My initial feeling is one of relief. He’s willing to discuss my issues at least, and he still wants to meet tomorrow. After some thought, I reply.

He’s even grumpy by e-mail. Doesn’t he understand that I may need to make a quick getaway? Not that my Beetle is quick … but still—I need a means of escape.

I call Ray, who is just about to watch the Sounders play some soccer team from Salt Lake City, so our conversation is mercifully brief. He’s driving down on Thursday for graduation. He wants to take me out afterward for a meal. My heart swells talking to Ray, and a huge lump forms in my throat. He has been my constant through all Mom’s romantic ups and downs. We have a special bond that I treasure. Even though he’s my stepdad, he’s always treated me as his own, and I can’t wait to see him. It’s been too long. His quiet fortitude is what I need now, what I miss. Maybe I can channel my inner Ray for my meeting tomorrow.

Kate and I concentrate on packing, sharing a bottle of cheap red wine as we do. When I finally go to bed, having almost finished packing my room, I feel calmer. The physical activity of boxing everything up has been a welcome distraction, and I’m tired. I want a good night’s rest. I snuggle into my bed and am soon asleep.

PAUL IS BACK FROM Princeton before he sets off for New York to start an internship with a financing company. He follows me around the store all day asking me for a date. It’s annoying.

“Paul, for the hundredth time, I have a date this evening.”

“No, you don’t, you’re just saying that to avoid me. You’re always avoiding me.”

Yes … you’d think you’d take the hint.

“Paul, I never thought it was a good idea to date the boss’s brother.”

“You’re finishing here on Friday. You’re not working tomorrow.”

“And I’ll be in Seattle as of Saturday and you’ll be in New York soon. We couldn’t get much farther apart if we tried. Besides, I do have a date this evening.”

“With José?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Paul … oh.” My sigh is exasperated. He’s not going to let this go. “Christian Grey.” I cannot help the annoyance in my voice. But it does the trick. Paul’s mouth falls open, and he gapes at me, struck dumb. Humph—even his name renders people speechless.

“You have a date with Christian Grey?” he says finally, once he’s over the shock. Disbelief is evident in his voice.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Paul looks positively crestfallen, stunned even, and a very small part of me resents that he should find this a surprise. My inner goddess does, too. She makes a very vulgar and unattractive gesture at him with her fingers.

After that, he ignores me, and at five I am out the door, pronto.

Kate has lent me two dresses and two pairs of shoes for tonight and for graduation tomorrow. I wish I could feel more enthused about clothes and make an extra effort, but clothes are just not my thing. What is your thing, Anastasia? Christian’s softly spoken question haunts me. Shaking my head and endeavoring to quell my nerves, I decide on the plum-colored sheath dress for this evening. It’s demure and vaguely businesslike—after all, I am negotiating a contract.

I shower, shave my legs and underarms, wash my hair, and then spend a good half hour drying it so that it falls in soft waves to my breasts and down my back. I slip a comb in to keep one side off my face and apply mascara and some lip gloss. I rarely wear makeup—it intimidates me. None of my literary heroines had to deal with makeup—maybe I’d know more about it if they had. I slip on the plum-colored stilettos that match the dress, and I’m ready by six thirty.

“Well?” I ask Kate.

She grins.

“Boy, you scrub up well, Ana.” She nods with approval. “You look hot.”

“Hot! I’m aiming for demure and businesslike.”

“That, too, but most of all hot. The dress really suits you and your coloring. The way it clings.” She smirks.

“Kate!” I scold.

“Just keeping it real, Ana. The whole package—looks good. Keep the dress. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.”

My mouth presses in a hard line. Oh, you so have that the wrong way around.

“Wish me luck.”

“You need luck for a date?” Her brow furrows, puzzled.

“Yes, Kate.”

“Well, then—good luck.” She hugs me, and I am out the front door.

