Thank you for your patience and the love you have shown for this story! I'm truly thankful and appreciative for all of your reviews, comments, follows... xox


"It's a magnificent specimen, sir," Taylor says, admiring the gigantic piece cradled in my hand.

"Did you expect anything less from me?" I ask as I stroke the smooth elongated edges. I didn't notice it was so smooth and elongated before. I like that. I hold it up to the light so we can both fix eyes on it. It's quite awe inspiring, if I do say so myself. When I manipulate it, it's like it shoots off the Northern Lights.

"No, sir. Nothing less. But, it is rather on the large side. I'm not sure how one accommodates that on a daily basis." He looks concerned. Fearful, even. He cocks his head to one side like a dog might upon hearing a high whistle.

"Of course it's large. That's how you know it's good. You've never seen a small one wow a woman before, have you?"

"No sir, but I've never done a proper survey." Of course he hasn't. I don't think he's ever really given one to anybody, either. Well, his first wife. It was probably Cracker Jack, but they had a kid and all. He really should give it to Gail by now. It's been years.

"Taylor, I need you to role play something for me," I say, turning to face him, with my item, straight on.

"Right now, sir?"

"No next week over cotton candy and a carousel ride. Of course now!"

"Okay, sir." He looks wary.

"You're on a beach..."

"Like Normandy, sir?"

"No." I roll my eyes. It's always war fantasies with this one. "Like the tropics, late at night, it's balmy…"

"Is there a full moon, sir?"

"I don't fucking know. Why does it matter?"

"I'm trying to envision the tide."

"Taylor, this is my fantasy, just skip down the lane with me, will you?"

"I thought it was a beach."

"It is a beach! It's a fucking beach!" He gives me a troubled look. "I mean, not an actual fucking beach like an orgy sex beach, just a beach. The sex happens later in the cabana with wildflowers surrounding."

"Yes, sir. A beach." His adam's apple bobbed so I think that he gulped.

I hold up the piece in my hand. "Now then, I need you to imagine that this thing's just popped out from a box after dinner. What would you think?"

He stares at it for a moment, head again tilted. Less woof whistle in his cock now and more algebraic assessment.

"It is cut quite nicely, sir."

"That's what you'd think?" I frown. "We're on a romantic beach and all you can think of is how well it's cut?"

"It's certainly impressive, Mr. Grey. The dimensions are spectacular."

"He's not wrong," a voice sounds from across the red velvet sheet that Taylor and I are hovered over. He's been a voyeur this whole time. "What you've got there is the cut of a princess, Mr. Grey."

I look over and see Donald, my longtime jeweler at Cartier, nearly pissing hallelujahs as Taylor and I audit the vast array of large well-cut diamonds he's displayed.

Yes, we've come for Anastasia's ring.

"A princess is fitting," I say, and for a moment I imagine Ana, my princess, walking down the aisle with a veil and a train and her ring sparkling in the late afternoon sun as she holds to the arm of her father. The single best moment of my life will be when she lets go of his to take mine.

That is if she says yes…

The ring has to be perfect!

We're in a private suite on the top floor of Cartier—Weddings, China and Stationery. I'm not sure why that's a traditional grouping, but I guess once you tie the knot you eat at home a lot and send monogrammed correspondence.

It's always been something of a myth, an enigma—this place up here that's only accessed by a spiral staircase and sealed away behind two gilded doors. Elliot says it's where you trade your two rocks for one and then hand it off to your wife to hold over you forever. He has a point, but then again I quite like the idea of Ana wearing my testicles.

And speaking of rocks, I'm getting hard as one imagining my C and her A wound like vine around a triple-sized G. I must have that stationery!

I've watched people make their way up here over the years, usually a man alone, or on occasion a happy couple that annoyed the shit out of me—the happiest couples always have. All the while, I was choosing a pair of earrings or a choker for a girl who was disposable to me. I never understood relationships without expiration dates.

I have, my whole life, acted as if I couldn't care less. This ruse paramount to my existence. To care meant something could be taken away, and I could have no part in more loss. But, deep down—because we all have a deep down—I have been curious about a man who makes up his mind on one girl. A man who walks the steps and sits at the table and buys the ring. How many lists of pros and cons—figuratively and literally—he's made to get to that place of two, forever. I've since learned it isn't a thing you think at all, evidenced by my blurting out on my knees in the dark. Terribly unromantic, but terribly from the heart. Yes, terribly.

