Anastasia

The heady aroma of fresh coffee envelops me as I step into the coffee shop. Establishments like this are a sort of natural habitat for me. Not because I'm a caffeine addict or because I moonlight as a barista, but rather because it's an essential part of my creative process. This particular coffee shop is quite a bit more streamlined than others I've frequented, no doubt a product of its location. It's right in the middle of the buildings that make up Seattle's skyline, and its clean, modern decor seems a perfect home to the well-dressed patrons who sip their coffee with one hand and tap away on smartphones with the other.

I join the queue, trying like hell to look like I belong amongst them. In truth, I have no idea what their lives might be like. The business world isn't one I'm familiar with, but I find that it's not difficult to mimic their demeanors. I've got my iPhone in hand and my laptop bag hanging over one shoulder, alternating between pretending to check my email and watching the baristas zip back and forth behind the counter. I keep my expression vacant and detached, as though I could be bored by the simple chore of waiting in line for a tall, caramel cappuccino.

Who am I today?

I glance around casually, taking a moment to study the woman who is standing in line directly in front of me. She's fairly attractive, with black hair that is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, olive skin, and a little too much eyeliner. Her pencil skirt and tailored jacket are pristinely white. So white, in fact, that I wonder at the wisdom of indulging in a cup of coffee. In my opinion, wearing white is just asking the universe to fuck with you.

There's a tingle of sorts across the back of my neck, almost as if someone has gotten too close and exhaled directly onto the exposed skin. I turn reflexively to look for the source, but the man behind me seems to have left a respectable distance between us. What was meant to be a quick glance turns into something much less covert as I catch sight of his face. His gray eyes are somehow warm while still managing to pierce right through me.

Wow. Is there a modeling agency in this neighborhood? Eyes forward, Steele.

I force myself to focus on the menu, which is displayed across several LED screens hanging near the ceiling. The words don't seem to penetrate my brain, however, and I can feel his eyes on me. I'm exponentially more aware of my movements and expressions as we inch toward the front of the line, and with my peripheral vision, I take in his navy suit, crisp white shirt, and silver tie. He looks like he belongs among this particular crowd.

Can he tell that I don't?

I dressed up a little more than usual today, foregoing my usual bohemian style for something a tad more conservative. I generally prefer bare shoulders and legs in the summer, but I knew my favorite sundresses would stand out here. And my well-worn denim shorts? Forget it. Instead, I donned a well-fitting gray sheath dress and a pair of peep-toe black heels. The only part of my ensemble that might give anyone a clue as to my misfit status is my laptop bag. It's black canvas, rather than leather, and it's certainly seen better days.

The raven-haired businesswoman in front of me finishes explaining her ridiculously detailed coffee order to the barista, and I step up to the counter when she leaves. The barista gives me a look of gratitude when I keep my own order simple, and I smile in understanding. Working in the food service industry can be fun at times, but for the most part it's just exhausting.

"Name?" the girl asks, a Sharpie poised over the cardboard cup.

"Emma."

My name is not Emma.

Thankfully, she doesn't bother to read the name on the credit card I hand her, and once she hands it back, I head toward the waiting area at the end of the long counter. The navy-suited model takes his turn ordering, and I finally have an opportunity to really look at him.

Jesus, that's unfair. Mere mortals shouldn't get to look like that.

It's only now that I realize he's not alone. There's a man with a buzzcut standing directly behind him, and something about his stance tells me he's not here for coffee. His eyes are routinely scanning the interior of the shop, and more than once I see them pause on me. Or, more specifically, on my laptop bag. It's as though he's been trained to see things others might not. I self-consciously shift the bag behind me a little and try to look nonchalant.

Focus, Steele. You need to work.

I push the thoughts of the model and his odd companion out of my mind, moving forward to retrieve my coffee from the counter when my fake name is called. I settle into a chair at a table built for two and set up my laptop while I wait for my coffee to cool to a more tolerable temperature. The mandala-patterned decal across the lid of the computer is another element that betrays my true nature, but it's out of sight and out of mind as I open the screen and bring up a new document.

Emma… Who is she? What drives her? What does she feel?

