My phone buzzes.
“I have Mr. Welch on the line for you.”
“Put him through.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Welch, I need a background check.”
Saturday, May 14, 2011
542/551
I pore over the executive summary for the hundredth time since I received it two days ago, looking for some insight into the enigmatic Miss Anastasia Rose Steele. I cannot get the damned woman out of my mind, and it’s seriously beginning to piss me off. This past week, during particularly dull meetings, I’ve found myself replaying the interview in my head. Her fumbling fingers on the recorder, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the lip biting. Yes. The fucking lip biting gets me every time.
And now, here I am, parked outside Clayton’s, the modest hardware store on the outskirts of Portland where she works.
You’re a fool, Grey. Why are you here?
I knew it would lead to this. All week . . . I knew I’d have to see her again.
I’d known it since she uttered my name in the elevator and disappeared into the depths of my building. I’d tried to resist. I’d waited five days, five fucking days to see if I’d forget about her. And I don’t do waiting. I hate waiting . . . for anything.
I’ve never actively pursued a woman before. The women I’ve had understood 543/551
what I expected of them. My fear now is that Miss Steele is just too young and that she won’t be interested in what I have to offer . . . will she? Will she even make a good submissive? I shake my head. There’s only one way to find out . . .
so here I am, a fucking ass, sitting in a suburban parking lot in a dreary part of Portland.
Her background check has produced nothing remarkable—except the last fact, which has been at the forefront of my mind. It’s the reason I’m here. Why no boyfriend, Miss Steele? Sexual orientation unknown—perhaps she’s gay. I snort, thinking that unlikely. I recall the question she asked during the interview, her acute embarrassment, the way her skin flushed a pale rose . . . Shit. I’ve been suffering from these ludicrous thoughts since I met her.
That’s why you’re here.
I’m itching to see her again—those blue eyes have haunted me, even in my dreams. I haven’t mentioned her to Flynn, and I’m glad because I’m now behaving like a stalker. Perhaps I should let him know. I roll my eyes—I don’t want him hounding me about his latest solution-based shit. I just need a distraction . . .