Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           “Wouldyoulikeabag?”IaskasItakehiscreditcard.

           “Please,Anastasia.”Histonguecaressesmyname,andmyheartonceagainisfrantic.Icanhardlybreathe.Hurriedly,Iplacehispurchasesinaplasticbag.

           “You’llcallmeifyouwantmetodothephotoshoot?”He’sallbusinessoncemore.Inod,renderedspeechlessyetagain,andhandbackhiscreditcard.

           “Good.Untiltomorrow,perhaps.”Heturnstoleave,thenpauses.“Oh—andAnastasia,I’mgladMissKavanaghcouldn’tdotheinterview.”Hesmiles,thenstrideswithrenewedpurposeoutofthestore,slingingtheplasticbagoverhisshoulder,leavingmeaquiveringmassofragingfemalehormones.Ispendseveralminutesstaringatthecloseddoorthroughwhichhe’sjustleftbeforeIreturntoplanetEarth.

           Okay—Ilikehim.There,I’veadmittedittomyself.Icannothidefrommyfeelingsanymore.I’veneverfeltlikethisbefore.Ifindhimattractive,veryattractive.Butit’salostcause,Iknow,andIsighwithbittersweetregret.Itwasjustacoincidence,hiscominghere.Butstill,Icanadmirehimfromafar,surely.Noharmcancomeofthat.AndifIfindaphotographer,Icandosomeseriousadmiringtomorrow.Ibitemylipinanticipationandfindmyselfgrinninglikeaschoolgirl.IneedtophoneKateandorganizeaphotoshoot.