Chapter Three

He picks me up after work and takes me to dinner. We talk about my day and my boss and he walks me home. I kiss his cheek. He doesn't reciprocate or tell me about Christian unless I ask. (I try not to.) It's two weeks before I understand that Wednesdays and Sundays are his days off. I offer to cook him dinner at my place for our next not-really-a-date, mostly because I have Kate's backing.

"He's just a friend," I insist as she gussies up in the bathroom mirror. "It's not what you think."

"You've been seeing him for eighteen days, six hours and eleven minutes."

My jaw drops. "You're keeping count?"

Kate rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. "I made the numbers up. My point is that you've been out with him a few times and now you've invited him to our apartment. It's the natural order of things."

"You make it sound sleazy," I protest, wondering if it's too late to cancel. He'll be disappointed, I know, and I'll spend the night wondering about what-ifs. A part of me wishes I could be as confident as Kate and just - go for it. I'm twenty-two years old; I should be relishing the opportunity to be alone with a man. I hunt for some kind of objection that Kate could latch onto. I need her on my side. (Or my lack of gumption does.) "Don't you think he's a little too old for me?"

"Do you think he's old?" Kate chirps.

"You know, I liked it better when you were the intrepid journalist in this twosome of ours. Now that you've gone all head-shrink on me, I'm thinking about getting a new roommate."

I can hear her laughing. "And give up a front seat to all my romantic entanglements? You wouldn't dare." She steps out in heels and a tight-fitting black dress, her hair pinned up in a neat chignon: I remember she's going out with Elliot - who is thirty. I'm looking for support from the wrong woman. "If you don't want him to come over, just take him out to dinner somewhere. Go dancing!"

"And leave two pounds' worth of meatloaf to thaw in the sink for nothing?" I shake my head. "I have to cook it anyway. We'll just... have a nice, friendly, entirely PG evening. Alone in your apartment."

"Our apartment," Kate corrects. "Here." She produces a small, black device from her bedside table and holds it out to me.

"You have a panic button? Since when?"

"Since Daddy's little girl started college," she says, shrugging. I had no idea. "You press this for two seconds and they get a call down at the station that our house alarm's been activated. They'll have to come over check it out."

"Right." My thumb hovers over the black switch. "You're giving me a rape whistle."

Kate nods. "A high-tech rape whistle. And I'm lending, not giving."

"You think Taylor's a rapist?"

"I think you're freaking out because you've never invited a guy over just to have dinner - don't give me that look, I know what went on with you and Christian - and you're worried that you won't know what to do. This is a worst case scenario precaution. On the off chance that you don't set fire to the kitchen and he doesn't screw up, you won't even need it. But in case you do..."

"Thanks." I want my answer to sound like it's not necessary. I want to tell her that she's got the wrong idea about Christian and me and what I can or cannot handle, but not only is there an NDA stopping me short, I'm embarrassed to unearth all that nonsense. Kate wouldn't judge, but I don't want her to think I'm weak-willed.

Despite slivers of guilt and I'm-sure-I'm-overreacting self-sabotage, I keep the panic button in my back pocket while I get dinner underway. It takes some time for the meatloaf to cook, which means I can busy myself with tidying up the living room. Shoving unpacked boxes against one side of the room is the only way to free up the dining room table. By the time I'm finished, it's already eight and I realize I haven't changed. There's no time for make-up, so I struggle into a navy dress and a pair of comfortable flats and rush back into the kitchen to check on the meatloaf. It's nicely cooked and the smell of thyme and rosemary hangs heavy in the air when I open the oven door to check. Tossing a salad together is quick work. I'm done by eight fifteen, with the table set and wine cooling in the fridge.

We need music, I realize. Something that doesn't scream romantic date, in case our wires might've gotten crossed, or young college graduate, because I don't want him to think I'm immature or innocent or any of the things that first drew Christian's attention. Which means Taylor Swift's out of the race. So, too, is the Bieber. I'm left thumbing through Kate's collection when the oven timer goes. For all my culinary aspirations, it's the carving of a well-cooked piece of meat that I love best - Ray calls it the privilege of the chef. I tell myself Taylor won't mind and go ahead and load up the plates.

Is this too domestic? Too much the nineteen-fifties housewife waiting for the husband to come home? I don't care; the butterflies in my stomach are two parts excitement to one part nerves. Miraculously, I don't even drop the plates on my way to the table. Something's missing, still. It takes me a moment to realize what and then I'm back rummaging through cupboards and drawers in search of candles. We don't have holders yet, but I'm an industrious woman; I improvise with a pair of shot glasses Kate brought back from Buenos Aires.

Connie Francis croons on the stereo as I sit down to wait. The microwave clock reads eight-thirty. Taylor should be here any minute.

I'm still waiting at eight forty-two. And nine. And nine-sixteen. I liberate a crisp salad leaf from my plate and chew it while I wait. I realized I went a little overboard on the vinegar and fetch the honey out of the kitchen. Taste again, because my cooking is not an exact science. Better.

At nine-twenty-two, I check my phone. No messages, no calls. Connie's back to singing the first song on the record and I'm starving. More importantly, I'm feeling like a loser. I realize I got the metaphor all wrong: I'm not the Stepford wife material. I'm the girl who gets stood up before the first date - the pre-spinster type whose romantic options are not limited so much as nonexistent. Maybe this is payback.

A knock on the door curbs the spiral of self-recrimination before I overdramatize any further. "Who is it?" I call out, hoping and dreading at the same time.

"The jerk formerly known as Jason Taylor," filters in through the cracks in the wood. "If you want me to go away, I'll-"

I open the door. "You're late."

"I know. I'm so-"

"You couldn't call?" I rasp, fully aware that I sound pathetic. We're not dating. We're not even friends - just people who occasionally get together and share a meal. He doesn't owe me an explanation. My fury is a harder tide to stem than that: "Or text? Or, Christ, email?" I forget not everyone is as plugged-in as Christian, but it's not an excuse.

"I didn't get the chance," Taylor tells me. "I'm really sorry. I was going to be here early, bring you flowers-"

"Which are where?"

He points to a bouquet sticking out of the trash can down the hall, stems thrust out like arrows in a quiver. "I thought if I showed up with roses after making you wait, you'd hit me over the head. Besides, they were wilting already. I left them in the car..."

"Come inside."

"What?"

I glare at him. "You're not going to get a please with that. Come inside." It's not the flowers, I tell myself, it's the fact that he was looking forward to seeing me so much that he went out of his way to stop by a florist's. I try to hold onto my righteous indignation as he brushes past on his way in. "Meatloaf's gone cold and the salad is probably tepid by now, but..."

Oh, screw it. I fist Taylor's lapels in my hands and press my lips to his before the front door has slid fully shut. I don't see the hand that stops it short or the patent leather shoe that steps into the apartment. Taylor is warm and solid beneath my hands. His lips are very soft.

I feel his hand cup my cheek as he breathes out his surprise. He doesn't push me away and the harsh tattoo in my chest lets up its drumming.

That's when I hear it. A voice from a dream, from a nightmare, all urbane cadences wrought with a forked tongue. "Good evening, Ana. Taylor."

My heart skips a beat as I disentangle myself from Taylor's loose hold. There, standing like a wraith in my living room, is Christian Grey.