Chapter 29 – Mimes and Misunderstandings

The rest of the day was for lack of a better word, blissful. We went to the Museum of Natural History. I know, not what some people would call blissful, but the only time Christian released my hand was to either caress my cheek or after he led me to a dark corner for a few decadent smooches. In the latter scenario, his hands sure as heck weren't in mine. They were just about any place else on my body. The darker the corner, the bolder his gentle, yet magical hands became. I know I'll always blush when I think about his place moving forward.

After that Christian and the always hyperaware security team took me to Central Park so I could do my less than graceful cartwheel. Christian initially freaked out over the request given my residual bruising and soreness from the attack, but in the end relented. It was a childish request on my part, I know, but it was a fantasy I had ever seeing the park in movies growing up. Taylor and the security crew laughed at my poorly executed cartwheel. Christian was horrified. Me? I just laughed from the moment my butt hit the cold, damp ground – it gave new meaning to poorly executed my ass. Somehow completely blowing it felt right. It was just - me. Taylor agreed to tape it on his cell phone for me and I immediately sent it to Luke via email with a note checking up on how he was feeling.

I was worried about Luke. Physically I knew he would be fine in a few weeks, but I'd never seen him as distant and aloof as he was when he left West Union that morning. I'll admit, part of me has been worried that he'll quit his job, move and start over someplace else. Twice he'd been badly injured watching over me. Now this situation with Mac, whatever the full details were, keep throwing him. There was no missing his emotional wall go up that morning. I guess time would tell. Deep down I was concerned.

Christian even took me to some of the amazing used bookstores down in the Village. I had dozens of early editions of my favorite books shipped back to Montesano, as I wasn't sure where I was going to be staying when I returned. It didn't take long for me to realize that under the circumstances security was the number one issue. I had decided to allow the better-qualified, triple tag team of Jason, Luke, and my dad, make that decision. What the hell did I really know about security and maintaining a low profile other than what I read in my beloved novels? I rarely go out so to me that's low profile, but apparently not low enough.

We were now heading back to the townhouse to change clothing and head out to dinner. All I wanted were my pajamas, pizza, and to respond to work emails that I had been neglecting for the past thirty-six hours, but Christian appeared so excited about getting dressed up and going out to dinner and pizza wasn't part of his normal food groups. Me? Well, I'm not really an adventurous eater. I'm pretty basic – some veggies, beef, chicken, rarely pork, limited seafood varieties which means if it has suckers or tentacles I don't eat it, and my favorites cheeses and pasta. Unhealthy, I know, but give me a dish with pasta, cheese and a veggie and I'm on cloud nine.

"What's the dress code for this evening?" I ask.

He explains it depends where I want to go. Earlier in the day I heard Taylor, Ryan, and Reynolds discussing a steakhouse they wanted to try called Costata. I know when Luke and I were planning the trip here it was the place they had recommended to him. He seemed truly excited by it. What is it with men being such carnivores? I mean if I had to kill my own animals for meat, I'd basically be a vegetarian. I glance up at Taylor's mirror and smile as he glances back at me.

"When Luke and I were discussing this trip, there is a place called Costata down on Spring Street he wanted to try. Can we go there?" I ask uncertainly. I give Taylor another glance and he's grinning from ear-to-ear. Lesson learned: keep the security team happy and well-fed.

An hour later we were back at the townhouse, I was showered, hair now dried and styled, make up lightly done, standing in front of my closet in my underwear and silky robe trying to figure out which of the new outfits Mac provided would be appropriate for this evening. I'm clueless. For the last four years in college I've lived in jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, and chucks. God I love my chucks! I watched Kate get decked out for four years, yet I was still completely and utterly clueless. If it weren't for Mac making me her own little designer dress up doll and coordinating perfect outfits and accessories I'd be lost. I dread playing model for her petite line, but I'm going to step outside my comfort zone and try it.

Pulling the three different shoeboxes from the overhead shelf I sit on the floor. These are the only items Mac provided that she didn't design. Opening the first box, marked with the number three, I look at the label – Stuart Weitzman Platform Pumps - Platswoon High Heel – Neiman Marcus $340. They were beautiful tan pumps but all I would think was: Who is Stuart Weitzman and why are his shoes so damned expensive? I don't think I spent much more than that for my entire four-year college wardrobe.

