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Chapter 20
Chapter 20
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“I’m still mad that you bought SIP, and now I’m mad at you because you’re making me wait.” She purses her lips.
“You are one angry little madam, aren’t you?” I state, knowing she won’t understand the compliment. “You’ll feel
better after a good meal.”
“I know what I’ll feel better after.”
“Anastasia Steele, I’m shocked.” I feign outrage and hold my palm against my heart.
“Stop teasing me. You don’t fight fair.” All of a sudden her stance changes. “I could cook something,” she says,
“except we’ll have to go shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“For groceries.”
“You have no food here?” For heaven’s sake—no wonder she hasn’t eaten! “Let’s go shopping, then.” I stride to
the door of her apartment and open it wide, gesturing for her to exit. This could work in my favor. I just need to find
a pharmacy or a convenience store.
“Okay, okay,” she says, and scurries out the door.
As we walk down the street hand in hand, I wonder at how, in her presence, I can run through an entire spectrum
of emotion: from angry, to carnal, to fearful, to playful. Before Ana, I was calm and stable, but boy, was my life
monotonous. That changed the moment she fell into my office. Being with her is like being inside a storm, my
feelings colliding and crashing together, then surging and ebbing away. I hardly know which way is up. Ana’s
never dull. I just hope what’s left of my heart can cope.
We walk two blocks to Ernie’s Supermarket. It’s small, and packed with too many people; mostly singles, I think,
judging from the contents of their shopping baskets. And here am I, single no more.
I like that idea.
I follow in Ana’s wake, holding a wire basket and enjoying the view of her ass, all tight and taut in her jeans. I
especially like it when she leans over the vegetable counter and picks up some onions. The fabric stretches
across her behind and her blouse rides up, revealing a sliver of pale, flawless skin.
Oh, what I’d like to do to that ass.
Ana is looking at me, perplexed and asking me questions about when I was last in a supermarket? I have no idea.
She wants to cook stir-fry because it’s quick. Quick, huh? I smirk and follow her through the store, enjoying how
adept she is at choosing her ingredients: a squeeze of a tomato here, the sniff of a pepper there. As we walk to
the checkout she asks me about my staff and how long they’ve been with me. Why does she want to know?
“Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones, about the same.”
I ask her a question of my own. “Why didn’t you have any food in the apartment?”
Her expression clouds. “You know why.”
“It was you who left me,” I remind her. If you’d stayed we might have worked things out and avoided all the misery.
“I know,” she says, sounding contrite.
I stand in line beside her. There’s a woman in front of us, trying to wrangle two small children, one of whom is
whining incessantly.
Jesus. How do people do this?
We could have gone out to eat. There are enough restaurants around here. “Do you have anything to drink?” I
ask, because after this real-life experience, I’m going to need alcohol.
“Beer, I think.”
“I’ll get some wine.”
I put as much distance as I can between me and the screaming boy, but after a brief look around the store I
realize there’s no alcohol or condoms for sale here.
Damn it.
“There’s a good liquor store next door,” Anastasia says, when I return to the line which doesn’t seem to have
moved and is still dominated by the wailing child.
“I’ll see what they have.”
Relieved to be out of the hellhole that is Ernie’s, I notice a small convenience store beside Liquor Locker. Inside, I
find the only two remaining packs of condoms.
Thank heavens. Two packs of two.
Four fucks if I’m lucky.
I can’t help my grin. That should be enough even for the insatiable Miss Steele.
I grab them both and pay the old guy behind the counter and leave. I’m lucky in the liquor store, too. It has an
excellent selection of wine and I find an above-average pinot grigio in the fridge.
Anastasia is staggering out of the grocery store when I return.
“Here, let me carry that.” I take both grocery bags and we walk back to her apartment.
She tells me a little about what she’s been doing during the week. She’s obviously enjoying her new job. She
doesn’t mention my takeover of SIP, and I’m grateful. And for my part I don’t mention her asshole of a boss.
“You look very domestic,” she says with ill-concealed amusement when we’re back in her kitchen.
She’s laughing at me. Again. “No one has ever accused me of that before.” I place the bags on the kitchen island
and she sets to work unloading them. I grab the wine. The grocery store was enough reality for today. Now, where
would she keep a corkscrew?
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