My fingers move slowly over the keys at first, but they pick up speed as the puzzle pieces of my fictional character begin to snap into place. As always, the atmosphere of the coffee shop ignites my creativity. The low bustle of noise, the delicious aroma in the air, the rich taste of the coffee on my tongue… All of it inspires me. I smile in satisfaction as I tap the keys at a feverish pace, bringing Emma to life.

Christian

I sigh wearily and close my eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to grab the nearest heavy object and fling it at the head of my COO. Ros is brilliant, and there's no one else at GEH I trust more than her, but sometimes her smug attitude makes me want to break things. Expensive things. Like the company car I just gave her or the floor-to-ceiling window in my office.

I need a break.

"Go annoy someone else, Ros," I mutter, shrugging into my navy suit jacket as I head for the door. She makes a smart ass comment behind me, but I tune her out, walking toward the elevator with purpose. "I'm stepping out for a few minutes, Andrea."

"Yes, sir."

There's at least another half hour before my next meeting, but I won't be gone that long. Taylor must have spotted me leaving on the security feeds, because when I exit the elevator into the lobby, he's already waiting for me.

"Just going across the street to the coffee shop, Taylor. I doubt I need a bodyguard for that."

"Sir, I can get your coffee -"

"No, I'd rather get it myself this time."

My foul mood makes my reply a little more brusque than it needs to be, and for a moment, I feel guilty. Taylor isn't wrong to assume that I'd want to send someone out for it, since that's what I usually do, and he really didn't deserve to have his head snapped off for offering. So, I say nothing when he follows me out the front doors in spite of the low-risk nature of my errand.

The little shop across the street sells a proprietary house blend, and I've been hooked on it since the first sip. I frown a little when I catch sight of the long line, but maybe it's a good thing. It'll give me more time to shake off this mood. I'm typically a fairly even-tempered guy, but nothing pisses me off more than incompetence from my employees. Not that Ros has been incompetent, but her staff sure as hell has been lately. They've botched two deals in the past month. The first time, Ros was every bit as furious as I was, but the most recent deal was one she didn't think we should be taking in the first place. I don't think she'd go so far as to sabotage it, of course, but she's certainly not upset over the loss.

I follow a petite brunette across the tiled floor and step in line directly behind her, my mind still full of my own problems. Taylor is behind me, but I ignore him, taking deep, even breaths to calm myself. My eyes move idly around the shop, and I'm pleased to find that none of the faces are familiar to me. The little brunette shifts in front of me, and the overhead lights reflect off of her hair in a way that draws my attention. Her long, chocolate waves practically gleam under the fluorescents, and my fingers itch to find out if they're as soft as they look.

I allow my eyes to drift over her body, admiring her gentle curves and pale skin. Her gray dress fits her well, showing off her slender waist while still allowing free movement in her hips. Her legs are shapely and look a mile long in spite of her short stature. I need to see your face, I sigh longingly. For one terrifying moment, I think I might have actually said the words out loud, because she turns to look at me.

Fuck.

I'm not prepared for her stunning blue eyes, her full lips, her adorable little nose… her blush. Our eyes meet for only a moment before her cheeks pinken and she turns away. Jesus. One look from this woman, and I'm actually getting hard.

Look at me again, beautiful.

But she doesn't. She seems to look everywhere but at me, no matter how much I shift my weight around or how near I stand to her as we wait for our turns to order. I wrack my brain for something witty or charming to say, anything to get her to turn around again. I want to know if her voice is as angelic as her face.

Talking to a woman has never presented me with this much of a challenge. I don't have time to date much, but I can generally navigate a conversation with an attractive woman without making a fool of myself. Granted, I've been graced with an appearance that makes those interactions easier, but none of my prior experiences with women have prepared me for this. I feel like a teenager, sweaty-palmed and struck dumb at the sight of a pretty girl.

Snap out of it, Grey.

When at last she speaks to order her coffee, I actually close my eyes in appreciation of her warm, sweet voice. Try as I might, I can't find a suitable comparison. Silk? Honey? It seems to fit right in with the rich aroma of the coffee that permeates the air around us. I'm so lost in the sound of her voice, that I almost miss the name she gives the barista.