Now to find the corresponding garment bag, or as I quickly learned in this instance, bags - four to be precise. If it weren't for the fact that Mac idiot-proofed this by labeling the bags and shoes, I'd be lost. Garment bags labeled with the number three correspond to shoebox number three. Even I couldn't screw this up. The first bag I opened contained dark brown leather skinny-pants that felt ridiculously soft. The second bag contained a simple, dark brown, silk-like, long sleeved jersey. Mac knows my simple taste all too well. The third bag contained a long, cashmere duster, also dark brown. I'd never felt anything so soft in my life. Finally, bag number four contained accessories – earrings, clutch, a long, chunky colorful necklace, a silky scarf in a stunning light brown paisley with hints of different shades of brown mixed in, a long stunning light brown cashmere coat, and finally a note from Mac.

Ana,

I know you like to keep things simple in terms of your wardrobe, so this is the simplest outfit. It's comfortable yet functional in both the work environment and for a casual evening out for dinner with friends. This, my dearest Anastasia, is your one safe outfit; the rest will be outside of your normal comfort zone. I recommend wearing either the necklace or the scarf, but not both - your choice. Yes, I know I can be cruel, but you're too attractive not to want to play dress up with and the fact that you would never sleep with me, well, that just leaves dressing you up. You do realize you are the sole inspiration for my petite line. From the moment Luke introduced us the designs just poured out of me and onto paper.

Please text me a picture when you finally wear it and call me no matter the time. I want you to tell me what you think when you look at yourself in the mirror.

Yours in unmanaged mischief!

Mac

P.S.: I left you an additional collection of a dozen or so coordinated outfits hanging in my home office. Between trying to take the publishing world by storm and being involved with the one and only Christian Grey you're going to want to look sexy as all fuck. Besides, I want Christian to be the man-candy on your arm and not vice versa. Though if you two gorgeous people ever have children, they will have won the genetic lottery. I'm twisted, I know. So, model for me? Please? Pretty please with a muscle-bound, well-endowed, naked man (or big busted woman) on top? Hmmm either of the two can be on top of me anytime or perhaps both… oh the naughty thoughts I'm having!

The entire time I try on the outfit I'm giggling with excitement. After the first time I met Mac, Luke explained to me that she finds inspiration anywhere, and then locks herself away and creates. While I feel self-conscious over being her muse, as he called it, I'm also beyond flattered.

When I finally glance at myself in the full-length mirror I can't help but smile. The outfit makes me look taller than my barely five foot two inches in height. It feels casual, yet simple and elegant. I opt for the long scarf as opposed to the necklace since it's cold out. Now I understand what she means by my safe outfit. The others are colorful, girly, and very different for me. This one makes me feel as if I'm cocooned with my favorite blanket – simple, elegant comfort. Amazingly, as I look at myself in the mirror, I don't feel like the same co-ed who graduated college less than six months ago. I feel like a businesswoman, yet I don't feel sexy. Heck, I've never felt sexy in my life. I've avoided it like the plague.

Following Mac's instructions, I grab my cell phone and take a picture of myself in the full-length mirror and then text it to her. I wait a minute and dial her number in Scotland.

"So what do you think Ana?" Mac asks without even saying hello.

"I feel professional."

"And what's the occasion for wearing this outfit?"

"Dinner with Christian in New York City," I counter nervously. When she asks me how the outfit makes me really feel, I can't help but reply, "shockingly disappointed. I mean it looks great for the office but it…" I can't find the right words – well not the right words I feel comfortable muttering.

"It doesn't feel like an outfit that will make Christian want to rip your clothes off and ravage you, right? You feel like an upscale librarian," she counters and I can hear the smirk in her voice.

"Um…"

Mac laughs. "Have you done the deed with Mr. Grey yet?"

"No," I whisper uncomfortably.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes at some point I do," I reply blushing profusely.

