Embarrassment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  pressed, I would have said that our earlier estimates had been absurdly optimistic. If pressed further, I would have admitted that we had started the project on faulty premises and that we should at least consider seriously the option of declaring defeat and going home. But nobody pressed me and there was no discussion; we tacitly agreed to go on without an explicit forecast of how long the effort would last. This was easy to do because we had not made such a forecast to begin with. If we had had a reasonable baseline prediction when we started, we would not have gone into it, but we had already invested a great deal of effort—an instance of the sunk-cost fallacy, which we will look at more closely in the next part of the book. It would have been embarrassing for us— especially for me—to give up at that point, and there seemed to be no immediate reason to do so. It is easier to change directions in a crisis, but this was not a crisis, only some new facts about people we did not know. The outside view was much easier to ignore than bad news in our own effort. I can best describe our state as a form of lethargy—an unwillingness to think about what had happened. So we carried on. There was no further attempt at rational planning for the rest of the time I spent as a member of the team—a particularly troubling omission for a team dedicated to teaching rationality. I hope I am wiser today, and I have acquired a habit of looking for the outside view. But it will never be the natural thing to do. Speaking of the Outside View “He’s taking an inside view. He should forget about his own case and look for what happened in other cases.” “She is the victim of a planning fallacy. She’s assuming a best-case scenario, but there are too many different ways for the plan to fail, and she cannot foresee them all.” “Suppose you did not know a thing about this particular legal case, only that it involves a malpractice claim by an individual against a surgeon. What would be your baseline prediction? How many of these cases succeed in court? How many settle? What are the amounts? Is the case we are discussing stronger or weaker than similar claims?” “We are making an additional investment because we do not want to admit failure. This is an instance of the sunk-cost fallacy.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I stand rather shakily, trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my belongings, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door. “You don’t need to knock—just go in.” She smiles kindly. I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet and falling headfirst into the office. Double crap—me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grey’s office, and gentle hands are around me, helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed. Damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow—he’s so young. “Miss Kavanagh.” He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?” So young—and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copper-colored hair and intense, bright-gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice. “Um. Actually—” I mutter. If this guy is over thirty, then I’m Joan of Arc. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. “Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grey.” “And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested but, above all, polite. “Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English literature with Kate, um…Katherine…um…Miss Kavanagh, at WSU Vancouver.” “I see,” he says simply and I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I’m not sure. “Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward an L-shaped white leather couch. His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white—ceiling, floors, and walls, except for the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite—a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking. “A local artist. Trouton,” says Grey when he catches my gaze. “They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently. “I couldn’t agree more, Miss Steele,” he replies, his voice soft, and for some inexplicable reason, I find myself blushing.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  book was eventually completed eight(!) years later. By that time I was no longer living in Israel and had long since ceased to be part of the team, which completed the task after many unpredictable vicissitudes. The initial enthusiasm for the idea in the Ministry of Education had waned by the time the text was delivered and it was never used. This embarrassing episode remains one of the most instructive experiences of my professional life. I eventually learned three lessons from it. The first was immediately apparent: I had stumbled onto a distinction between two profoundly different approaches to forecasting, which Amos and I later labeled the inside view and the outside view. The second lesson was that our initial forecasts of about two years for the completion of the project exhibited a planning fallacy. Our estimates were closer to a best-case scenario than to a realistic assessment. I was slower to accept the third lesson, which I call irrational perseverance: the folly we displayed that day in failing to abandon the project. Facing a choice, we gave up rationality rather than give up the enterprise. Drawn to the Inside View On that long-ago Friday, our curriculum expert made two judgments about the same problem and arrived at very different answers. The inside view is the one that all of us, including Seymour, spontaneously adopted to assess the future of our project. We focused on our specific circumstances and searched for evidence in our own experiences. We had a sketchy plan: we knew how many chapters we were going to write, and we had an idea of how long it had taken us to write the two that we had already done. The more cautious among us probably added a few months to their estimate as a margin of error. Extrapolating was a mistake. We were forecasting based on the information in front of us—WYSIATI—but the chapters we wrote first were probably easier than others, and our commitment to the project was probably then at its peak. But the main problem was that we failed to allow for what Donald Rumsfeld famously called the “unknown unknowns.” There was no way for us to foresee, that day, the succession of events that would cause the project to drag out for so long. The divorces, the illnesses, the crises of coordination with bureaucracies that delayed the work could not be anticipated. Such events not only cause the writing of chapters to slow down, they also produce long periods during which little or no progress is made at all. The same must have been true, of course, for the other teams that Seymour knew about. The members of those teams were also unable to imagine the events that would cause them to spend seven years to finish, or ultimately fail to finish, a project that they evidently had thought was