Emma.

It's a beautiful name, but it doesn't seem to fit her. It seems like the name of a sweet, maternal octogenarian rather than an insanely gorgeous young woman like her. I can't help but watch her ass sway in her gray dress as she moves away from me, walking to the end of the long counter to wait for her coffee. My eyes remain fixed on her for just a little too long, and Taylor actually nudges me to gain my attention. I scowl at him, and he gestures apologetically to the barista, who is waiting to take my order.

As I give my name and hand over my credit card, my eyes gravitate toward Emma again, and I'm almost positive she was looking at me before I turned in her direction. She retrieves her coffee before I reach the end of the counter myself, and I make sure not to lose sight of her as she weaves through the crowded seating area, heading for an empty table for two in the corner. She pulls a laptop out of her shoulder bag and opens the lid, leaning back a little in her seat as she presumably waits for a page or document to load. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her seems to set her hair ablaze, revealing shades of crimson and auburn that hadn't been visible under artificial light. The effect is mesmerizing.

I shuffle distractedly to an empty table that offers me a clear view of her, and Taylor seats himself across from me. He follows my gaze a few times, and I note that he has taken care not to block my line of sight even as he smirks at my behavior. Yeah, yeah… Fuck off, Jason.

I spend a good ten minutes just watching her. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and I can actually hear the clicking of the keys over the noise of the other patrons and the hive-like activity of the staff behind the counter. Whatever it is she's writing has apparently pushed everything else out of her mind. Including me, I realize a bit sourly. There is an adorable little crease between her eyebrows that shows up every so often, but for the most part, her expression is calm and content. If she's working, it's clear that she enjoys her job and most likely excels at it. If she's writing for pleasure, she's clearly chosen the right hobby.

My curiosity about this beautiful, intriguing woman only grows stronger the more I watch her, and after a little while, I give myself a mental shake. At any moment, she could get up and walk out the door, and I'll never know who she is. I've owned a business in the neighborhood for almost a decade, and I've never seen her before, so there's no guarantee I'll ever run into her again. That prospect more than anything else is what motivates me to stand, pick up my coffee, and instruct Taylor to stay put.

I don't want to spend another second of my life not knowing her.

Anastasia

The sunlight through the window is warm on my back, and my brain is buzzing with creativity. In a mere ten minutes, Emma has a full name and the beginnings of a life story. I can almost see her in my mind. She's taller than I am, prettier too. Brunette, or maybe a redhead. When she dresses for her high-powered job, she doesn't look like an imposter. When she speaks, people listen. She's confident, bold, a risk-taker. She flirts with handsome men and doesn't feel even for a moment that she's unworthy of their attention. She knows what she wants, and she does what it takes to get it.

My mind is so full of Emma that it takes me a moment to realize someone is standing next to my small table, and when I eventually register the sight of navy blue dress pants in my peripheral, I immediately look up to find those intense gray eyes staring down at me.

"Hello. Emma, right?" he asks, stunning me with his perfect smile as he gestures to my coffee cup.

"Um…"

"Christian."

He holds out his hand in greeting, and I take it hesitantly. My skin tingles a little where it meets his, reminding me of the sensation I felt on the back of my neck earlier.

"Nice to meet you," I manage, smiling back at him with more confidence than I'm actually feeling. He moves his hand to the back of the opposite chair and quirks one well-groomed brow upward.

"May I?"

"Sure."

This is where you tell him your real name, Steele.

But the words don't come. Will he think I'm crazy? I'll admit, my writing process is a bit unique. Okay, more like bizarre and possibly bordering on schizophrenic at times. What would a hot, male model know about writing? And why on earth is he talking to me? One part of my brain is telling me to come clean about the fake name, but another is urging me to run with it. I've created a character, and this is a chance to step into her fictional shoes. It could even help me in the writing process.

And this guy is a writer's dream. He's by far the most attractive man I've ever seen up close. I can smell what I'm certain is very expensive cologne even in the midst of the overpowering scent of coffee. His voice is smooth enough to dampen a girl's panties with just a few words…

What would Emma do?