"Save that outfit for your conference and for days when you meet with clients," she explains. "You need to embrace your inner sexy bitch and just own it. Sexy undergarments are the first step. After that pick an outfit that makes you feel feminine and alluring. The minute you put an outfit on, look in the mirror and if you see yourself standing a bit straighter, then you know it's a good look for you because it brings out some of that self-confidence you have hidden away. Sometimes you have to kick your librarian side to the curb and just go for it. Just remember, everyone defines sexy differently. Your friend Kate likes tight, clingy clothes to show off her curves and she's involved with a guy that appreciates them. Your Mr. Grey wouldn't appreciate you dressing like that, so you need to go for feminine, understated, sexy."

"So which outfit would you wear?"

"Did you bring outfit seven with you?"

"I did."

"Excellent. It's a green tartan mini dress with leggings and leather booties. Wear it with the long military style coat from outfit nine if you brought it. If you didn't, just pick a jacket from another outfit and ask Christian if you can borrow a sweater. If you can, borrow a light-colored, over-sized sweater for when you get cold. It will be huge on you and make the dress appear shorter and knock his socks off. Trust me."

"Okay."

"Text me a pic when you are dressed," Mac replies before hanging up.

A few minutes later I'm dressed in the new outfit and as Mac knew I would, when I glanced at myself in the mirror my posture improved slightly, causing me to smile. Now I honestly felt feminine, attractive, and like a potentially sexual being. All I could think was I wished Kate and Mac were here to see this. As requested, I take a picture of this outfit and send it to Mac. The entire time I think, selfies are stupid, but at least these were done with a purpose.

I answer my phone on the first ring but before I can even say anything, Mac asks, "So? What do you think?"

"It's me. It fits with who I am perfectly."

"I know," she laughs. "It brings out your best qualities – your beauty, intelligence, vulnerability, meekness, innocence, femininity, and makes you feel sexy, right?"

"You're going to have to teach me how to coordinate outfits like this."

"I will, promise," she counters as I hear people in the background. "My team loved the picture you sent by the way."

Our conversation is interrupted by a knock on my bedroom door. "I've got to run Mac. It's time for me to leave."

"Night Ana. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she laughs before adding, "if you do, take pictures so I can live vicariously through you," as she hangs up.

As I open the door to my bedroom, I find Christian standing there ready to knock again. He's wearing a dark blue suit with a white linen shirt that is partially hidden by a tan cashmere sweater and no tie. Holy hell he looks amazing.

"You look lovely," he whispers as he lightly kisses my lips "but if we don't leave now, I will not let you out of this room for weeks."

My knees wobble slightly, feeling suddenly weak and unstable. God that man's sensual voice just pulls the air from my lungs. "Breathe Anastasia, just breathe baby," he whispers in my ear while his fingers lightly stroke my hip. When he lightly nibbles on my earlobe I can feel my knees giving out. I feel his arms around me, holding me up before pressing me into the nearest wall, knocking a vase off a side table with a resounding crash. Still he continues kissing my neck, while his hand begins inching upward in a series of tender, mind-numbing caresses.

It feels like my hands have minds of there own, as one is now running through his hair, while the other nudges his head back to mine so our lips meet once again. My entire body trembles when his hand finally cups my breast. The full force of my desire consumes me when he lightly brushes his thumb over my nipple and I moan softly into his mouth before kissing him harder.

Taylor and Ryan rush the room with their guns drawn, causing us to take a quick step back from each other. Taylor quickly apologizes, explaining they heard the crash of the vase. They leave as quickly as they came, but I can't help but notice Taylor closed the door behind him.

"How mortifying," I mumble, covering my flushed face with my hands and sink to the ground. Christian, having no shame, merely laughs. I can only imagine what Taylor's seen over the years given the playroom and all. Just the thought of it, makes me feel like a bucket of ice cold water was thrown onto my libido. "Give me five minutes and I'll meet you downstairs," I mutter, unable to look up at him.

"Talk to me Ana. Please don't shut down," he asks as he pulls me to my feet.