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  The next day, the captain invited Amy to a café in a little strip of town that the popular girls had deemed the hangout spot that year. Amy had shown up, thrilled. But the captain had not come alone. A small cadre of girls had assembled themselves at a sidewalk table leaving open a single chair for Amy, as though conducting a job interview—the captain flanked by her lieutenants. A brief preamble of greetings occurred, in which it became clear that Amy’s affectionate giddiness and hopefulness about the previous night’s make-out would not be reciprocated. With an expression of polite sadness, the captain informed Amy that she didn’t want a boyfriend, she wanted a summer of fun; and she got the sense that Amy liked her better than she liked Amy, so she wanted to be up front. Her lieutenants nodded in accordance. Amy tried not to blush and feel stupid. She couldn’t manage to make eye contact, and nodded while she looked at the streetlights, which were of an antiquated ornate design. At some point, Amy saw that the girls expected her to verbally agree, to pledge that yes, a romantic relationship would not be forthcoming, and any future make-outs could only occur organically and drunkenly, if at all. Amy opened her mouth to say what was expected, but just then a guy who went to a different school, but with whom Amy had played guitar a couple times, drove by in a red BMW convertible. He drove with the top down, his popped collar looking like the preppy handsome villain in a John Hughes movie, complete with two summery babes, one on the passenger side, one in the back seat. Ska-era Sublime pumped from the stereo. “Ben!” shouted Amy. “Hey, Ben Ben braked into a roll, and without thinking about it, Amy propelled herself up and away from the humiliating breakup interview, sprinted across a lane of traffic, assessed in a split second that the car was a two-door coupe, but that nothing, not even a lack of doors must interrupt the boldness of this moment. Amy took a leap, vaulting the side of the car, clearing the door with ease, and came to rest with a rangy athletic grace beside the back-seat blonde, who smiled ingratiatingly at this unexpected excitement bestowed from above.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Again, this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can’t help thinking we’re talking about something else, but I’m mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising, or maybe it’s just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Kate has enough material now. I glance at the next question. “You were adopted. How much do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he’s not offended. His brow furrows. “I have no way of knowing.” My interest is piqued. “How old were you when you were adopted?” “That’s a matter of public record, Miss Steele.” His tone is stern. Crap. Yes, of course—if I’d known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. Flustered, I move on quickly. “You’ve had to sacrifice family life for your work.” “That’s not a question.” He’s terse. “Sorry.” I squirm; he’s made me feel like an errant child. I try again. “Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?” “I have a family. I have a brother, a sister, and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.” “Are you gay, Mr. Grey?” He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn’t I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I’m just reading the questions? Damn Kate and her curiosity! “No, Anastasia, I’m not.” He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased. “I apologize. It’s, um…written here.” My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. It’s the first time he’s said my name. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear. He cocks his head to one side. “These aren’t your own questions?” The blood drains from my head. “Er…no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions.” “Are you colleagues on the student paper?” Oh, no. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It’s her extracurricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame. “No. She’s my roommate.” He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me. “Did you volunteer to do this interview?” His voice is deadly quiet. Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I’m compelled to answer with the truth. “I was drafted. She’s not well.” My voice is weak and apologetic. “That explains a great deal.” There’s a knock at the door, and Blond Number Two enters. “Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.” “We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting.” Andrea hesitates and looks a little dumbfounded. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It’s not just me. “Very well, Mr. Grey,” she mutters, then exits.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I move out of José’s hold and get up from our table. Whoa. Head spin. I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila-based cocktails are not a good idea. On my way to the bar, I decide to visit the bathroom. Good thinking, Ana. I stagger off through the crowd. Of course, there’s a line, but at least it’s quiet and cool in the corridor. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the boredom of waiting. Hmm… Who did I last call? Was it José? Before that, a number I don’t recognize. Oh yes. Grey. I think this is his number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time is; maybe I’ll wake him. Perhaps he can tell me why he sent me those books and the cryptic message. If he wants me to stay away, he should leave me alone. I suppress a drunken grin and hit the Call button. He answers on the second ring. “Anastasia?” He’s surprised to hear from me. Well, frankly, I’m surprised to be calling him. Then my befuddled brain registers… How does he know it’s me? “Why did you send me the books?” I slur at him. “Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange.” His voice is filled with concern. “I’m not the strange one, you are.” There—that told him, my courage fueled by alcohol. “Anastasia, have you been drinking?” “What’s it to you?” “I’m…curious. Where are you?” “In a bar.” “Which bar?” He sounds exasperated. “A bar in Portland.” “How are you getting home?” “I’ll find a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected. “Which bar are you in?” “Why did you send me the books, Christian?” “Anastasia, where are you? Tell me now.” His tone is so…so dictatorial, his usual control freak. I imagine him as an old-time movie director, wearing jodhpurs, holding an old-fashioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud. “You’re so…domineering.” I giggle. “Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?” Christian Grey is swearing at me. I giggle again. “I’m in Portland…’s a long way from Seattle.” “Where in Portland?” “Good night, Christian.” “Ana!” I hang up. Ha! Though he didn’t tell me about the books. I frown. Mission not accomplished. My head swims uncomfortably as I shuffle with the line. I’m really quite drunk. Well, the object of the exercise was to get drunk. I’ve succeeded. This is what it’s like. Probably not an experience to repeat. The line has moved, and it’s now my turn. I stare blankly at the poster on the back of the stall door that extols the virtues of safe sex. Holy crap, did I just call Christian Grey? Shit. My phone rings and it makes me jump. I yelp in surprise. “Hi,” I bleat timidly into the phone. I hadn’t reckoned on this. “I’m coming to get you,” he says and hangs up. Only Christian Grey could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I find you intimidating.” I blush scarlet, I’m sure, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath. “You should find me intimidating.” He nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look down. I like to see your face.” Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile. “It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking. You’re a mystery, Miss Steele.” Mysterious? Me? “There’s nothing mysterious about me.” “I think you’re very self-contained,” he says. Am I? Wow…how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, self-contained? No way. “Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” He pops a small piece of muffin into his mouth and starts to chew it slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap! “Do you always make such personal observations?” “I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised. “No,” I answer truthfully. “Good.” “But you’re very high-handed.” He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, flushes slightly, too. “I’m used to getting my own way, Anastasia. In all things.” “I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m surprised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? It’s not going the way I thought it was going to go. For a start, I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic toward him. It’s like he’s trying to warn me off. “The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.” Oh. He still hasn’t said “Call me Christian.” He is a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kate had interviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus, of course, she’s almost blond—well, strawberry blond—like all the women in his office. And she’s beautiful, my subconscious reminds me, and I realize, I don’t like the idea of Christian and Kate… I take a sip of my tea, and Grey eats another small piece of his muffin. “Are you an only child?” he asks. Whoa… He keeps changing direction. “Yes.” “Tell me about your parents.” Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull. “My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano.” “Your father?” “My father died when I was a baby.” “I’m sorry,” he says and a fleeting, troubled look crosses his face. “I don’t remember him.” “And your mother remarried?” I snort. “You could say that.” He frowns. “You’re not giving much away, are you?” He rubs his chin as if in deep thought. “Neither are you.” “You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then.” He smirks.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I put the bacon under the grill, and while it’s cooking, I whisk some eggs. I turn, and Christian is sitting on one of the barstools at the breakfast bar, leaning on it, his face supported by his steepled hands. He’s still wearing the T-shirt he slept in. Just-fucked hair really, really suits him, as does his designer stubble. He looks both amused and bewildered. I freeze, flush, then gather myself and pull the headphones out of my ears, my knees weak at the sight of him. “Good morning, Miss Steele. You’re very…energetic this morning,” he says dryly. “I–I slept well,” I stutter. His lips try to mask his smile. “I can’t imagine why.” He pauses and frowns. “So did I after I came back to bed.” “Are you hungry?” “Very,” he says with an intense look, and I don’t think he’s referring to food. “Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?” “Sounds great.” “I don’t know where you keep your place mats.” I shrug, trying desperately hard not to look flustered. “I’ll do that. You cook. Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your…er…dancing?” I stare down at my fingers, knowing I’m turning puce. “Please, don’t stop on my account. It’s very entertaining.” His tone is one of wry amusement. I purse my lips. Entertaining, eh? My subconscious has doubled over in laughter at me. I turn and continue to whisk the eggs, probably beating them a little harder than necessary. In a moment, he’s beside me. He gently pulls my pigtail. “I love these,” he whispers. “They won’t protect you.” Hmm, Bluebeard… “How would you like your eggs?” I ask tartly. He smirks. “Thoroughly whisked and beaten.” I turn back to the task at hand, trying to hide my smile. He’s hard to stay mad at. Especially when he’s being so uncharacteristically playful. He opens a drawer and takes out two slate, black place mats for the breakfast bar. I pour the egg mix into a pan, pull out the bacon, turn it over, and put it back under the grill. When I turn back around, there is orange juice on the table, and he’s making coffee. “Would you like some tea?” “Yes, please. If you have some.” I find a couple of plates and place them in the warming tray of the range. Christian reaches into a cupboard and pulls out some Twinings English Breakfast tea. I purse my lips. “Bit of a foregone conclusion, wasn’t I?” “Are you? I’m not sure we’ve concluded anything yet, Miss Steele.” What does he mean by that? Our negotiations? Our, er…relationship…whatever that is? He’s still so cryptic. I serve up the breakfast onto the heated plates and lay them on the place mats. I hunt in the refrigerator and find some maple syrup. I glance at Christian, and he’s waiting for me to sit down. “Miss Steele.” He motions to one of the barstools.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “The phone call, mainly. Being sick. Oh, the list is endless.” I feel my skin coloring up. Please, please, can I die now? “We’ve all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you,” he says dryly. “It’s about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?” My head buzzes with excess alcohol and irritation. What the hell has it got to do with him? I didn’t invite him here. He sounds like a middle-aged man scolding me like an errant child. Part of me wants to say that if I want to get drunk every night like this, then it’s my decision and nothing to do with him—but I’m not brave enough. Not now that I’ve thrown up in front of him. Why is he still standing there? “No.” I sound contrite. “I’ve never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again.” I just don’t understand why he’s here. I begin to feel faint. He notices my dizziness and grabs me before I fall and hoists me into his arms, holding me close to his chest like a child. “Come on, I’ll take you home,” he says. “I need to tell Kate.” I’m in his arms again. “My brother can tell her.” “What?” “My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh.” “Oh?” I don’t understand. “He was with me when you phoned.” “In Seattle?” I’m confused. “No, I’m staying at The Heathman.” Still? Why? “How did you find me?” “I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia.” Oh, of course he did. How is that possible? Is it legal? Stalker, my subconscious whispers at me through the cloud of tequila that’s still floating in my brain, but somehow, because it’s him, I don’t mind. “Do you have a jacket or a purse?” “Er…yes, I came with both. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She’ll worry.” His mouth presses into a hard line, and he sighs heavily. “If you must.” He sets me down and, taking my hand, leads me back into the bar. I feel weak, still drunk, exhausted, mortified, and, on some strange level, absolutely off-the-charts thrilled. He’s clutching my hand—such a confusing array of emotions. I’ll need at least a week to process them all. It’s noisy, crowded, and the music has started so there is a large crowd on the dance floor. Kate is not at our table, and José has disappeared. Levi looks lost and forlorn on his own. “Where’s Kate?” I shout at Levi above the noise. My head is beginning to pound in time to the thumping bass line of the music. “Dancing,” Levi shouts, and I can tell he’s mad. He’s eyeing Christian suspiciously. I struggle into my black jacket and pull my small shoulder bag’s strap over my head so it sits at my hip. I’m ready to go once I’ve seen Kate.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I flush, and my inner goddess smacks her lips together, glowing with pride. He looks down at me grinning. “So, swallowing semen okay?” I nod, not able to look him in the eye, and drain my cup again. “More?” he asks. “More.” And I’m suddenly reminded of our conversation earlier today as he refills my cup. Is he referring to that or just the champagne? Is this whole champagne thing more? “Sex toys?” he asks. I shrug, glancing down the list. Does the Submissive consent to the use of: Vibrators Butt plugs Dildos Other vaginal/anal toys “Butt plug? Does it do what it says on the box?” I scrunch my nose up in distaste. “Yes.” He smiles. “And I refer to anal intercourse above. Training.” “Oh. What’s in ‘other’?” “Beads, eggs, that sort of stuff.” “Eggs?” I’m alarmed. “Not real eggs.” He laughs loudly, shaking his head. I purse my lips at him. “I’m glad you find me funny.” I can’t keep my injured feelings out of my voice. He stops laughing. “I apologize. I’m sorry,” he says, trying to look contrite, but his eyes are still dancing with humor. “Any problem with toys?” “No,” I snap. “Anastasia, I’m sorry,” he cajoles. “Believe me. I don’t mean to laugh. I’ve never had this conversation in so much detail. You’re just so inexperienced. I’m sorry.” His eyes are big and gray and sincere. I thaw a little and take another sip of champagne. “Right—bondage,” he says, returning to the list. I examine the list, and my inner goddess bounces up and down like a small child waiting for ice cream. Does the Submissive consent to: Bondage with rope Bondage with leather cuffs Bondage with handcuffs/shackles/manacles Bondage with tape Bondage with other Christian raises his eyebrow. “Well?” “Fine,” I whisper and quickly look back at the list. Does the Submissive consent to be restrained with: Hands bound in front Ankles bound Elbows bound Hands bound behind back Knees bound Wrists bound to ankles Binding to fixed items, furniture, etc. Binding with spreader bar Suspension Does the Submissive consent to be blindfolded? Does the Submissive consent to be gagged? “We’ve talked about suspension. And it’s fine if you want to set that as a hard limit. It takes a great deal of time, and I only have you for short periods anyway. Anything else?” “Don’t laugh at me, but what’s a spreader bar?” “I promise not to laugh. I’ve apologized twice.” He glares at me. “Don’t make me do it again,” he warns. And I think I visibly shrink… Oh, he’s so bossy. “A spreader is a bar with cuffs for ankles and/or wrists. They’re fun.” “Okay. Well, gagging me. I’d be worried I wouldn’t be able to breathe.” “I’d be worried if you couldn’t breathe. I don’t want to suffocate you.” “And how will I use safe words if I’m gagged?”