I rationalized back then that those marrying men were idealistic and stupid, after all love was supposed to be for fools. Although, after walking that staircase today, the evidence of my nerves trailed along the banister from my palm, and sitting here before a red sheeted countertop covered in the worth of some small nations alongside Taylor and an idiot salesman, I'm thinking that maybe it's true. Love is for fools.

And maybe that's the point.

"Can I offer you some more bubbles?" Donald asks—with a raise of two brows that reach so creepily close to his hairline he could be an owl—as he pulls the bottle of Dom Pérignon from the ice bucket. It's not lost on me that I'm drinking Dom as I choose Ana's ring and officially relinquish my status as one forever. The universe has a sense of humor. I never noticed before.

"No, I need to concentrate," I say, holding up a palm in refusal.

Taylor, on the other hand, holds out his glass like he's some sort of Studio 54 Oliver Twist, begging for some more. Donald eagerly obliges with a long pour. Taylor fingers, then drops two golden raspberries inside his bubbled-over flute from an offered tray, and then snags a bite of hard cheese. I swear, you give Taylor a piece of fruit that's the wrong color and some moldy dairy, he thinks it's Mardi Gras.

I shoot him a look.

"I enjoy a Bellini now and again, sir," he says, and then sips, catching a piece of the fruit on the swallow. The way he sucks that raspberry back will haunt me for years.

"How much were you looking to spend?" Donald asks. He keeps straightening the red cloth the rings are laid out on, ironing the creases out with his spindly digits as if he fears I may call off the rest of my life if there's a flaw in his presentation velvet.

"Well, they say about two months salary," I inform. "But, I'm not sure you have anything for around forty-eight million lying about."

There's a pause. A gaping of his jaw which causes the triplicate in his chin to flap a little. He's deciding if I'm kidding or not.

I'm not.

"We could look," he stammers. Of course he could.

The violinist, a middle-aged man wearing suspenders with little French horns on them, is playing the theme from Romeo and Juliet now. I hate Romeo and Juliet. There's nothing romantic about drinking poison. Kate and Elliot sucking face is a perfect example.

Why is the violinist promoting French horns? That's like a clue they'd use to solve a double homicide in one of those crime detective shows. He was a fraud from his brass to his bow.

"You know when you contacted me about rings, I was stunned," Donald says as he hands me another choice. "I had no idea you were so serious in a relationship with anyone."

"Have we ever discussed my personal life before?"

"No, sir."

"Let's not break with tradition." I slide a dramatic marquis onto my pinkie and wiggle it in the light to test the refractory response. This one is no rainbows, all bullshit. I discard it onto the sheet.

"Of course. I won't pry." Donald leans in to whisper, with odd intensity, "Just know, I support you. Fully."

"Thank you. Fully," I say. What a mental case. Maybe he's just drunk. He's been drinking my share.

"I have a cousin in Sedona with your situation." He motions his head, I guess in the direction of Sedona, like I know what the hell is in Arizona, aside from another one of his idiot kin. "Two kids and a Rottweiler now."

"Really? The dog or the husband?" I mutter.

"Let me also reassure you that we here at Cartier hold no judgement," he says.

"Judgement? For what?"

"Your…lifestyle, sir."

"My lifestyle?" What the fuck? After all these years? If they were going to judge me for my lifestyle, I'd think we'd be having this discussion over that piece of pelvic jewelry I have on order for Ana that resembles a vagina chandelier and not an engagement ring.

"We think it's wonderful that you two are so happy," Donald says, flashing his equestrian off off whites, smiling at me, then Taylor and then back at me again.

Oh hell.

"I'm not marrying Taylor!" I spit out.

The violin music halts.

"Oh, I thought—"

"You think I want to buy this guy and his gorilla paws a forty-eight million dollar ring?" I gesture to Taylor. "He'd be happier with the coal."

Taylor nods in agreement.

"Oh, I just assumed—"

"Who do you think I've bought all my jewelry for over the years?"

He shrugs. "Your mother?"

"You think I'd buy nipple clamps and a vagina chandelier for my mother?"

The violinist starts up again with a voluminous commitment to tragedy.

"I do apologize," Donald says.

"Enough." I wave him off. "I'm here to buy a ring for a woman. The one that I love and I want to spend the rest of my life with. The one who's made me a kinder, gentler, more forgiving man. Now, how the fuck big is this?" I hold up the love child of Liz Taylor and the Queen of England's most prized gems.

