We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel 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 stop waiting for the lights of the pedestrian crossing
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 feel giddy, and I tingle 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.”