Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 9
Mysubconsciousscowlsatme…Fucking—notlovemaking,shescreamsatmelikeaharpy.Iignoreher,butdeepdownIknowshehasapoint.Ishakemyheadtoconcentrateonthetaskathand.
Thereisastate-of-the-artrange.IthinkIhavethehangofit.Ineedsomewheretokeepthepancakeswarm,andIstartonthebacon.AmyStudtissinginginmyearaboutmisfits.Thissongusedtomeansomuchtome;that’sbecauseI’mamisfit.Ihaveneverfittedinanywhereandnow…IhaveanindecentproposaltoconsiderfromKingMisfithimself.Whyishethisway?Natureornurture?It’ssoalientoanythingIknow.
Iputthebaconunderthegrill,andwhileit’scooking,Iwhisksomeeggs.Iturn,andChristianissittingononeofthebarstoolsatthebreakfastbar,leaningonit,hisfacesupportedbyhissteepledhands.He’sstillwearingtheT-shirthesleptin.Just-fuckedhairreally,reallysuitshim,asdoeshisdesignerstubble.Helooksbothamusedandbewildered.Ifreeze,flush,thengathermyselfandpulltheheadphonesoutofmyears,mykneesweakatthesightofhim.
“Goodmorning,MissSteele.You’reveryenergeticthismorning,”hesaysdryly.
“I-Isleptwell,”Istuttermyexplanation.Hislipstrytomaskhissmile.
“Ican’timaginewhy.”Hepausesandfrowns.“SodidIafterIcamebacktobed.”
“Areyouhungry?”
“Very,”hesayswithanintenselook,andIdon’tthinkhe’sreferringtofood.
“Pancakes,bacon,andeggs?”
“Soundsgreat.”
“Idon’tknowwhereyoukeepyourplacemats.”Ishrug,tryingdesperatelyhardnottolookflustered.