"I haven't seen you in here before. Do you come here often?"

"No, it's the first time, actually." That part is actually true. "You?"

"I send my assistant here for coffee more often than not, but they have exclusive rights to this particular brand," he explains with a grin, lifting his own cup. "I didn't find out that it was their proprietary blend until I'd already formed an addiction to it."

"Well, then they have you right where they want you."

"That they do," he laughs, and I can't help but chuckle too. I channel Emma and push for more.

"So, I take it you work in the area, then?"

"Just across the street," Christian replies, twitching his head in the direction of a the granite and glass monstrosity that is Grey House. I know very little about the company, but the building itself screams money and power. As does he.

"What do you do there?"

"I'm… in mergers and acquisitions," he says smoothly after a moment's hesitation.

"That sounds…" Boring as hell. Christian laughs as though I've voiced my thoughts aloud, and the delicious sound distracts me yet again. I can't help but wonder how someone who looks like that got into such a soporific profession.

"I know," he grins playfully. "It's not as glamorous as it sounds. How about you? How is it you're not as addicted to the coffee here as everyone else in the area?"

"Well, I'm not actually from here; I'm visiting some friends for a few days. I'm considering relocating." I glance surreptitiously at the screen of my laptop, thankful that he can't see the notes I've typed.

"Relocating from…?"

"Vancouver."

"Washington?"

"No, British Columbia. I'm in advertising," I add, Emma's background fresh in my mind. He leans forward, clearly interested. Uh oh.

"And you're looking for a job?"

"I haven't decided. I like where I am now, but Seattle is closer to my family." Another truth.

"You looked so focused on what you were doing earlier; I assumed I would be interrupting you while you were working."

"Oh," my eyes shift guiltily to my laptop again. "I was, sort of. I'm primarily a graphic artist for my agency, but I also do a little copywriting. I like to sit in… places like this… and watch people. You know, brainstorm."

The little nuggets of truth are making me feel mildly less ashamed for misleading him. He really does seem like a nice guy. However, I've leapt feet first into this rabbit hole, and there's nothing to do now but follow it all the way to the bottom. Besides, what are the odds I'll ever even talk to him again? I haven't missed the way his eyes keep moving up and down over my body, but someone like me could never satisfy someone like him. He's checking out Emma. Not Ana. If I were sitting here in my sandals, short shorts, and peasant top, he wouldn't have given me a second glance, except perhaps to note that I clearly don't belong here amongst people like him.

"So, that's what you're doing today, then? Brainstorming?" he asks, regaining my attention. I smile in spite of myself, and my face feels suddenly flushed.

"More or less."

"And you might be moving here," Christian states, his gray eyes sparkling at me from across the small table. It's almost as though he's truly excited by the idea.

Damn, Emma is good…

"Maybe. I have family in Montesano." I wonder if he notices my nervousness as I reveal yet another fact that didn't come from Emma's bio.

"But not in Vancouver?"

Is that a backwards way of asking if I'm single?

"No. Just me." I blush again, drawn to him against my better judgment. "You?"

"No, I don't have family in Vancouver," he chuckles, and I laugh with him. The sound of our laughter harmonizes perfectly.

"I meant family here."

"Oh, right, well… I grew up here for the most part. My parents live in Bellevue, which is a suburb on the other side of Lake Washington. My mom's a pediatrician, my dad's a lawyer. I have a jackass older brother and an annoyingly sweet little sister."

"So, you're the middle child. Is it true what they say?" I smirk.

"That we're the best? Absolutely."

We laugh in harmony again, and I find myself becoming more interested in him than I should be. It's foolish; I know that. But I also know that my time with him is limited. I probably have minutes at most, and I will most likely never get another chance to sit here like this with a guy like him. He's not at all what I expected. Guys who look like that are almost always full of themselves, expecting women to fall all over them at the first flash of their perfect, white smiles. Christian is… different.

"You work at GEH? Or are there other companies housed in that ridiculously large building?"

"It's not that big," he replies, sounding oddly defensive.

