Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           “Goodnight.”

           “Goodnight,Sir.”

           Myaddresscatcheshimunawares,Icantellbyhissharpintakeofbreath.

           “Goodluckwithyourmovetomorrow,Anastasia.”Hisvoiceissoft.Andwe’rebothhangingonthephoneliketeenagers,neitherwantingtohangup.

           “Youhangup,”Iwhisper.Finally,Isensehissmile.

           “No,youhangup.”AndIknowhe’sgrinning.

           “Idon’twantto.”

           “NeitherdoI.”

           “Wereyouveryangrywithme?”

           “Yes.”

           “Areyoustill?”

           “No.”

           “Soyou’renotgoingtopunishme?”

           “No.I’manin-the-momentkindofguy.”

           “I’venoticed.”

           “Youcanhangupnow,MissSteele.”

           “Doyoureallywantmeto,Sir?”

           “Gotobed,Anastasia.”

           “Yes,Sir.”

           Webothstayontheline.

           “Doyoueverthinkyou’llbeabletodowhatyou’retold?”He’samusedandexasperatedatonce.

           “Maybe.We’llseeafterSunday.”AndIpress“end”onthephone.

           Elliotstandsandadmireshishandiwork.HehasrepluggedourTVintothesatellitesysteminourPikePlaceMarketapartment.KateandIflopontothecouchgiggling,impressedbyhisprowesswithapowerdrill.Theflatscreenlooksoddagainstthebrickworkoftheconvertedwarehouse,butnodoubtIwillgetusedtoit.

           “See,baby,easy.”Hegrinsawide,white-toothedsmileatKate,andshealmostliterallydissolvesintothecouch.

           Irollmyeyesatthepairofthem.

           “I’dlovetostay,baby,butmysisterisbackfromParis.It’sacompulsoryfamilydinnertonight.”

           “Canyoucomebyafter?”Kateaskstentatively,allsoftandun-Kate-like.