"Sixteen going on seventeen, sir," Donald says of the carats.

"Perfect!" I say. "It's like the Sound of Music to my ears."

"It's got accents, too," Taylor says, all strained and flustered, like he's kicking out a shit that just won't let him go. "How big are the accents?"

"Three carats," Donald says. "Each."

"That's twenty-three carats of diamonds, sir!" Taylor'a really worked up over this. What the fuck is wrong with him?

"Perhaps we can remove the accents…" Donald says.

"And break up the family?" I ask. "No way."

"Sir, I'm concerned about the size—" Taylor says.

"Since when are you so afraid of large rocks?" I ask him. Maybe some boulders fell on him in battle—or the day he was born.

"As your head of security, I just greatly fear for Miss Steele's—or rather Mrs. Grey's safety if she wears a ring that massive out in public on a daily basis."

Oh God, he's right. She's already a kidnapping and ransom threat. And once she's my fiancé, and then my wife the threat levels will rise astronomically. I have a terrible vision of some thugs trying to cut off her finger for it—or worse.

"No accents!" I shout and I think I scared Fraud French Horn because he halts the violin carnage again. "I need something more demure, lovely. Large, but nothing that will signal ships." Or hitmen.

"Here are some of our more classic designs," Donald says, sounding disappointed about the size-down, as he pulls out a few more from his case. Hell, I still want to pay the forty-eight million to give Miss Steele her due. "The Cartier Destinée, the Cartier D'amour, oh and the 'You're Mine' special design—"

"That's it. You're mine. That's the one," I say, until I look at it and see it's cut in the shape of a heart. She wants hearts and flowers, but that's too fucking tacky—and tiny. Too bad, the name was perfect for us.

"Not that demure and lovely!" I say in dismissal of the rock—or pebble. "Make sure it's gone through puberty first."

The violinist starts again.

I've had enough!

"They die at the end!" I say. Fraud French Horns stops abruptly, regroups, then starts on the wildly happier score of Love Story.

"Maybe we should choose a solitaire diamond and then incorporate it into a setting of your choosing. The setting is really everything," Donald says. "Maybe a halo? A raised basket? Braids or knots?" Donald holds up examples. The last thing I need on her ring is braids or knots.

I look over everything and nothing is jumping out at me. Nothing is my Ana. I want it to be something she'll love. I want her to look down at her hand every day of her life and smile—and think of me.

"No all this is wrong," I say. "I don't want overly ostentatious, but I certainly don't want to puzzle piece it together. I want a completely original design. A round cut, simple five or six carats. Edging toward six." Yes, I do love edging. "Flawless stone. Platinum." I get in Donald's face. "It has to be the most perfect ring you've ever made."

"Of course, Mr. Grey."

"And I want a small pink diamond placed on the inside of the band. A hidden accent. Can you do that?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good." The clear diamond will be shown to the world, but the pink secret— representing the Bollinger, the color of her ass after a spanking, her blush, and the hue of sweethearts—will only be known by us.

"I need it in two weeks," I say. "And send sketches for my engagement planners and me to go over in no more than three days."

"Yes, Mr. Grey." Donald starts to step away.

"One more thing," I say and he stops and turns back. "I want a set of monogrammed notecards sent directly to my office. A C and an A wrapped around the big G in the middle."

He nods and takes off to draw up papers.

I look over at Taylor and shake my head as he takes another sip of bubbly. "Don't drink too much, in case you have to shoot someone for me."


"Oh, Mr. Grey, I'm beyond thrilled to be able to show you and your lovely fiancé your new house this evening," my realtor, Olga Kelly says as I speak to her on the phone in the back of the SUV. So I exaggerated the fiancé part. I'm just overly excited after being on the top floor at Cartier looking at rings and ordering stationery.

"Good, we'll be by just before sunset," I say. "Bake some cookies."

"Cookies?" Olga asks.

"I want the place to smell like home the moment she walks in. It's either that or a pie with heavy autumnal seasonings, but that's awkward in June." How does she not know these realtor tricks? "Oh, and a minor detail. Don't tell her she owns it."

"What?"

"We're just touring it tonight."

"But, how shall I present it?"

"I'll handle it. Just make sure the windows and drapes and French doors are wide open in the master suite. I want that billowing effect as soon as she sees the view."

"Yes, Mr. Grey. Cookies, open windows and billowing drapes."

