Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 2
He’scuteandfunny,buthe’sjustnotforme.He’smorelikethebrotherIneverhad.KatherineoftenteasesmethatI’mmissingtheneed-a-boyfriendgene,butthetruthisIjusthaven’tmetanyonewho…well,whomI’mattractedto,eventhoughpartofmelongsforthefabledtremblingknees,heart-in-my-mouth,butterflies-in-my-bellymoments.
SometimesIwonderifthere’ssomethingwrongwithme.PerhapsI’vespenttoolonginthecompanyofmyliteraryromanticheroes,andconsequentlymyidealsandexpectationsarefartoohigh.Butinreality,nobody’severmademefeellikethat.
Untilveryrecently,theunwelcome,still-smallvoiceofmysubconsciouswhispers.NO!Ibanishthethoughtimmediately.Iamnotgoingthere,notafterthatpainfulinterview.Areyougay,Mr.Grey?Iwinceatthememory.IknowI’vedreamedabouthimmostnightssincethen,butthat’sjusttopurgetheawfulexperiencefrommysystem,surely.
IwatchJoséopenthebottleofchampagne.He’stall,andinhisjeansandT-shirt,he’sallshouldersandmuscles,tannedskin,darkhair,andburningdarkeyes.Yes,José’sprettyhot,butIthinkhe’sfinallygettingthemessage:we’rejustfriends.Thecorkmakesitsloudpop,andJosélooksupandsmiles.
SATURDAYATTHESTOREisanightmare.Wearebesiegedbydo-it-yourselferswantingtospruceuptheirhomes.Mr.andMrs.ClaytonandJohnandPatrick—thetwootherpart-timers—andIarebesiegedbycustomers.Butthere’salullaroundlunchtime,andMrs.