I still can't look at him. "Being in your life means having no privacy. It's a twenty-four seven fishbowl, isn't it? I don't think I fully comprehended that in all it's implications until just now. If it's not a stalker, it's the media, and even at home, where people are supposed to feel safe, secure and have a sense of privacy it doesn't exist because you have to have security to manage the other things."

He looks nervous as he considers his reply. "I suppose that's true. I'm used to it after all these years."

"It's overwhelming because I've always been quiet, shy, and most of all, ridiculously private" is all I can counter for a few seconds. "I guess that's why I'm struggling with the fact that if I want to be with you, to a great extent, our intimate life won't truly be private. I mean, never in my wildest imagination, not that I did much imagining mind you, would I have thought that I could potentially give my virginity to someone, while a group of men were in the same apartment or house keeping an eye on things. It's freaking me out a little and suddenly I don't feel like I can turn my brain off."

All he can do is look at me apologetically. Can't say I blame him either. I get it. This is his life. If I want to be part of it, I'll need to adapt – but can I? I mean, really, can I adapt to fit into his life? No privacy, security twenty-four seven, and if the past six months of knowing him are any indication, it's chaotic – even scary at times. Okay, not scary – terrifying.

As my mind races through the accident, followed by the shooting, the attack outside of Flynn's, and the lingering feeling of unsettled fear, I feel my breathing quicken as panic sets in. The three events flash on a continuous loop in my mind, all while a sense of foreboding begins to overwhelm me. Breathing feels virtually impossible as I feel Christian ease me back to sitting on the floor as the panic attack consumes me. Distantly I hear Christian's words attempting to soothe me, but they have the opposite affect as I get further agitated. The last thing I remember is Christian shouting for Taylor before panic wins.

When I regain consciousness, I find myself lying on top of the duvet on my bed with Christian and Taylor sitting in front of my laptop video conferencing with Grace and Dr. Flynn. Christian is going on and on to them both about my symptoms. I've had enough panic attacks to recognize one when I have it.

"Excuse me," I softly mutter with embarrassment as I sit up, causing both men to look my way. No sooner than they glance my way does the panic attack start anew. I barely manage to stammer panic attack when I feel the attack beginning yet again. This time Taylor hands me a cup of water and one of the anti-anxiety pills from my handbag. Once I swallow it, he hands me a paper bag to breathe into. Little by little I calm down as Christian rubs my back.

Slowly my breathing returns to almost normal as I rest my head on his shoulder. I'm not sure how much time passes, but all I want now is to not feel like someone is sitting on my chest. Anxiety sucks. The sound of my stomach grumbling in hunger breaks the silence in the room, causing me to giggle with embarrassment.

"We need to get you fed," Christian orders.

Finally, I get to my feet and straighten my clothes. My thoughts broken by Dr. Flynn's query, "How are you feeling Ana?"

"Like a truck is parked on my chest, but better."

"I'll come see you when you return to Seattle so we don't have a recurrence of the other day outside my office," he informs me.

I laugh wryly. "Technically, I'm homeless. Once I determine my living arrangements I'll let you know. All I know at this point is I can't return to the houseboat. Right now my life is just an uncontrolled mess."

"All the more reason for us to meet," he counters. "I'll text you my home address. We can meet there."

"Thank you Dr. Flynn," I mumble as I bid both him and Grace good night.

Five minutes later, Christian and I are sitting in the back of the SUV heading to dinner. Taylor is driving and Ryan and Reynolds are in other vehicles, one in front of us and one behind. Security seems excessive tonight. Couldn't we all have gone in one vehicle? All I know is the sedating effects of the anti-anxiety medication is kicking in and I'm finally starting to relax as I lean against Christian, who appears preoccupied and tense. Come to think of it, the entire security team feels a bit tense. All I can do is stare out the window and admire the city as we head downtown wondering if it's just my sedated imagination or paranoia kicking in.

We enter the restaurant and are led to a private dining room along with our security. The place is a mixture of modern and loft with exposed brick and eclectic artwork. Christian and I sit at one table and the security team at another. Christian is thrilled at the wine cellar and orders a bottle of Giuseppe Mascarello "Monprivato" 1982 before ordering us two appetizers to share – the first a lobster cocktail All'Amatriciana and the house salad. As an entre he order the Costata Tomahawk Rib-Eye for two with assorted sauces and butters, potato puree with parmigiano and melted butter, and brussel sprouts with pancetta vinaigrette.