"But, don't open the windows near the cookies or the home baked aromas will dissipate."

"Of course." She thinks I'm crazy. I don't fucking care. As long as I get cookies and open windows for my Ana.

"See you tonight." I hang up. I can't wait to see Ana's face when she takes in the colors over the sound from the balcony of what will be our bedroom.

The ding on my BlackBerry interrupts my daydreaming. I look to find it's an email from the girl I've been daydreaming about. My dreams are real now.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Megalomaniac…

Date: June 16 2011 15:43

To: Christian Grey

…is my favorite type of maniac. Thank you for the beautiful flowers. They've arrived in a huge wicker basket that makes me think of picnics and blankets.

X

Good, she got the flowers to congratulate her on her promotion. I told Armando to get blooms one might find in a meadow. She has no idea that it's actually a clue as to what's to come tonight.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Fresh Air

Date: June 16 2011 15:55

To: Anastasia Steele

Maniac, eh? Dr. Flynn may have something to say about that.

You want to go on a picnic?

We could have fun in the great outdoors, Anastasia…

How is your day going, baby?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

She's quick with a response.

"From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Hectic

Date: June 16 2011 16:00

To: Christian Grey

The day has flown by. I have hardly had a moment to myself to think about anything other than work. I think I can do this! I'll tell you more when I'm home. Outdoors sounds…interesting.

Love you.

A x

PS: Don't worry about Dr. Flynn.

She's excited about her job. I like her this happy. I know what it is to get the first real taste of work you love and to thrive at it. Roach can go fuck himself if he has other ideas.

Not to worry about Flynn... Aside from the excitement from engagement planning, it's been eating me up all day. Flynn could tell her to say no. Warn her of the monster. And deep down I know that he should.

But, the monster I am doesn't want her to go.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: I'll try…

Date: June 16 2011 16:09

To: Anastasia Steele"

…not to worry.

Laters, baby. x

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

My phone buzzes. My baby misses me… I look at the caller ID. No, it's just Welch.

"What is it?" I answer.

"Meredith is working for Lincoln."

"You're fucking kidding me."

"No. They're definitely in cahoots."

"I knew it."

"But, it's not in the way you're thinking. Or, at least I don't have evidence of that now. Seems to me Elena is trying to hook up some sort of Med Spa at the salon in Capital Hill, then expand to the others. Meredith is the liaison between Esclava and the dermatologist she works for."

"I'm an owner in those salons. Why haven't I been informed of this?" Of course she'd choose Capital Hill to start, I never go there.

"Not my monkeys. Not my circus." Why the fuck does he always say that?

"How long has this been going on?"

"Only a few weeks, from what I can gather. But, they spend a lot of time together. On surveillance, they leave together almost every night Meredith works."

"She works at night?"

"Merry works for the doctor in the day. Only chance."

"What is she working on at night like that at a salon?"

"I think reorganizing, setting up a new section of the shop upstairs. They've got some minor construction going on."

"Construction? She can't build shit without my approval. What is she planning here?"

"It looks like it's gonna be Botox and injections, facials where they peel half your flesh off and shit. They just need a license. They're waiting on it, but trust me, they're not fully waiting."

"What does that mean?"

"Let me just say, a few clients entered as girls and left as ducks."

"So, you're saying they've actually started up this off-shoot without my knowledge?"

"Yeah. But, I still don't have any link to Leila Williams. I'm more concerned they're trying to snake you out of profits."

"I want you to get me the financials for this venture. Everything."

"Already working on it."

"Good." I hang up.

A Med Spa? It does sound like something Elena would do. But, why is she keeping it secret? Maybe I'm reading too much into all of this... No, I'm not. In the past, Elena would've told me all her grand ideas. She'd want more funding for expansion, that's for sure. She wouldn't forge out on her own. That's not her way. She's hiding something. I hope to God it's just that she wants to cheat me out of extra money. But, the place in me that always sensed when the whip was about to crack is screaming to get my attention.

As I near Escala, my phone buzzes. Another text from Elena: I've been calling all day. Where are you?

I delete the message, but it's followed by quickly by another: Is this her doing?

I again press delete. And then, almost compulsively, I keep deleting every text she's ever sent me, until all her words are erased from my life.