"Oh, come on. It's… what? Sixty or seventy floors?"

"Seventy-five."

"Seventy-five," I echo, angling my neck next to the window and squinting as though the roof of the building is obscured by the clouds. "I don't know who runs the place, but he's certainly compensating for something."

"You really don't know…?"

I glance back at Christian, caught off guard by his expression. He looks skeptical, but there's something else in his eyes as well. It's almost like he's embarrassed.

"Should I? Like I said, I'm not from here," I shrug, blaming my fake persona for my ignorance. In reality, I've lived in Washington all my life, but I don't generally read the business section of the newspaper for fun. Maybe I should've done some recon work before coming here.

"That's true, I guess. I, um… I know the owner. He's a good guy," Christian shrugs. "Only an asshole about half of the time."

"Well, it could be worse," I giggle. His face softens noticeably. "What does he do when he's not being an asshole?"

"Works long hours. Spends time with his family…"

"I guess that's not so bad then."

The conversation glides effortlessly from one topic to the next, and I learn that he was adopted, that he went to Harvard, and that he volunteers for his mother's charity in his free time. I try to keep the guilt from my expression as I handpick a few details about the Emma Harris I created in my mind only minutes before he approached me. He seems to hang on every word, which in itself is strange, but it feeds into the role I'm playing. I almost feel like someone else. Someone prettier, smarter, braver...

A momentary silence stretches between us, and I can't seem to break our eye contact. He's holding me steadfast in his gaze, as though daring me to look away while simultaneously preventing me from doing so. I feel the facade of Emma and her confidence fall away, and for a moment, I'm just Ana, staring into the eyes of a man who has confounded every expectation I'd formed about him. He's not arrogant or vain. He doesn't seem shallow, and he doesn't act like a player.

I'm ensnared by him, and I don't just mean his gorgeous face. He's funny, charming, polite… and he's interested. It seems strange, impossible even, but the truth of it is all over his face.

Except it's not Ana he's interested in.

Fuck.

Somehow, I defy the magnetic pull of his eyes and glance at the screen of my laptop. We've been sitting here for much longer than I'd realized. My thoughts must show on my face, because now he looks disappointed.

"Do you need to be somewhere?"

"Yes, actually. Sorry, I didn't realize so much time had passed. Don't you have to go back to work anyway?"

My gaze flickers behind Christian to the suited man who'd been standing behind him in line. I'd all but forgotten him, and I realize now that my first assessment had been correct. They were together, and the older man was waiting and watching with the air of someone well-accustomed to the task. I can't be completely certain if he's a bodyguard or just an assistant with a staring problem.

"I do," Christian confirms. "But I'd much rather spend the rest of the afternoon talking to you."

"Running for Employee of the Month, are you?" I tease, pretending I'm not just as reluctant to leave. I close my laptop and shove it back into my bag.

"I just know how to prioritize," he grins, pulling out his cell phone. "I'd really like to see you again, Emma. I'd like to see you a lot more. Can I have your number?"

His use of my pseudonym brings me up short, reminding me that I've spent the past hour lying through my teeth about who I am. How can I possibly tell him the truth now? He'll think I'm crazy. Maybe he'd be right. Still, I can't turn him down without offending him, and as much as I hate it, there's really nothing else I can do. I take the phone from his hand and do something I've never done before.

I give a hot guy a fake number.

"Thank you," Christian beams. "I'll call you later?"

"Sounds great," I manage through an awkward smile.

His muscled shadow opens the door for us as we leave the coffee shop together, and before we part ways, Christian catches my hand in his and lifts it to his lips in a gesture so prosaic that I actually stop breathing for a moment.

"Until next time."

Christian

I don't remember the last time I was so frustrated. And that's saying something. I spent the most incredible hour of my life getting to know Emma, trading witty banter, telling her about my life… Well, most of my life. She didn't recognize me, and I didn't give her my last name. It was a split decision that I regretted after we went our separate ways, and I had every intention of coming clean when I called her later that evening. But talking to a beautiful woman as if I was just a regular guy was liberating. She didn't look at me the way the rest of the world does. For the first time in my life, I felt truly visible, like she was interested in the real me rather than the persona I present to everyone else.