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil. Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don’t feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine. It’s thirst-quenching and refreshing. There’s a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can’t seem to find my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in. Holy hell, he’s been working out. He’s in gray sweatpants that hang, in that way, off his hips and a gray sleeveless T-shirt dark with sweat, like his hair. Christian Grey’s sweat—the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year-old; if I close my eyes, then I’m not really here. “Good morning, Anastasia. How are you feeling?” “Better than I deserve.” I peek at him as he places a large shopping bag on a chair then grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He’s staring at me, gray eyes dark, expression impassive, and as usual, I have no idea what he’s thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well. “How did I get here?” My voice is small, contrite. He sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my…sweat and body wash and Christian. It’s a heady cocktail—so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience. “After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car, taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here,” he says. “Did you put me to bed?” “Yes.” His face is impassive. “Did I throw up again?” My voice is quieter. “No.” “Did you undress me?” I whisper. “Yes.” He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously. “We didn’t…?” My mouth is drying in mortified horror as I can’t complete the question. I stare at my hands. “Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive,” he says dryly. “I’m so sorry.” His mouth lifts in a wry smile. “It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I’ll forget in a while.” Me neither. Oh, he’s laughing at me, the bastard. I didn’t ask him to come get me. Somehow I’ve been made to feel like the villain of the piece. “You didn’t have to track me down with whatever James Bond gadgetry you’re developing for the highest bidder,” I snap.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let’s look around.” I take his outstretched hand. We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me. It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man is blatantly staring. Odd. We turn the corner, and I see why I’ve been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits—of me. I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white. Holy shit! I remember José messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candid shots. Christian is staring, transfixed, at each of the pictures in turn. “Seems I’m not the only one,” he mutters cryptically, his mouth settling into a hard line. I think he’s angry. “Excuse me,” he says, pinning me with his bright gaze, and he heads to the reception desk. What’s his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit card. Shit. He must have bought one of them. “Hey. You’re the muse. These photographs are terrific.” A young man with a shock of bright blond hair startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is back. “You’re a lucky guy.” Blond Shock says to Christian, who gives him a cold stare. “That I am,” he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to one side. “Did you just buy one of these?” “One of these?” he snorts, not taking his eyes off them. “You bought more than one?” He rolls his eyes. “I bought them all, Anastasia. I don’t want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home.” My first inclination is to laugh. “You’d rather it was you?” I scoff. He glares at me, caught off guard by my audacity, I think, but he’s trying to hide his amusement. “Frankly, yes.” “Pervert,” I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to prevent my smile. His mouth drops open, and now his amusement is obvious. He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.” He shakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor. “I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed an NDA.” He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken. “What I’d like to do to your smart mouth.” I gasp, knowing full well what he means. “You’re very rude.” I try to sound shocked and succeed. Has he no boundaries? He smirks, amused, but then his face falls. “You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very often.”

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Pudge, this is Alaska. She got her boob honked over the summer.” She walked over to me with her hand extended, then made a quick move downward at the last moment and pulled down my shorts. “Those are the biggest shorts in the state of Alabama!” “I like them baggy,” I said, embarrassed, and pulled them up. They had been cool back home in Florida. “So far in our relationship, Pudge, I’ve seen your chicken legs entirely too often,” the Colonel deadpanned. “So, Alaska. Sell us some cigarettes.” And then somehow, the Colonel talked me into paying five dollars for a pack of Marlboro Lights I had no intention of ever smoking. He asked Alaska to join us, but she said, “I have to find Takumi and tell him about The Honk.” She turned to me and asked, “Have you seen him?” I had no idea whether I’d seen Takumi, since I had no idea who he was. I just shook my head. “All right. Meet ya at the lake in a few minutes, then.” The Colonel nodded. — At the edge of the lake, just before the sandy (and, the Colonel told me, fake) beach, we sat down in an Adirondack swing. I made the obligatory joke: “Don’t grab my boob.” The Colonel gave an obligatory laugh, then asked, “Want