I have to drive in my bare feet—Wanda, my sea-blue Beetle, wasn’t built to be driven by stiletto-wearers. I pull up outside the Heathman at six fifty-eight precisely and hand my car keys to the valet for parking. He looks askance at my Beetle, but I ignore him. Taking a deep breath and mentally girding my loins, I head into the hotel.

Christian is leaning casually against the bar, drinking a glass of white wine. He’s dressed in his customary white linen shirt, black jeans, black tie, and black jacket. His hair is as tousled as ever. I sigh. I stand for a few seconds in the entrance of the bar, gazing at him, admiring the view. He glances, nervously I think, toward the entrance and stills when he sees me. Blinking a couple of times, he then smiles a slow, lazy, sexy smile that renders me speechless and all molten inside. Making a supreme effort not to bite my lip, I move forward, aware that I, Anastasia Steele of Clumsyville, am in high stilettos. He walks gracefully over to meet me.

“You look stunning,” he murmurs as he leans down to briefly kiss my cheek. “A dress, Miss Steele. I approve.” Taking my arm, he leads me to a secluded booth and signals for the waiter.

“What would you like to drink?”

My lips quirk up in a quick, sly smile as I sit and slide into the booth—well, at least he’s asking me.

“I’ll have what you’re having, please.” See! I can play nice and behave myself. Amused, he orders another glass of Sancerre and slides in opposite me.

“They have an excellent wine cellar here,” he says. Putting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, his eyes alive with some unreadable emotion. And there it is … that familiar pull and charge from him, it connects somewhere deep inside me. I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, my heart palpitating. I must keep my cool.

“Are you nervous?” he asks softly.

“Yes.”

He leans forward.

“Me, too,” he whispers conspiratorially. My eyes shoot up to meet his. Him? Nervous? Never. I blink, and he smiles his adorable lopsided smile at me. The waiter arrives with my wine, a small dish of mixed nuts, and another of olives.

“So, how are we going to do this?” I ask. “Run through my points one by one?”

“Impatient as ever, Miss Steele.”

“Well, I could ask you what you thought of the weather today.”

He smiles, and his long fingers reach down to collect an olive. He pops it in his mouth, and my eyes linger on his mouth, that mouth, that’s been on me … all parts of me. I flush.

“I thought the weather was particularly unexceptional today.” He smirks.

“Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?”

“I am, Miss Steele.”

“You know this contract is legally unenforceable.”

“I am fully aware of that, Miss Steele.”

“Were you going to tell me that at any point?”

He frowns. “You’d think I’d coerce you into something you don’t want to do, and then pretend that I have a legal hold over you?”

“Well … yes.”

“You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Anastasia, it doesn’t matter if it’s legal or not. It represents an arrangement that I would like to make with you—what I would like from you and what you can expect from me. If you don’t like it, then don’t sign. If you do sign and then decide you don’t like it, there are enough get-out clauses so you can walk away. Even if it were legally binding, do you think I’d drag you through the courts if you did decide to run?”

I take a long sip of my wine. My subconscious taps me hard on the shoulder. You must keep your wits about you. Don’t drink too much.

“Relationships like this are built on honesty and trust,” he continues. “If you don’t trust me—trust me to know how I’m affecting you, how far I can go with you, how far I can take you—if you can’t be honest with me, then we really can’t do this.”

Oh my, we’ve cut to the chase quickly. How far he can take me. Holy shit. What does that mean?

“So it’s quite simple, Anastasia. Do you trust me or not?” His eyes are burning, fervent.

“Did you have similar discussions with, um … the fifteen?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they were all established submissives. They knew what they wanted out of a relationship with me and generally what I expected. With them, it was just a question of fine-tuning the soft limits, details like that.”

“Is there a store you go to? Submissives ’Я’ Us?”

He laughs. “Not exactly.”

“Then how?”

“Is that what you want to discuss? Or shall we get down to the nitty-gritty? Your issues, as you say.”

I swallow. Do I trust him? Is that what this all comes down to—trust? Surely that should be a two-way thing. I remember his snit when I phoned José.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, distracting me from my thoughts.

