Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           ClaytonasksmetocheckonsomeorderswhileI’msittingbehindthecounterattheregisterdiscreetlyeatingmybagel.I’mengrossedinthetask,checkingcatalognumbersagainsttheitemsweneedandtheitemswe’veordered,eyesflickingfromtheorderbooktothecomputerscreenandbackasImakesuretheentriesmatch.Then,forsomereason,Iglanceup…andfindmyselflockedintheboldgraygazeofChristianGrey,who’sstandingatthecounter,staringatme.

           Heartfailure.

           “MissSteele.Whatapleasantsurprise.”Hisgazeisunwaveringandintense.

           Holycrap.Whatthehellishedoinghere,lookingalloutdoorsywithhistousledhairandinhiscreamchunky-knitsweater,jeans,andwalkingboots?Ithinkmymouthhaspoppedopen,andIcan’tlocatemybrainormyvoice.

           “Mr.Grey,”Iwhisper,becausethat’sallIcanmanage.There’saghostofasmileonhislipsandhiseyesarealightwithhumor,asifhe’senjoyingsomeprivatejoke.

           “Iwasinthearea,”hesaysbywayofexplanation.“Ineedtostockuponafewthings.It’sapleasuretoseeyouagain,MissSteele.”Hisvoiceiswarmandhuskylikedarkmeltedchocolatefudgecaramel…orsomething.

           Ishakemyheadtogathermywits.Myheartispoundingatafrantictempo,andforsomereasonI’mblushingfuriouslyunderhissteadyscrutiny.Iamutterlythrownbythesightofhimstandingbeforeme.Mymemoriesofhimdidnotdohimjustice.He’snotmerelygood-looking—he’stheepitomeofmalebeauty,breathtaking,andhe’shere.HereinClayton’sHardwareStore.Gofigure.