’re kickboxing at his gym.
“You’ve gone soft in Portland, boy.” He sneers after I’m toppled onto the mat from his roundhouse kick. Bastille is from the hard-knocks school of physical training, which suits me fine.
I scramble to my feet. I want to take him down. But he’s right—he’s all over my shit today, and I get nowhere.
“Good night, Sir.” Her voice is husky and it takes my breath away.
“Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.”
She stays on the line, her breathing soft. Why doesn’t she hang up? She doesn’t want to?
“You hang up,” she whispers.
She doesn’t want to hang up and my mood lightens immediately. I grin out at the view of Seattle.
“No, you hang up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
“Were you very angry with me?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you still?”
“No.” Now I know you’re safe.
“So you’re not going to punish me?”
“No. I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
“I’ve noticed,” she teases, and that makes me smile.
“You can hang up now, Miss Steele.”
“Do you really want me to, Sir?”
“Go to bed, Anastasia.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She doesn’t hang up, and I know she’s grinning. It lifts my spirits higher. “Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you’re told?” I ask.
“Maybe. We’ll see after Sunday,” she says, temptress that she is, and the line goes dead.
Anastasia Steele, what am I going to do with you?
Actually, I have a good idea, provided that riding crop turns up in time. And with that enticing thought I toss down the rest of the Armagnac and go to bed.
SATURDAY, MAY 28, 2011
“Christian!” Mia squeals with delight and runs toward me, abandoning her cartload of luggage. Throwing her arms around my neck, she hugs me tightly.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
“I’ve missed you, too.” I give her a squeeze in return. She leans back and examines me with intense dark eyes.
“You look good,” she gushes. “Tell me about this girl!”
“Let’s get you and your luggage home first.” I grab her cart, which weighs a ton, and together we head out of the airport terminal toward the parking lot.
“So how was Paris? You appear to have brought most of it home with you.”
“C’est incroyable!” she exclaims. “Floubert, on the other hand, was a bastard. Jesus. He was a horrible man. A crap teacher but a good chef.”
“Does that mean you’re cooking this evening?”
“Oh, I was hoping Mom would cook.”
Mia proceeds to talk nonstop about Paris: her tiny room, the plumbing, Sacré-Coeur, Montmartre, Parisians, coffee, red wine, cheese, fashion, shopping. But mainly about fashion and shopping. And I thought she went to Paris to learn to cook.
I’ve missed her chatter; it’s soothing and welcome. She is the only person I know who doesn’t make me feel…different.
“This is your baby sister, Christian. Her name is Mia.”
Mommy lets me hold her. She is very small. With black, black hair.
She smiles. She has no teeth. I stick out my tongue. She has a bubbly laugh.
Mommy lets me hold the baby again. Her name is Mia.
I make her laugh. I hold her and hold her. She is safe when I hold her.
Elliot is not interested in Mia. She dribbles and cries.
And he wrinkles his nose when she does a poop.
When Mia is crying Elliot ignores her. I hold her and hold her and she stops.
She falls asleep in my arms.
“Mee a,” I whisper.
“What did you say?” Mommy asks, and her face is white like chalk.
“Mee a.”
“Yes. Yes. Darling boy. Mia. Her name is Mia.”
And Mommy starts to cry with happy, happy tears.
I TURN INTO THE driveway, pull up outside Mom and Dad’s front door, unload Mia’s luggage, and carry it into the hall.
“Where is everyone?” Mia is in full pout. The only person around is my parents’ housekeeper—she’s an exchange student, and I can’t remember her name. “Welcome home,” she says to Mia in her stilted English, though she’s looking at me with big cow eyes.
Oh, God. It’s just a pretty face, sweetheart.
Ignoring the housekeeper, I address Mia’s question. “I think Mom is on call and Dad is at a conference. You did come home a week early.”
“I couldn’t stand Floubert another minute. I had to get out while I could. Oh, I bought you a present.” She grabs one of her cases, opens it up in the hallway, and starts rummaging through it. “Ah!” She hands me a heavy square box. “Open it,” she urges, beaming at me. She is an unstoppable force.
Warily I open the box, and inside I find a snow globe containing a black grand piano covered in glitter. It’s the kitschiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“It’s a music box. Here—” She takes it from me, gives it a good shake, and winds a small key on the bottom. A twinkly version of “La Marseillaise” starts to play in a cloud of colored glitter.
What am I going to do with this? I laugh, because it’s so Mia. “That’s great, Mia. Thank you.” I give her a hug and she hugs me back.
“I knew it would make you laugh.”
She’s right. She knows me well.
“So tell me about this girl,” she says. But we’re both distracted as Grace hurries through the door, allowing me a reprieve as mother and daughter embrace. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to meet you, darling,” Grace says. “I’ve been on call. You look so grown up. Christian, can you take Mia’s bags upstairs? Gretchen will give you a hand.”
Really? I’m a porter now?
“Yes, Mom.” I roll my eyes. I don’t need Gretchen mooning over me.
Once that’s done, I tell them that I have an appointment with my trainer. “I’ll be back this evening.” Quickly kissing them both, I leave before I’m pestered with more questions about Ana.
BASTILLE, MY TRAINER, WORKS me hard. Today we’re kickboxing at his gym.
“You’ve gone soft in Portland, boy.” He sneers after I’m toppled onto the mat from his roundhouse kick. Bastille is from the hard-knocks school of physical training, which suits me fine.
I scramble to my feet. I want to take him down. But he’s right—he’s all over my shit today, and I get nowhere.