Or at least I thought she was interested. Fuck. Am I really so out of touch that I can't even tell when a woman is into me and when she isn't? Did I come on too strongly? Or not strongly enough? Was she pretending because she didn't want to hurt my feelings? Was she lying about being single? In the week that has passed since I met Emma, I've questioned everything so many times. I was sure she felt the same connection, the same attraction I was feeling.

Then why did she give you a fake number, genius?

I sigh and run my hands through my already-messy hair. I don't know if I'm more frustrated with her or with myself for being so bothered by her apparent rejection. There's a brief knock at my office door before it opens to reveal Welch.

No, it's him I'm most frustrated with.

I know most people would probably think I should just let go of whatever Emma and I might've had and move on, but that wasn't my style. I didn't get where I am by giving up without a fight. Unfortunately, Welch has failed me for the first time in his long employment at GEH. As far as he can tell, Emma Harris doesn't exist. Oh, there are plenty of women with that name, but none of them fit the criteria or match her description.

There is no record of an Emma Harris who lives in Vancouver and has family in Montesano. He's checked everywhere. At first, I'd thought that Emma might be a nickname, but no variation of the name has shown up anywhere. I've even had him looking into Vancouver residents who hold American passports or dual citizenships.

Nothing.

"Well?" I say to him expectantly, but I can already tell by his expression that the news isn't good.

"I'm sorry, sir," he shakes his head.

"They wouldn't show you the footage?"

"No, the manager of the coffee shop was more than happy to grant the favor once I explained who was making the request, but the footage didn't show the young woman's face. The security cameras in the shop are focused on the door and the staff areas. She appears on the door cam, but she was in and out too quickly for the camera to catch a stable image of her face."

Damn. I've been hoping we could get something to use in a reverse image search or to cross-check DMV records.

"Fine," I mutter as I wave Welch away. He's at a dead end, and we both know it. I need to just let it go. I need to put her out of my mind and forget her…

But I can't.

Weeks go by, and I still think of her every time I look at the logo of the coffee cup Andrea brings me each day, or every time Taylor drives past the modern storefront. She crosses my mind every time I notice a woman nearby with the same hair or eye color, and I'm forever comparing them all to her. No one ever measures up. Their eyes aren't as brilliantly blue. Their brown hair doesn't blaze red in the sunlight. They don't wrinkle their brow in that adorable way when they're concentrating.

I've been trying to shake it off and move on. Hell, I've even given serious consideration to allowing my mother to set me up with some surgeon who just started working at the hospital, just so I can get my mind off of Emma. The whole situation is driving me insane, and for the life of me, I don't understand why I can't just let it go. It's not like me at all. I'm Christian Grey. I don't get worked up over women.

Today is finally Saturday, and I'm relieved that another shit week is over. Unfortunately, my mind is still full of Emma. I decide to forego my usual cup of Gail's coffee and stack of paperwork in my study in favor of a jog and a trip to Starbucks. It's a warm day, even for summer, and the sun is shining. I run my normal route, only deviating at the end so that I can boost my endorphin rush with a little caffeine.

In spite of the fact that there seems to be a Starbucks on every other city block, I've yet to see one that isn't jam-packed with people, and today is no exception. My eyes scan the dining area reflexively as I try to decide whether to sit and enjoy my iced coffee or just drink it on the way back to Escala. For once, I'm actually not looking for Emma.

But I see her.

My breath catches as I spot her dark hair, the hidden flames in her tresses revealed by a single beam of sunlight from the paneled window. I can only see her profile from here, but there's not a doubt in my mind that it's her. She's tapping away on the keyboard of that same laptop with the ornate decal on the lid, and her canvas laptop bag is on the floor at her feet. She does look different this time, though. Her long hair is half up in an intricate braid design, and she's wearing a dangerously short sundress with a pair of sandals. She really looks nothing like that clean-cut professional I met weeks ago.