It was amusing listening to Taylor, Ryan, and Reynolds order. The three tall, muscular guys in paradise ordered one of each appetizer to share, followed by either rib-eyes or lamb chops and between the three of them ordered each of the potato and vegetable side dishes. Christian merely grinned. He liked people that would eat well and his security team didn't disappoint. Clearly, nothing was too good for his team.

Dinner was excellent. The wine was spectacular, but given my anti-anxiety medications I barely drank four ounces. To say I was feeling no pain would be accurate. The elephant was no longer on my chest; the full effect of the medicine was reached and enhanced by the wine. To say I was feeling mellow was an understatement. We talked about books, business, family, music, and finally dirty jokes. I'd spent enough time with Elliot that I knew plenty of jokes. Unfortunately telling them without blushing and giggling proved to be virtually impossible. It was the single most relaxing meal I'd had in ages. Yes, Xanax and wine helped, but still, best dinner company ever.

I lost a bet to Christian because I wagered there was no way Taylor and company could finish all the food before them. I was not only wrong but they then each ordered and finished desert. I felt like I was sporting a food baby and each of them definitely should look six months pregnant by now, but they didn't. Can you say hollow legs?

After our two-hour dinner we take an hour-long walk around Soho with Christian's arm around me the entire time. If New York weren't so expensive I'd love to live here. Good people, good food, and plenty of amenities. Even now, at nearly ten p.m. it feels relatively safe to walk the busy streets and peek into store windows.

By the time we head back to the townhouse the anti-anxiety medication has effectively worn off, but I still feel good but no longer mildly sedated. At least my mind stopped racing. Being an emotionally damaged, dysfunctional mess on bad days is utterly exhausting. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep, yet I know I have to get some work done.

"What are your plans for the remainder of the evening Anastasia," Christian asks as he takes my hand and guides me from the SUV.

"Pajamas, lap top, bed, and work," I replied.

I didn't expect him to ask if I wanted to work in his office, as he had to work for a while as well tonight. He gave me his best grin and he knew he had me. I agreed as long as I could work in my pajamas and he did the same. It took me ten minutes to change and head to his office. The sight that greeted me took my breath away – Christian in a pair of Ralph Lauren sleep pants that hung decadently from his hips and a snug white V-neck undershirt and showed just a smattering of chest hair. He looked better than any male model I'd ever seen and all I could think was he's yummy. I felt under dressed wearing a pair of flannel boy shorts and a tank top.

He sat on the leather loveseat and put his bare feet up on the ottoman before patting the place behind him indicating for me to join him. I couldn't help but oblige. Hell, wild horses couldn't have kept me out of that spot. Once I sat and put my feet up, we both raised our laptops so he could cover us with a light grey king-sized fleece blanket and start scrolling through emails. It quickly becomes apparent that I've neglected E-House these past two days- well over one hundred emails to read, five contracts to review, and a dozen new manuscripts to edit mean I'll be busier than I even thought I'd be moving forward. I need to hire people.

Note to self: no more down time – live to work.

It's difficult to say it and mean it when you're sitting under a blanket with a man so good looking he'd make nuns break their vows. Honestly, all I want to do is spend time with Christian Grey. Does that make me pathetic or just a stupid girl in love? I'm clueless. I've spent the past decade living my life through stories I've read. All those times I denied Kate's push for me to go out, date, and have fun make me feel pathetic, especially now that I'm beginning to understand what I missed after spending roughly ten days in regular contact with Christian. I, Anastasia Steele, admit to being pathetic when it comes to one Christian Grey.

Slowly I open my eyes and realize I must have fallen asleep in Christian's office. I'm curled up on the loveseat, wrapped in a blanket as I hear muffled voices outside the closed office door. I embrace my inner Kate Kavanagh and lie there underneath the warm blanket and do my best to listen.