I stand in front of the vanity mirror in our bedroom at Escala, taking in my reflection. I've changed four times since my workout with Claude and subsequent shower—the shower was so hard, as I was so hard in the shower—waiting for Anastasia to arrive home so we can go see Flynn. I tried on a charcoal suit—the kind you get married in, but figured that was too bizarre and might get me sent away to Leila Land; a t-shirt and jeans, but that was too casual; a vest that Mia bought me that I thought would make me appear liberated and sensitive, but just made me look like an asshole that teaches arts and crafts at the parks and rec center on rainy days.

Now I stand only in a t-shirt and boxer briefs, at a loss. I need to look like husband material for this session with Flynn tonight and the introduction of the house after. I need to look like the man I never thought I could be. But, all I am right now is a man standing before a dressing mirror in his underwear.

Wait! I have an idea.

I pull a chair from the bedroom into the closet and position it step ladder style to help me get to the far reaches of my top shelf. Everything happens up top today. Though I brush against the satin of Ana's negligee and smell her perfume still a memory in the air, I ignore my throbbing dick and forge ahead.

After much digging, I find the box with a hand-tied gold bow and pull it down. Sitting on the chair, I unwrap the package to find a brown knotted wool cardigan sweater my grandmother gave me two Christmases ago. I hated it then, but wouldn't part with it. The card is still in the box: Christian, so you don't get cold. Grammy xo

I never thought I would ever wear this thing. But tonight, I can't shrug it on fast enough over a linen shirt and a pair jeans. The leather elbow patches really add something to the ensemble. Like I'm really digging my elbows in, so I better have reinforcements. it screams 'the long haul'. I look in the mirror again. Now, I look like husband material. In fact, I look exactly like my dad.

"Oh Mr. Grey, you look so handsome!" Gail says, with a trio of fingers held to her open-mouthed gasp, as I pass her in the great room.

"You like it?" I straighten the collar and hem. Hell, the buttons on this thing are astronomical. Like they were made for old men who couldn't see how to dress themselves. Of course, they probably were.

"Very distinguished, sir." She smiles. "I've never seen you in such a sweater before."

"Yeah well, fashion. It changes."

She's trying to stifle a smile. "Well, it's very smart. Sophisticated."

"Responsible?"

"Well, yes. I'd say it is."

"So, be honest with me Gail. Could you see a man wearing this in a home?"

"Well, my grandfather wore one when they put him there, but that doesn't mean a young strapping man like yourself can't enjoy a comfortable sweater."

"No, not a nursing home! Like a home. A home home. A house. One with a white fence, and a yard, and a family room out in suburbia."

"A family room?" Her eyes grow as wide as her quite evident delight. Oh hell, don't get ahead of yourself, Mrs. Jones.

"That's just what they call it, but it's really a glorified den where a lot of people can sit."

"Well, I can definitely see the man standing before me in a place like that." She smiles so sweet, and a bit misty. It's sort of making me self conscious.

The elevator dings and the doors part.

"Taylor," I say as he enters the room. "Do you have word on Miss Steele's whereabouts?"

"She's driving home, sir. In the Saab." Like a knife to my heart.

"Do you have coordinates?" I ask.

He pulls out his phone and references the the navigation. "4th and Pike."

"She's still that far away? Is she in heavy traffic?" My gut seizes up in panic thinking of all the threats she's facing.

"She stopped for gas, sir."

I give Taylor a long, hard look. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Sawyer pumped for her, sir."

"Are you really trying to fucking kill me?!" I point a finger at him. "Never say those words again."

"Yes, sir. She should be here shortly." He takes a good look at me. "Thick wool is nice on you, Mr. Grey."

"Thank you." I think. "Keep an eye on the map."

"Yes, Mr. Grey."

I'm sweating. Profusely. Not just from panic, but from actual boiling over heat. I pull out a handkerchief and dab my forehead. My grandmother was right when she said I'd never get cold in this thing. I may end up losing ten pounds.

My phone buzzes. It's Ros.

"What?" I answer abruptly. I have a terrible thought. I hope Ana isn't listening to music right now.

"Well, hello to you, too."

"I'm sorry, I have a lot going on." Music with big beats and whistles to distract…

"Oh yes, tell your girlfriend hi."

"What is it? I can't talk forever." Shit, I hope she didn't turn on the ass warmers again. She could burn herself in the thin fabric of that skirt, jump, and cause a twelve car pileup.

"According to my call timer, it's been thirty-seven seconds."

"Get to the point!" Ros is distracting me. I need to free my head up for proper worry.