a smoke?” I had never smoked a cigarette, but when in Rome... “Is it safe here?” “Not really,” he said, then lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I inhaled. Coughed. Wheezed. Gasped for breath. Coughed again. Considered vomiting. Grabbed the swinging bench, head spinning, and threw the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, convinced my Great Perhaps did not involve cigarettes. “Smoke much?” He laughed, then pointed to a white speck across the lake and said, “See that?” “Yeah,” I said. “What is that? A bird?” “It’s the swan,” he said. “Wow. A school with a swan. Wow.” “That swan is the spawn of Satan. Never get closer to it than we are now.” “Why?” “It has some issues with people. It was abused or something. It’ll rip you to pieces. The Eagle put it there to keep us from walking around the lake to smoke.” “The Eagle?” “Mr. Starnes. Code name: the Eagle. The dean of students. Most of the teachers live on campus, and they’ll all bust you. But only the Eagle lives in the dorm circle, and he sees all. He can smell a cigarette from like five miles.” “Isn’t his house back there?” I asked, pointing to it. I could see the house quite clearly despite the darkness, so it followed he could probably see us. “Yeah, but he doesn’t really go into blitzkrieg mode until classes start,” Chip said nonchalantly. “God, if I get in trouble my parents will kill me,” I said. “I suspect you’re exaggerating. But look, you’re going to get in trouble. Ninety-nine percent of the time, your parents never have to know, though.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I don’t care how rich you are—you don’t drop everything and get in your private plane to cross a whole continent just for afternoon tea. Go to him! This is a beautiful location, very romantic. It’s also neutral territory.” I squirm under her gaze. I want to go and I don’t. “Darling, don’t feel you have to come back with me. I want you happy—and right now I think the key to your happiness is upstairs in room 612. If you need to come home later, the key is under the yucca plant on the front porch. If you stay, well…you’re a big girl now. Just be safe.” I flush Stars-and-Stripes red. Jeez, Mom. “Let’s finish our Cosmos first.” “That’s my girl, Ana.” She grins. I knock timidly on room 612 and wait. Christian opens the door. He’s on his cell. He blinks in complete surprise, then holds the door open wide and beckons me into his room. “All the redundancy packages concluded?… And the cost?” Christian whistles between his teeth. “That was one expensive mistake… And Lucas?…” I glance around the room. He’s in a suite, like the one at The Heathman. The furnishings here are ultramodern, very now. All muted dark purples and golds with bronze starbursts on the walls. Christian walks over to a dark-wood unit and pulls open a door to reveal a minibar. He indicates that I should help myself, then wanders into the bedroom. I assume it’s so I can no longer hear his conversation. I shrug. He didn’t stop his call when I entered his study that time. I hear water running. He’s filling a bath. I help myself to an orange juice. He ambles back into the room. “Have Andrea send me the schematics. Barney said he’d cracked the problem…” Christian laughs. “No, Friday… There’s a plot of land here that I’m interested in… Yeah, get Bill to call… No, tomorrow…I want to see what Georgia will offer if we move in.” Christian doesn’t take his eyes off me. Handing me a glass, he points to an ice bucket. “If their incentives are attractive enough, I think we should consider it, though I’m not sure about the damned heat here… I agree, Detroit has its advantages, too, and it’s cooler.” His face darkens momentarily. Why? “Get Bill to call. Tomorrow. Not too early.” He hangs up and stares at me, his face unreadable, and the silence stretches between us. Okay…my turn to talk. “You didn’t answer my question,” I murmur. “No. I didn’t,” he says quietly, his gray eyes wide and cautious. “No you didn’t answer my question, or no you didn’t love her?” He folds his arms and leans against the wall, and a small smile plays upon his lips. “What are you doing here, Anastasia?” “I’ve just told you.” He takes a deep breath. “No. I didn’t love her.” He frowns, amused yet puzzled.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” His voice is warm and husky, like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel…or something. I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding at a frantic tempo, and for some reason, I’m blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not merely good-looking—he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he’s here. Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally, my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body. “Ana. My name’s Ana. What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?” He smiles, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It’s so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years facade. I can do this. “There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties.” His expression is both cool and amused. Cable ties? “We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” My voice wavers. Get a grip, Steele. A slight frown mars Grey’s rather lovely brow. “Please. Lead the way.” I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet—my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning. “They’re with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he’s handsome. “After you.” He gestures with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand. With my heart pounding—so hard that I think it’s trying to escape my body—I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton’s? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain—probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells—comes the thought: He’s here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head. “Are you in Portland on business?” I ask, and my voice is too high, like I’ve got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool, Ana! “I was visiting the WSU environmental science division. It’s based in Vancouver. I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science,” he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish, wayward thoughts. “All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease. “Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Miss Steele, you are not just a pretty face. You’ve had six orgasms so far and all of them belong to me,” he boasts, playful again. I flush and blink at the same time, as he stares down at me. He’s keeping count! His brow furrows. “Do you have something to tell me?” His voice is suddenly stern. I frown. Crap. “I had a dream this morning.” “Oh?” He glares at me. Double crap. Am I in trouble? “I came in my sleep.” I throw my arm over my eyes. He says nothing. I peek up at him from under my arm, and he looks amused. “In your sleep?” “Woke me up.” “I’m sure it did. What were you dreaming about?” “You.” “What was I doing?” I throw my arm over my eyes again. And like a small child, I briefly entertain the thought that if I can’t see him, then he can’t see me. “Anastasia, what was I doing? I won’t ask you again.” “You had a riding crop.” He moves my arm. “Really?” “Yes.” I am crimson. “There’s hope for you yet,” he says. “I have several riding crops.” “Brown plaited leather?” He laughs. “No, but I’m sure I could get one.” Leaning down, he gives me a brief kiss, then stands and grabs his boxers. Oh no…he’s going. I glance quickly at the time—it’s only 9:40. I scoot out of bed, too, and grab my sweatpants and a cami top, then sit back on the bed, cross-legged, watching him. I don’t want him to go. What can I do? “When is your period due?” He interrupts my thoughts. What? “I hate wearing these things,” he grumbles. He holds up the condom, then puts it on the floor and slips on his jeans. “Well?” he prompts when I don’t reply, and he looks at me expectantly as if he’s waiting for my opinion on the weather. Holy crap…this is personal stuff. “Next week.” I stare down at my hands. “You need to sort out some contraception.” He is so bossy. I stare at him blankly. He sits back on the bed as he puts on his shoes and socks. “Do you have a doctor?” I shake my head. We are back to mergers and acquisitions—another 180-degree mood swing. He frowns. “I can have mine come see you at your apartment—Sunday morning, before you come see me. Or he can see you at my place. Which would you prefer?” No pressure then. Something else that he’s paying for…but actually this is for his benefit. “Your place.” That means I am guaranteed to see him Sunday. “Okay. I’ll let you know the time.” “Are you leaving?” Don’t go… Stay with me, please. “Yes.” Why? “How are you getting back?” I whisper. “Taylor will pick me up.” “I can drive you. I have a lovely new car.” He gazes at me, his expression warm. “That’s more like it. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What on earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet. “These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile. “Is there anything else?” “I’d like some masking tape.” Masking tape? “Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate? “No, not redecorating,” he says quickly, then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me. Am I that funny? Funny looking? “This way,” I mutter, embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.” I glance behind me as he follows. “Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, concentrating hard. I blush brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old—gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front, Steele! “Four years,” I say as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock. “I’ll take that one.” Grey points to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp as a charge runs all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium. “Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly. “Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky. “This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and move toward the aisle. “What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope…twine…cable cord…” I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow. “I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please.” Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger. “Were you a Girl Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t look at his mouth! “Organized group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grey.” He arches a brow. “What is your thing, Anastasia?” His voice is velvet soft, and his secret smile is back.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Kate! “Crap, Kate!” I croak. Christian peers at me. “She knows you’re here and still alive. I texted Elliot,” he says with just a trace of humor. Oh no. I remember her fervent dancing of the night before. All her patented moves used with maximum effect to seduce Christian’s brother, no less! What’s she going to think about me being here? I’ve never stayed out before. She’s still with Elliot. She’s only done this twice before, and both times I’ve had to endure the hideous pink PJs for a week from the fallout. She’s going to think I’ve had a one-night stand, too. Christian stares at me imperiously. He’s wearing a white linen shirt, collar and cuffs undone. “Sit,” he commands, pointing to a place at the table. I make my way across the room and sit down opposite him as I’ve been directed. The table is laden with food. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu.” He gives me a crooked, apologetic smile. “That’s very profligate of you,” I murmur, bewildered by the choice, though I am hungry. “Yes, it is.” He sounds guilty. I opt for pancakes, maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Christian tries to hide a smile as he returns to his egg white omelet. The food is delicious. “Tea?” he asks. “Yes, please.” He passes me a small teapot of hot water and on the saucer is a Twinings English Breakfast tea bag. Jeez, he remembers how I like my tea. “Your hair’s very damp,” he scolds. “I couldn’t find the hair dryer,” I mutter, embarrassed. Not that I looked. Christian’s mouth presses into a hard line, but he doesn’t say anything. “Thank you for the clothes.” “It’s a pleasure, Anastasia. That color suits you.” I blush and stare down at my fingers. “You know, you really should learn to take a compliment.” His tone is castigating. “I should give you some money for these clothes.” He glares at me as if I have offended him on some level. I hurry on. “You’ve already given me the books, which, of course, I can’t accept. But these, please let me pay you back.” I smile tentatively at him. “Anastasia, trust me, I can afford it.” “That’s not the point. Why should you buy these for me?” “Because I can.” His eyes flash with a wicked gleam. “Just because you can doesn’t mean that you should,” I reply quietly as he arches an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling, and suddenly I feel like we’re talking about something else, but I don’t know what it is. Which reminds me… “Why did you send me the books, Christian?” He puts down his cutlery and regards me intently, his eyes burning with some unfathomable emotion. Holy crap—my mouth dries.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Mr. Grey,” Ray murmurs, his expression indecipherable except perhaps for the slight widening of his big brown eyes. They slide over to my face with a when-were-you-going-to-give-me-this-news look. I bite my lip. “And this is my brother, Ethan Kavanagh,” Kate says to Christian. Christian turns his arctic glare on Ethan, who still has one arm around me. “Mr. Kavanagh.” They shake hands. Christian holds his hand out to me. “Ana, baby,” he murmurs, and I nearly expire at the endearment. I walk out of Ethan’s grasp while Christian smiles icily at him, and I take my place at his side. Kate grins at me. She knows exactly what she’s doing, the vixen! “Ethan, Mom and Dad wanted a word.” Kate drags Ethan away. “So how long have you kids known each other?” Ray looks impassively from Christian to me. The power of speech has deserted me. I want the ground to swallow me up. Christian puts his arm around me, his thumb skimming my naked back in a caress, before his hand clasps my shoulder. “Couple of weeks or so now,” he says smoothly. “We met when Anastasia came to interview me for the student newspaper.” “Didn’t know you worked on the student newspaper, Ana.” Ray’s voice is a quiet admonishment, revealing his irritation. Shit. “Kate was ill,” I explain. It’s all I can manage. “Fine speech you gave, Mr. Grey.” “Thank you, sir. I understand that you’re an avid fisherman.” Ray raises his eyebrows and smiles—a rare, genuine, bona fide Ray Steele smile—and off they go, talking fish. In fact, I soon feel surplus to requirements. He’s charming the pants off my dad—like he did you, my subconscious snaps at me. His power knows no bounds. I excuse myself to go find Kate. She’s talking to her parents, who are delightful as ever and greet me warmly. We exchange brief pleasantries, mostly about their upcoming vacation to Barbados and our move. “Kate, how could you out me to Ray?” I hiss at the first opportunity we won’t be overheard. “Because I knew you never would, and I want to help with Christian’s commitment issues.” Kate smiles at me sweetly. I scowl. It’s me that won’t commit to him, silly! “He seems très cool about it, Ana. Don’t sweat it. Look at him now—Christian cannot take his eyes off you.” I glance up, and both Ray and Christian are looking at me. “He’s been watching you like a hawk.” “I’d better go rescue Ray, or Christian. I don’t know which. You haven’t heard the last of this, Katherine Kavanagh!” I glare at her. “Ana, I did you a favor,” she calls after me. “Hi.” I smile at both of them on my return. They seem okay. Christian is enjoying some private joke, and my dad looks unbelievably relaxed given he’s in a social situation. What have they been discussing apart from fish? “Ana, where are the restrooms?” “Back out front of the marquee and to the left.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His gentle, warm voice startles me from my reverie. “How long have you known Katherine Kavanagh?” Oh, an easy question for starters. “Since our freshman year. She’s a good friend.” “Hmm,” he replies noncommittally. What is he thinking? At the elevators, he presses the call button, and the bell rings almost immediately. The doors slide open, revealing a young couple in a passionate embrace. Surprised and embarrassed, they jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Grey and I step into the elevator. I’m struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the floor, feeling my cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Grey through my lashes, he has a hint of a smile on his lips, but it’s hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to the first floor in an awkward silence. We don’t even have bland piped elevator music to distract us. The doors open, and much to my surprise, Grey takes my hand, clasping it with his long, cool fingers. I feel the current run through me, and my already rapid heartbeat accelerates. As he leads me out of the elevator, we hear suppressed giggles from the couple erupt behind us. Grey grins. “What is it about elevators?” We cross the expansive lobby toward the entrance, but Grey avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s because he’d have to let go of my hand. Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Grey turns left and strolls to the corner, where we wait for the crosswalk to change. He’s still holding my hand. I’m in the street, and Christian Grey is holding my hand. No one has ever held my hand. I’m giddy and tingling all over. I attempt to smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool, Ana, my subconscious implores me. The green man appears, and we’re off again. We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coffee House, where Grey releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside. “Why don’t you choose a table while I get the drinks? What would you like?” he asks, polite as ever. “I’ll have…um—English Breakfast tea, bag out.” He raises his eyebrows. “No coffee?” “I’m not keen on coffee.” He smiles. “Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?” For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid—do you take sugar? “No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers. “Anything to eat?” “No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.