My feet seem to carry me toward her without any directive from my brain, and as I get a closer look at her, I realize that her face looks different too. She's wearing very little makeup, and a faint batch of freckles are scattered over that pert little nose. She's even more stunning than before. Like a sun-kissed goddess, natural and vibrant.

I'm sure that I'm standing in her peripheral vision now, but she doesn't look up from the screen of her laptop. My eyes catch sight of her coffee cup, and I notice that the name on it is different.

Ana.

Feeling intrigued and rather bold, I bring my hand to the back of her laptop screen and slowly push it closed. She looks up at me in shock, and it only takes a moment for her to recognize me. Her stunning blue eyes widen almost comically, and the most beautiful blush warms her cheeks. I can see the guilt and regret in her expression, and it makes me feel just a little bit better.

"Mind if I sit?" I don't smile. Not yet. Let her sweat it out just a little. She swallows with some difficulty before she answers in a quavering voice.

"Of course."

"Christian," I remind her, though I know she remembers. She nibbles her bottom lip and glances at her lap, clearly uncomfortable, and I wonder if maybe I did mistake her politeness for genuine interest. I touch her coffee cup briefly. "Emma?"

"Um… Ana, actually. Anastasia, but I go by Ana."

"That would explain a lot," I reply coolly. The name suits her so much better.

I realize as I look at her that I'm actually not angry at all. After weeks of obsessing over her, I thought I would be demanding explanations and apologies if I ever saw her again, but surprisingly, that's not the case. I'm keeping my true feelings behind a mask of neutrality, but to be honest, what I feel is simply relief.

She's real, and she's right here. I managed to find her twice in city of seven hundred thousand people, and this time, I'm not letting her go. I'll follow her home if I have to. I can't believe I was lucky enough to find her again, but now I want the truth. Who is she?

"I'm so sorry," she says, and she certainly looks it.

"For the fake name? Or the fake number?"

"For both. It was stupid of me, and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but I… I can explain."

I let a small smile warm my face a little, and it has its desired effect. She relaxes a little, and she gives me a tentative smile in return.

"I'm all ears, Anastasia."

"Just Ana," she replies breathlessly, and I raise my brow again at her tenacity to correct me after having given me a fake name the first time we met. She shakes her head self-consciously. "Right, sorry. Okay, so… I'm a writer. I have kind of a unique creative process that to most people would seem crazy."

"You go around town pretending to be someone else?"

"Yes," she says, surprising me. I was just being a smartass.

"Really?"

"Really. I usually pick non-franchise coffee houses because they seem to draw the most inspiration from the neighborhoods around them. I give the staff a different name, then I sit down and create a character who would be likely to drink that cup of coffee in that particular shop. If necessary, I even dress differently to blend in and get myself into the right frame of mind."

"Wow."

"I know," she winces. "It's nuts."

"Not really. I mean, if it works for you, then great. What I don't understand is why you didn't just tell me that."

"I should have. When you sat down and called me by that name, I was…" She blushes and bites her plump bottom lip again, and this time, I can't help myself. I reach forward to ease it from between her teeth.

"You need to stop that," I groan. Before I bite it for you. "You were saying?"

"Well… you may not realize it, but you're pretty intimidating. At first I was kind of… dazzled by you. Honestly, I don't know what possessed me to keep pretending to be Emma. I didn't see the harm in it at the time because I didn't think I'd ever get to see you again.

"But then… the more we talked, the more I realized that I really wanted to see you again. I wanted you to know the real me, even if it meant you wouldn't be interested anymore. I was pretty sure if I told you the truth after we'd been talking for an hour, you'd either be really pissed off or just think I was insane. Either way, I was sure I wouldn't hear from you again."

She's rambling, and it's adorable. But I do follow her nervous speech, and I'm caught by one statement in particular.

"What makes you think I wouldn't be interested in the 'real you?'"

She looks back at me as though the answer should be obvious, chuckling awkwardly.

"Well… look at me. This is me," she gestures to her white eyelet sundress and tantalizing bare skin. "Not that blouse and pencil skirt version."

"You're beautiful in both," I say, stunning her into silence. "But to be honest, I prefer you this way. And Anastasia suits you perfectly. Much better than Emma. It would've been pretty unfair of me to be mad, actually… I wasn't completely honest with you either."