"The meeting tomorrow in Portland. Word is, they're going to agree to most of our terms. They need us to work out a few glitches on our end. Especially with the solar paneling."

"That's great news. Tell Barney."

"I will. Do you want to get a head start with us tonight?"

"No, I have plans. You can handle it. I trust you."

"That must be some magic pussy you're getting, Grey!" She laughs.

"What?" I don't even like lesbians thinking about Ana downstairs.

"Because, before this month, the last time you trusted me to handle something alone was never."

"Oh please."

"You may be a likable guy, yet."

"Don't let it get out. I have street credit to uphold."

She laughs and we hang up. I guess I missed the ding of the elevator, because when I turn, I'm met with the most beautiful sight I've ever seen.

"Good evening, Miss Steele," I say as I make my way to her. "Or should I say Madame Editor?" I pull her into my arms and give her a soft kiss. "We'll have to celebrate later."

"Thank you." She blushes. "But, it's just acting editor."

"Hey, that's a big deal. And still definitely cause for a celebration. I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you."

"Not yet twenty-two and shooting to the top. Reminds me of someone I know." I smirk and she giggles into my shoulder.

"Your sweater!" she says as she lifts her face to have a look at me.

"Do you hate it?" I hold my breath.

"No, it's so cozy."

"It's wool."

"It isn't too hot for summer?" she asks as sweat drips from my pecks. Luckily it's hidden by all the paneling and the big buttons.

"There's a chill in the air," I say. "It's nipped me all day."

"My dad had a sweater like this," she says as she fingers the lapels, a bit wistful. "I like the patches." She strokes my elbows.

I'm like her dad. She loves her dad. But wait, does she want to marry him?

"We again have something in common. We love the same girl and the same yarn."

"Stop!" She laughs. "I loved it. His sweater." She squeezes her arms around me and snuggles into my chest. "When I was sad or unsure or just needed a hug, it made me feel comforted and safe and warm."

I tighten my wrap around her and we stand there holding each other for a long moment. Cozy, comforting. And suddenly the note my grandmother wrote to me comes back to mind. So you'll never get cold… Maybe it wasn't about the weather.

"Did you shower?" she asks as she sniffs my neck. She's pouting. Why is she pouting? Did she want to soap up together? I'm getting hard.

"Yeah, I had a session with Claude. Knocked him on his ass twice."

"Doesn't happen often?"

"No. Very satisfying when it does. Hungry?" I kiss her on her brow. God, I wish we had time to scrub-a-dub-dub-fuck.

"No," she says, shaking her head. She looks off, preoccupied by something.

"What's wrong?" I ask as I head to the bar to pour us each a half glass of wine.

"I'm just… you know, nervous about Dr. Flynn." She looks out the windows as a streak of sun pierces through a tuck of cloud and lights her hair. The sun always seems to find her.

"Me, too," I say, and hand her a glass of Pinot Grigio. She keeps looking out the windows as she sips and I snug up behind her. "Give me the answer and we won't have to go." I kiss her hair and bury my nose into it.

"I need this," she says, turning in my arms.

"I know." I look out the windows now and run my fingers through my still damp mop. "Tell me about your day."

"It was so great!" she says, and her whole being lights up. "They asked my opinions on all these manuscripts. And they listened. I've read them all. I really felt I made headway at the editors meeting."

"I'm sure you did!"

"I really think they're going to take a chance on the author I found. Boyce Fox."

"Well, listen, if you think it's a good read then it is. It'll top the charts. Stick to your guns."

"There's one more thing…" She knots her fingers together. She's apprehensive. Fuck, why?

"About the new author?" I ask. He's a stud whore, I knew it! Anyone with the name Boyce Fox is an automatic sexual predator.

"No, it's not about Boyce." She shakes her head. I'll let it go that they're on a first name basis already. "Mia called today. We were supposed to go to the mall."

"You were?" That's her news? Why is she apprehensive about that?

"I totally forgot. I was busy. I couldn't go."

"Oh. Don't worry about it. Mia doesn't have a job. Actually, that is her job. Plus, don't ever go to a mall." The security concerns would give me a coronary.

"Well, I did feel bad. She wanted to talk about your birthday, but you gifts…" I roll my eyes and take a sip. "And then Ethan came by…"

"Ethan? Kavanagh Ethan?" I ask and she nods. Surfer Curls! "Why?"

"Well, we hadn't talked since the other night. He was in the neighborhood and wanted to check on me, see if I was free for lunch, which of course I wasn't. I was so busy!"