Christian sounds angry and disheartened as he speaks. "I'm done with this game. Six months has been a long enough investment of my time on her. Its well passed the put up or shut up time, and she's not put out. I'm done with waiting and playing Mr. Nice Guy. I've got more important things to deal with at this point in time, especially when I can find what she isn't willing to offer elsewhere."

All I want to do at this moment is crawl in a hole and cry. He's done waiting for me. Before I can move I hear Taylor's tense voice informing him that the jet is ready and waiting at Teterboro Airport, to which Christian responds he'll be ready in five minutes. All I can do is glance at the clock on the wall – two thirty a.m., pull the blanket over my head and try not to cry at the sounds of movement outside the office door. Finally, less than five minutes later, I hear the front door slam shut. He left without even saying good-bye. The floodgates open and I sobbed on the couch for what felt like an eternity, before pulling myself together and deciding I needed to get walk away and figure the mess that is my life out.

Nothing makes sense. Other than my panic attacks we had a wonderful evening with no indication that he was fed up with me. How could I be so wrong about him? Was I just a challenge to him and he got bored of me because I didn't put out? I was wrong about him. Heck, he even had dad and Luke fooled.

Ever since the accident, Dad and Luke set up an emergency plan for me just in case. Time to enact said plan. It took me all of twenty minutes to pack my things, send Dad an email stating that I'm going away for a while, turn off my cell phone and pull the battery out, and finally sneak out of Christian's townhouse without Reynolds seeing me. Thankfully he's distracted on a phone call. First stop, to buy a burner phone. Thankfully I'm in the city that never sleeps because it was going to be a very long next few days as I abandon the Big Apple and avoid Seattle like the plague.

He couldn't just wake her up and tell her what's going on? No, he has to leave in the middle of the night and head back to the cluster fuck at Escala, leaving me here to not explain to Ana what's going on because he doesn't want to upset her. My fucking cell phone interrupts the addled inner monologue slash gripe-session about the boss that is running through my head. What now? "Reynolds," I answer unhappily.

Taylor explains that more security will be at the townhouse by morning and to not allow Ana to leave the house without at least three or four members of the team accompanying her. I get it. I mean, the great state of Texas screwed up and not only paroled Stephen Morton, but failed to notify his victims on a timely basis. The asshole had been out of jail for days and no one had contacted Ray or Ana as was required. If it weren't for Ana's mom calling Ray yesterday we wouldn't have known as the parole board finally contacted her. We knew from Ray that Morton vowed if he ever got out of jail he'd finish what he started with Ana in Texas. We'd even heard rumors that he knew Ana was involved with Grey, so we imagined that put a price tag on her head in Morton's mind.

At Taylor's behest, I was to check on Ana every hour to make sure she was still sleeping undisturbed in the boss's office and also make sure she ate regularly as the boss felt she was ten pounds underweight. Taylor had checked before he left thirty minutes ago and she was sleeping like a baby. Now that they were about to take off, I knew my first check on her would be in thirty minutes but I couldn't wait. I hung up with Taylor as the plane taxied down the runway and headed upstairs. To say I freaked when she wasn't there was an understatement. Finding her bedroom closet now empty and all of her belongings gone sent a chill down my spine. My mind wandered back to the boss's last cell phone call with Ros about the effectively ending the deal in Idaho and his words haunt me - "I'm done with this game. Six months has been a long enough investment of my time on her. Its well passed the put up or shut up time, and she's not put out. I'm done with waiting and playing Mr. Nice Guy. I've got more important things to deal with at this point in time, especially when I can find what she isn't willing to offer elsewhere."

The conversation took place outside the office door after the emergency call from Gail at Escala where all hell was breaking loose. At Escala the security team unconscious, intruders were in the apartment, and Gail was alone and defenseless. The police were on their way to Escala, while Taylor and the boss both freaked out. Hopefully, Ryan, who was heading back with them would be the calm voice of reason. The fact that the Ana heard the one-sided conversation between the boss and Ros just complicated matters and that misunderstanding caused her to run. Now we're fucked on both sides of the country all because Grey is a dumbass who walked out doing his best Marcel Marceau in terms of communicating with the woman he cares about. I hate fucking mimes.