She’s speechless—a novel concept for my mother. She gapes at me, but eventually recovers herself and resumes her original line of questioning.

“How was last night? Did you talk?”

Jeez. I flush bright scarlet.

“We talked—last night and today. It’s getting better.”

“Good.” She turns her attention back to the four cookbooks she has open on the kitchen table.

“Mom … if you like, I’ll cook this evening.”

“Oh, honey, that’s kind of you, but I want to do it.”

“Okay.” I grimace, knowing full well that my mother’s cooking is pretty hit or miss. Perhaps she’s improved since she moved to Savannah with Bob. There was a time I wouldn’t subject anyone to her cooking … even—who do I hate? Oh yes—Mrs. Robinson—Elena. Well, maybe her. Will I ever meet this damned woman?

I decide to send a quick thank-you to Christian.

Holy shit. I know I talk in my sleep. Kate has told me enough times. What the hell have I said? Oh no.

Right! I shall maintain radio silence until this evening. I fume. Jeez. Suppose I’ve said I hate him, or worse still, that I love him, in my sleep. Oh, I hope not. I am not ready to tell him that, and I’m sure he’s not ready to hear it, if he ever wants to hear it. I scowl at my computer and decide that whatever Mom cooks, I will make bread to vent my frustrations while kneading the dough.

MY MOM HAS DECIDED on gazpacho soup and a barbecue with steaks marinated in olive oil, garlic, and lemon. Christian likes meat, and it’s simple to do. Bob has volunteered to man the BBQ grill. What is it about men and fire? I ponder as I trail after my mother through the supermarket with the shopping cart.

As we browse the raw meat cabinet, my phone rings. I scramble for it, thinking it may be Christian. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I answer breathlessly.

“Anastasia Steele?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Elizabeth Morgan from SIP.”

“Oh—hi.”

“I’m calling to offer you the job of assistant to Mr. Jack Hyde. We’d like you to start on Monday.”

“Wow. That’s great. Thank you!”

“You know the salary details?”

“Yes. Yes … that’s—I mean, I accept your offer. I’d love to come and work for you.”

“Excellent. We’ll see you Monday at 8:30 a.m.?”

“See you then. Good-bye. And thank you.”

I beam at my mom.

“You have a job?”

I nod gleefully, and she squeals and hugs me in the middle of Publix supermarket.

“Congratulations, darling! We have to buy some champagne!” She’s clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Is she forty-two or twelve?

I glance down at my phone and frown; there’s a missed call from Christian. He never phones me. I call him straight back.

“Anastasia,” he answers immediately.

“Hi,” I murmur shyly.

“I have to return to Seattle. Something’s come up. I am on my way to Hilton Head now. Please apologize to your mother—I can’t make dinner.” He sounds very businesslike.

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“I have a situation that I have to deal with. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll send Taylor to collect you from the airport if I can’t come myself.” He sounds cold. Angry even. But for the first time, I don’t immediately think it’s me.

“Okay. I hope you sort out your situation. Have a safe flight.”

“You too, baby,” he breathes, and with those words, my Christian is back. Then he hangs up.

Oh no. The last “situation” he had was my virginity. Jeez, I hope it’s nothing like that. I gaze at my mom. Her earlier jubilation has metamorphosed into concern.

“It’s Christian. He’s had to go back to Seattle. He apologizes.”

“Oh! That’s a shame, darling. We can still have our barbecue, and now we have something to celebrate—your new job! You have to tell me all about it.”

IT’S LATE AFTERNOON, AND Mom and I are lying beside the pool. My mother has relaxed to the point where she is literally horizontal now that Mr. Megabucks is not coming to dinner. As I lie in the sun, endeavoring to lose the pale, I think about yesterday evening and breakfast today. I think about Christian, and my ridiculous grin refuses to subside. It keeps creeping across my face, unbidden and disconcerting, as I recall our various conversations and what we did … what he did.

There seems to be a tidal shift in Christian’s attitude. He denies it, but he admits he’s trying for more. What could have changed? What has altered since he sent his long e-mail and when I saw him yesterday? What has he done? I sit up suddenly, almost spilling my soda. He had dinner with … her. Elena.

Holy fuck!

My scalp prickles at the realization. Did she say something to him? Oh … to have been a fly on the wall during their dinner. I could have landed in her soup or on her wine glass and choked her.

“What is it, Ana, honey?” Mom asks, startled from her torpor.

“I’m just having a moment, Mom. What time is it?”

“About six thirty p.m., darling.”

Hmm … he wouldn’t have landed yet. Can I ask him? Should I ask him? Or perhaps she has nothing to do with it. I fervently hope so. What did I say in my sleep? Crap … some unguarded remark while dreaming about him, I bet. Whatever it is, or was, I hope the sea change is coming from within him and not because of her.

I am sweltering in this damned heat. I need another dip in the pool.

AS I GET READY for bed, I switch on my computer. I have heard nothing from Christian. Not even a word that he’s arrived safely.

Cat of his own? I’ve never seen a cat in his apartment. No, I am not going to answer him. Oh, he can be so exasperating sometimes. Fifty shades of exasperating. I clamber into bed and lie glaring at the ceiling as my eyes adjust to the dark. I hear another ping from my computer. I am not going to look. No, definitely not. No, I am not going to look. Gah! Like the fool I am, I cannot resist the lure of Christian Grey’s words.

Oh no … What have I said? It’s as bad as I think, I’m sure.