"He wasn't in the neighborhood!"

"Christian, he has a lot of school business around there."

"It's summer!"

"He's getting ready."

"I'm sure."

"Christian—"

"He was "in the neighborhood" as much as I was "in the neighborhood" when I stopped into that hardware store."

She sighs and looks like she's counting to ten in her mind. Calming herself down before she attacks. "The point is I was too busy. I didn't go."

"Good. Well, what are you getting at?" Why the fuck didn't Sawyer report this too me? Too busy having gas pumping fantasies.

"I had Ethan take Mia out to lunch."

"Wait, what? Like food and table with my sister... together?"

"Yeah, that's generally the idea. Lunch. And I think they had a good time."

"Why would you say this?"

"They both texted me to thank me for setting it up." Oh my God, the disease of Kavanagh continues to invade my family. It's like Kancer.

"I am not happy about this."

"Don't be grouchy." She leans up and places feather-like kisses on my face.

"I'm not grouchy." The kisses feel so nice.

Ana pulls away, leaving me sadly feather kiss-less.

"It's good they met," she says. "You can never have too many friends."

"Yes, you can. You can absolutely have too many friends!" I can think of the few Ana could shave off.

She gives me a quick kiss. "I'm going to freshen up."

"Ana!" She doesn't listen to me as she heads off to the bedroom.

I take out my phone and text my sister: I hear you had lunch. The period at the end means the business.

She texts back quickly: Breakfast, too!;)

Hilarious.

The Linguine and clams were Delish! xx

It's worse than I thought. She had a plate full of vagina symbolism with that boy.

She texts again: I invited him to your party this weekend.

What? Why?

His sister is going.

I don't go to your parties.

You don't go to any parties;)

Fuck. They better not fuck. I can't believe Ana did this! I'm fuming. And dripping with sweat. I rush to the freezer, unbutton my sweater and open the door to get some relief from all this wool.

"Christian!" Ana calls out. "I need you to unzip my dress."

And like a homing device, my dick forgives and leads me directly to her zipper.


"This was fast," she says as we pull up curbside in front of Flynn's office in the Saab. Thankfully, she let me drive because I knew the way. I neglected to tell her the way was straight up the street.

"Yes, I usually jog here from Escala." I turn off the ignition in the middle. "This is a great car."

"I think so, too." She smiles.

I lean over the center console and softly place my lips on hers. She's apprehensive again. I can feel it in her kiss. "What?" I murmur against her lips, then pull back. "Anastasia, what is it?"

She twists her mouth, and I can tell she wants to tell me something important, but she's stopping herself. But, why? Fuck, it's destroying me inside.

"Ana, please, if something is wrong, tell me."

"It's not that," she says, shaking her head. Her eyes begin to well up. She's crying. Why is she crying? And she hasn't even spoken to Flynn yet. I'm doomed.

"Ana, baby…"

I think she's going to say something, but instead she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small wrapped box. The bow reminds me of the one my grandmother wrapped my sweater up with, but much smaller. Like hamster sweater size, if they wore such things.

"What is this?" I ask as she hands it to me. Her fingers are trembling. I'm a little rattled myself as I'm completely unsure about what's going on here.

"It's your birthday present," she says as she sniffs her nose and wipes her eyes.

"My birthday?" I ask, furrowing my brow.

She nods. "But, you can't open it until Saturday."

"Then, why give it to me now?"

"Because I can, Mr. Grey."

"You stole my line." I grin.

She laughs. And then she gets a bit teary again. I catch the droplet just spilled from her lashes with my fingertip. She watches me for a long moment, our eyes not losing each other's no matter the scattered noise from outside or the threat of time. She then smiles. Like she's delighted with her secret in this box.

"What is it, Anastasia?"

"I just wanted to remember this moment forever."

I brush a piece of hair behind her ear. "You mean the moment we were stuck in your car, in front of my psychiatrist's office and you gave me a birthday gift two days early?" I smirk.

"Yes, Mr. Grey. That's exactly the moment I want to remember." She leans over and kisses me deeply. Tongues and lips and breath. When she pulls away, she brushes my face. "Now that you have your gift, we can go inside."

I tuck the box into the pocket of my husband sweater. It's light and settles in the wool like it belongs there. And all the way up to Flynn's office door, my fingers intertwined with hers, I wonder what she could've gotten me that would fit into a box so small.