"You mean since you're Christian Grey, and you actually own that ridiculously large building you work in?" she sasses. For the first time since I sat down, she gives me a true smile, and my wits are scrambled for a moment. "I saw your picture a couple of weeks ago on a magazine cover in the bookstore."

"Um… Yeah. I should've told you. I'm used to people recognizing me, and the fact that you didn't was… nice. Refreshing. I spoke to you like a normal guy talking to a beautiful woman, and you didn't expect anything more of me. I liked that."

"I like this better," she grins, her eyes flickering downward at my running attire. "You're far less intimidating like this. I can actually talk to you without falling all over myself."

"I'd catch you."

Jesus, Grey. When did you start channeling cheesy rom-coms?

But it makes her smile again and blush, so I wouldn't take it back.

"First thing's first. What's your last name?"

"Steele."

"And you're a writer who lives in Seattle?"

"Yes," she chuckles. "About ten blocks from here, actually. I don't use fake names here; they know me."

"I'm in this neighborhood too. I can't believe you were that close… Do you know I had my security guy digging through passport and DMV records looking for Emma Harris?" I tease her. She giggles, and my pants are suddenly rather tight.

"Oh, no… Poor guy. You didn't fire him or anything, right?"

"I came close." I really did.

She throws her head back and laughs, and I can't help but join her. Her laughter is infectious and the sight of her so relaxed literally takes my breath away. I can't seem to stop looking at her lips, her eyes, her hair, her beautiful body... I don't think I've ever craved a woman the way I crave Ana.

A sudden clap of thunder causes both of us to look outside, and I'm surprised to see that the sun has disappeared behind a raincloud. How long have we been talking? Once again, we've gotten lost in each other.

"Yuck," she comments, her smile vanishing as she watches the rain hit the pavement outside. "Now I wish I'd taken my car."

"I'll drive you," I offer immediately, pulling out my phone to summon Taylor with an SUV.

"Oh, thank you, but I'll be fine. This is Seattle. Won't be my first or last experience with walking in the rain." I ignore her smiling reassurance and pile on the charm.

"I insist. I could hardly call myself a gentleman if I let you walk home in that. My mother raised me better." I can tell she wants to keep arguing with me, but her eyes shift back to the window with a slight cringe. "You may as well just agree. Besides, I think giving me your address is only fair. Then you can't disappear on me again."

"I suppose I do owe you that," Ana concedes with another sweet smile.

"You do. And it will make picking you up for our date that much easier."

"Date? Who said I wanted to date you?" she teases.

"The way you're squirming around in your seat every time I smile at you is a pretty good indicator. The blushing too," I add as Ana's cheeks pinken predictably. "Maybe I should remind you that you've already played hard to get."

"I guess I have," she admits thoughtfully, leaning closer. I copy her movement until our faces are less than six inches apart. I can see every freckle on her perfect nose. "Alright, then. On one condition."

"Name it."

"You kiss me at the beginning of the date and at the end."

I feel like my face must have split in half from smiling. Her self-confidence is improving, and it's sexy as fuck.

"Bold, Miss Steele. I like it. But can I make a suggestion?"

"Okay?"

I smirk a little and lean closer still, her blue eyes almost swallowing me whole.

"I kiss you before the date, after the date… and right now."

Her answering smile fills me with warmth and compels me to close the distance between us. She meets me halfway, and the first touch of her lips is like nothing else I've ever experienced. In an instant, the noise of the busy cafe is gone. We might as well be the only two people in the room. The only two people on the planet. She pulls me in with the lush softness of her lips and teases me with the tip of her tongue. Fuck. She's like a drug. I'm flying high with no desire to ever come down. When at last we come up for air, her eyes are heavy with longing.

"I'm definitely going to need more of that," I whisper. Those beautiful eyes darken in a way that makes me want to do much more than kiss her.

"We aim to please, Mr. Grey."

Just a sweet little one-shot I've been sitting on for a while. Hope you enjoyed it. It was my first, and so far only, attempt at writing 1st POV. How'd I do? :)