Book Trk
Chapter 31
Chapter 31
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“Are you offering to make breakfast or demanding to be fed, Mr. Grey?” she teases.
“Neither. I’ll buy you breakfast. I’m no good in the kitchen, as I demonstrated last night.”
“You have other qualities,” she says with a playful smirk.
“Why, Miss Steele, whatever do you mean?”
She narrows her eyes. “I think you know.” She’s teasing me. She sits up slowly, swinging her legs out of bed. “You
can shower in Kate’s bathroom. It’s bigger than mine.”
Of course it is.
“I’ll use yours. I like being in your space.”
“I like you being in my space, too.” She winks, gets up, and struts out of the bedroom.
Brazen Ana.
WHEN I RETURN FROM the cramped shower, I find Ana dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt that leaves little to
my imagination. She’s messing with her hair.
As I yank on my jeans I feel the Audi key in my pocket. I wonder how she’ll react when I give it back to her. She
seemed to take the iPad well.
“How often do you work out?” she asks, and I realize she’s watching me in the mirror.
“Every weekday.”
“What do you do?”
“Run, weights, kickboxing.” Sprinting to and from your apartment for the past week.
“Kickboxing?” she queries.
“Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex–Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He’s very good.” I
tell Ana that she’d like him as a trainer.
“Why would I need a personal trainer? I have you to keep me fit.”
I walk over to where she stands, still fiddling with her hair, and I embrace her. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “But I
want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I’ll need you to keep up.” That’s if we ever get back into the playroom.
She arches a brow.
“You know you want to.” I mouth the words at her reflection. She toys with her lip but then breaks our eye contact.
“What?” I ask, concerned.
“Nothing,” she says, and shakes her head. “Okay, I’ll meet Claude.”
“You will?”
That was easy!
“Yes, jeez. If it makes you that happy,” she says, and laughs.
I squeeze her and give her a peck on her cheek. “You have no idea.” I kiss her behind her ear. “So what would
you like to do today?”
“I’d like to get my hair cut, and, um, I need to bank a check and buy a car.”
“Ah.”
Here goes. From my jeans pocket I fish out the Audi key. “It’s here,” I inform her.
She looks blank, but then her cheeks pink and I realize she’s upset.
“What do you mean it’s here?”
“Taylor brought it back yesterday.”
She steps out of my embrace, scowling at me.
Shit. She’s pissed. Why?
From the back pocket of her jeans she brandishes an envelope. “Here, this is yours.” I recognize it as the
envelope that I put the check in for her ancient Beetle. I lift both hands and step away. “Oh no. That’s your
money.”
“No, it isn’t. I’d like to buy the car from you.”
What. The. Hell.
She wants to give me money! “No, Anastasia. Your money, your car.”
“No, Christian. My money, your car. I’ll buy it from you.”
Oh. No. You. Don’t.
“I gave you that car for your graduation present.” And you said you’d accept it.
“If you’d given me a pen, that would be a suitable graduation present. You gave me an Audi.”
“Do you really want to argue about this?”
“No.”
“Good. Here are the keys.” I place her keys on the dresser.
“That’s not what I meant!”
“End of discussion, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”
The look she’s giving me now says it all. If I were dry tinder I would burst into flame, and not in a good way. She’s
mad. Really mad. Suddenly she narrows her eyes and gives me a wicked smile. Taking the envelope, she holds it
aloft and, in a rather theatrical manner, rips it in half, and in half again. She drops the contents in her trash basket
and gives me a victorious fuck-you look.
Oh. Game on, Ana.
“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele.” I echo the words she used yesterday and turn on my heel and head
into the kitchen.
Now I’m pissed. Fucking pissed.
How dare she?
I find my phone and call Andrea.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey.” She sounds a little breathless when she answers.
“Hi, Andrea.”
In the background, on her side of the call, I hear a woman shouting, “Doesn’t he realize you’re getting married
today, Andrea?” Andrea’s voice comes through, “Excuse me, Mr. Grey.”
Married!
There’s the sound of muffled fumbling. “Mom, be quiet. It’s my boss.” The muffling ceases. “What can I do for you,
Mr. Grey?” she says.
“You’re getting married?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Today?”
“Yes. What is it you want me to do?”
“I wanted you to deposit twenty-four thousand dollars into Anastasia Steele’s bank account.”
“Twenty-four thousand?”
“Yes, twenty-four thousand dollars. Directly.”
“I’ll take care of it. It will be in her account on Monday.”
“Monday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“No, that’s all, Andrea.”
I hang up, aggravated that I’ve disturbed her on her wedding day and more aggravated that she didn’t tell me she
was getting married.
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