Oh no … food.

“No.”

“Have you eaten today?”

I stare at him. Honesty … Holy crap, he’s not going to like my answer.

“No.” My voice is small.

He narrows his eyes.

“You have to eat, Anastasia. We can eat down here or in my suite. What would you prefer?”

“I think we should stay in public, on neutral ground.”

He smiles sardonically.

“Do you think that would stop me?” he says softly, a sensual warning.

My eyes widen, and I swallow again.

“I hope so.”

“Come, I have a private dining room booked. No public.” He smiles at me enigmatically and climbs out of the booth, holding his hand out to me.

“Bring your wine,” he murmurs.

Placing my hand in his, I slide out and stand up beside him. He releases me, and his hand reaches for my elbow. He leads me back through the bar and up the grand stairs to a mezzanine floor. A young man in full Heathman livery approaches us.

“Mr. Grey, this way, sir.”

We follow him through a plush seating area to an intimate dining room. Just one secluded table. The room is small but sumptuous. Beneath a shimmering chandelier, the table is all starched linen, crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and white rose bouquet. An old-world, sophisticated charm pervades the wood-paneled room. The waiter pulls out my chair, and I sit. He places my napkin in my lap. Christian sits opposite me. I peek up at him.

“Don’t bite your lip,” he whispers.

I frown. Damn it. I don’t even know that I’m doing it.

“I’ve ordered already. I hope you don’t mind.”

Frankly, I’m relieved. I’m not sure I can make any further decisions.

“No, that’s fine,” I acquiesce.

“It’s good to know that you can be amenable. Now, where were we?”

“The nitty-gritty.” I take another large sip of wine. It really is delicious. Christian Grey does wine well. I remember the last sip of wine he gave me, in my bed. I blush at the intrusive thought.

“Yes, your issues.” He fishes into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. My e-mail.

“Clause 2. Agreed. This is for the benefit of us both. I shall redraft.”

I blink at him. Holy shit … we are going to go through each of these points one at a time. I just don’t feel so brave face-to-face. He looks so earnest. I steel myself with another sip of my wine. Christian continues.

“My sexual health. Well, all of my previous partners have had blood tests, and I have regular tests every six months for all the health risks you mention. All my recent tests are clear. I have never taken drugs. In fact, I’m vehemently antidrug. I have a strict no-tolerance policy with regards to drugs for all my employees, and I insist on random drug testing.”

Wow … control freakery gone mad. I blink at him, shocked.

“I have never had any blood transfusions. Does that answer your question?”

I nod, impassive.

“Your next point I mentioned earlier. You can walk away any time, Anastasia. I won’t stop you. If you go, however—that’s it. Just so you know.”

“Okay,” I answer softly. If I go, that’s it. The thought is surprisingly painful.

The waiter arrives with our first course. How can I possibly eat? Holy Moses—he’s ordered oysters on a bed of ice.

“I hope you like oysters.” Christian’s voice is soft.

“I’ve never had one.” Ever.

“Really? Well.” He reaches for one. “All you do is tip and swallow. I think you can manage that.” He gazes at me, and I know what he’s referring to. I blush scarlet. He grins at me, squirts some lemon juice onto his oyster, and then tips it into his mouth.

“Hmm, delicious. Tastes of the sea.” He grins at me. “Go on,” he encourages.

“So, I don’t chew it?”

“No, Anastasia, you don’t.” His eyes are alight with humor. He looks so young like this.

I bite my lip and his expression changes instantly. He looks sternly at me. I reach across and pick up my first-ever oyster. Okay … here goes nothing. I squirt some lemon juice on it and tip it up. It slips down my throat, all sea water, salt, the sharp tang of citrus, and fleshiness … ooh. I lick my lips, and he’s watching me intently, his eyes hooded.

“Well?”

“I’ll have another,” I say dryly.

“Good girl,” he says proudly.

“Did you choose these deliberately? Aren’t they known for their aphrodisiac qualities?”