Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 11

Christian and I hit the streets of Manhattan after our victorious meeting.

Then we began to walk.

It was so exhilarating. I hadn't felt this alive since Donny Osmond toured in Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and I ran into him at a Walgreen's.

Christian and I made a great team, and I decided to say so.

You and I make a great team; I shared as we walked briskly down the packed sidewalks.

He smirked and regarded me.

I've always told you, Mrs. Steele, we were meant to be as one.

Oh for the love, he can't let it go. Marshaling my sternest aura, I sought to quench his desire.

When you say that, it sounds like a remake of Human Centipede is in the works, starring me, in the back. I wish you could see that this entire journey (got that from The Bachelorette) has actually been a means to this end.

He raised an eyebrow.

I'd said end!

Christian turned onto west 52nd and paused in front of a building with "21" emblazoned on the awning, and a lot of politically incorrect jockey statues in front.

Was this a gentleman's club? A place where you had to be 21 or under 21? I didn't know.

It had been awhile since I'd had a hit of white wine, so it was natural that I was feeling off.

Mrs. Steele, I want to treat you to a time-honored business right of passage: the 21 Club lunch.

I have a twenty in my purse, so if you can spot me a one, I'd love to join you. As a successful entrepreneur, it was only fitting that I pay for myself.

Christian had that dead seagull look in his eyes.

It's not twenty-one dollars, it's the name of the restaurant. It's very famous.

Wanting to appear jaded with a dose of ennui, I revealed my own knowledge.

Of course, I knew that. I had heard that 31 Flavors has a new venture…

Christian closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

Perhaps he had been too long without Pinot Grigio too.

Restaurant names were forgotten over the next two hours as we returned to our Henry the Eighth ways: I had five glasses of wine, one crab cake, two rare lamp chops, several potato preparations, a small filet mignon and a cigar.

This was living.

But Christian brought me back to earth.

Are you ready to head to the factory to begin the prototype process?

The wine had not sharpened my hearing.

Am I ready to tread in the wing of a futon outlet?

Christian looked as weary as I had ever seen him.

Mrs. Steele, this is a very old vaudeville bit. But we do have a four o'clock appointment at a well-known manufacturing concern. You're going to need to clear your head and begin to think about initial prototypes.

I felt fortunate that the head clearing today would be me and not him. So I was all in.

We don't need a factory. He was about to learn a bit more about my own fiscal ingenuity.

Take me to the nearest Michael's Craft store, I commanded commandingly.

Christian's eyes narrowed, but he appeared resigned to my plan.

All right. Your will be done, he said rising from the leather booth.

I stood unsteadily and held onto the table for a minute.

There's no need to start quoting bible verses, Mitt Romney. Let's keep religion out of this.

We headed for the door, and most importantly for the craft store; a place where whimsy, hormonal swings and thirteen kinds of glue would make me feel like I was home.