Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
I needed to reclaim my zhuzh, and something told me Paris was the best place to start.
London first.
I said my good-byes to sunny LA, hopped a late-night flight to Heathrow, and landed in a rainstorm in London the following day.
Gray was just as bad as blue, and I had a moment of regret, wondering what I was doing. But then Raine picked me up and whisked me to the posh Grosvenor Square house he shared with his handsome husband and their black Lab, Linus, and I remembered just how lucky I was to have friends who felt like family.
Raine Edwards-Horsham was my brother from another mother. A vertically challenged, lighter-skinned version of me with a mop of brown hair and questionable fashion sense. I said that with love, of course.
We’d met at San Francisco State when he’d friend-stalked me in Anthro 101 seventeen years ago. I hadn’t thought I’d have anything in common with an eager twink from a teeny town in New Mexico, but Raine’s sunny disposition and relentless energy won me over. Like me, he was an optimist who wanted to believe the best in people.
I used to think I had street smarts and Raine had common sense, but we’d gotten into a few binds that would suggest otherwise.
Like the time I’d gotten us lost on a sketchy street in East LA, and Raine had interrupted a drug deal to ask for directions. Or the time I’d volunteered to bring a dish to a work party and had misread the ingredients for a stuffed-pepper recipe. I’d used a super-spicy habanero with a kick that had given the runs to everyone who’d partaken. As in there’d been a hefty line around the corner with some pale, miserable-looking stylists. Bad, I know…but Raine had put condensed milk in an eggnog recipe, so it was probably most accurate to say we were both mini disasters.
Past tense. Unlike me, my best friend had his act together now.
Raine had married a great guy with a dreamy accent who worshiped the ground he walked upon. They had a town house in London, a fancy estate in Cornwall, and traveled all over the world. I loved hearing about Raine’s life in the UK. This was home for him now, and I was simultaneously ecstatic for him and brokenhearted for myself. Our clubbing days in the Castro were long gone. Our margarita drag brunches in WeHo were reserved for his occasional trips to LA. Life had changed.
For Raine, anyway.
I needed a taste of whatever magic elixir he’d stumbled upon. Minus a geographic move that would require learning how to drive on the wrong side of the road, navigate public transportation on the daily, and memorize new money. But damn, this was nice.
I curled my long legs onto the fluffy sofa and sipped sauvignon blanc. My cheeks were warm from the alcohol and the roaring fire in the huge stone fireplace. And I had my best friend all to myself. Graham was away on business, and though I absolutely adored him, I was selfishly happy to catch up with Raine without having to explain who we were talking about or translate what Graham jokingly referred to as our colorful interpretation of the English language.
We covered important topics, like Max’s crush on the married dentist in his office, Deacon’s nipple piercing mishap, and which version of Love Island was truly the best. We discussed the new play Graham and he had seen last week, an exhibit they’d loved at the Tate, and their garden at Deverley.
In a perfect world, I could have stayed there, soaking up all the yummy juju without moving a muscle. But…I was here on assignment.
“Tell me all about Dr. Clayton, honey.”
“Professor Creighton,” Raine corrected. “He’s a brilliant, lovely man.”
I raised a brow at my American friend’s very British description of his boss. “Does that mean he’s hot?”
Raine snorted. “No, it means he’s a super smart, nice guy.”
“But…”
“No buts.” He took a sip of wine, then set his glass next to a stack of fancy books about English architecture on the coffee table. “You’ll like him. He’s sweet and—okay, there is one thing.”
“Go on.”
“He’s very…forgetful, like a real absentminded professor. It’s not a problem or anything.” Raine frowned. “At least, I don’t think it’s a problem. I haven’t been to a conference with him in a while. The last one was in Amsterdam. We got separated by a group of cyclists for a hot second. I spotted him on a bridge and poof…he was gone. He’s terrible about texting or answering his cell, so I was in full panic mode. Twenty minutes later, I found him in the red-light district checking out sex toys as if nothing had happened.”
I hooted with laughter. “Yeah, I bet he staged a getaway so he could do some private shopping. Was he looking for a plug for his male lover or edible undies for a lady friend?”