Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
The sophisticated air of polished woods, Chesterfield leather sofas, and walls with row upon row of pristinely folded oxford shirts shattered with a booming, “Hi, I’m Raine. I’m looking for Graham Horsham. At least I think I am. This is the address he gave me, but—”
“Yes, of course. We’re expecting you.”
“Oh! That’s nice. Geez, this place is cool. I saw the sign outside that says the shop has been here since 1748. That can’t be true,” he commented.
“It is.”
This was Raine. He needed information.
“Really? That’s amazing! Who owned the store originally? Who owns it now? Who’s your average customer?”
“Sir Christopher Reynolds was the original proprietor. The current owner is a firm, not an individual, and…we cater to a variety of clients. Would you care for tea?”
I peeked around the corner and watched the show in amusement.
He complimented the saleswoman’s hair and jewelry, griped good-naturedly about the weather, accepted her offer of biscuits, which led to a mini sidebar regarding linguistics and the American cookie versus British biscuits debate.
Raine dropped his end of the conversation when he spotted me. And perhaps it was my imagination, but I swore his eyes lit up.
“Is that red velvet?” he teased, sauntering over. “You look like sexy Santa.”
“Since when does Santa wear a plaid linen print?”
“Red plaid screams holiday wear, but what do I know?”
“Nothing,” I huffed. “This isn’t a holiday red. It’s a lighter shade of—”
“I’m kidding, grumpy Graham.”
“Very funny. We’re almost finished here,” I commented, pausing to introduce him to Lawrence.
“Nice to meet you,” Raine said. “Take your time. I’m not in a hurry to go out again. It’s freaking pouring out there.”
I held my arms wide as Lawrence and his assistants tucked and pinned fabric, taking notes and measurements. This was usually a quiet affair with polite inquiries and hushed conversations, but etiquette wasn’t Raine’s strong suit. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to lower his voice, decline a second helping of biscuits, or not ask the staff personal questions. He wasn’t loud or obnoxious. He was just relentlessly…interested.
Which made this the most entertaining errand I’d run in months. Maybe years.
Sarah, whose name I hadn’t known until Raine had asked, refolded the same shirt over and over while she chatted with him. Her initial stiff cordiality had morphed into something genuine as they traded thoughts on fashion trends and Instagram influencers. She’d mentioned her niece’s obsession with a certain TikTok account devoted to dogs, which led to an in-depth discussion about a cat in Raine’s WeHo neighborhood who had over five hundred thousand followers.
I glanced over at Lawrence, thinking he might be as lost as I was, but no, he knew the cat in question and happily jumped into the fray.
What in the hell was going on? It was as though I’d entered an alternative universe. Everything looked the same, but it was different.
Of course it was Raine.
I studied him shaking hands with everyone in the shop as I shrugged on my jacket. He was…hypnotic, addicting—a cross between an inappropriate dinner party guest and a fistful of forbidden sweets when you were on a diet. He didn’t fit in this world I’d carefully constructed, yet I kept inviting him in and forgetting whatever reason I’d concocted for this to make sense.
Like now.
“Perhaps you’d like to try something on.” I stuffed my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch him.
He widened his eyes and sidled close, whispering under his breath, “Are you nuts? One shirt here costs half my rent. Unless…oh, no. Oh, no, no, no!”
“What?” I demanded, pulling him with me outside.
“Are you going daddy on me?”
“Excuse me?” I furrowed my brow, stopping under the eaves where rain sluiced off the roof and fell like a curtain around us on two sides.
“Slow your roll, G, I’m not looking for a meal ticket, and I’m not taking hand-outs. I can be talked into bedroom daddy kink, but if you want me to call you Daddy—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you daft man. I do not want you to call me Daddy,” I growled just as a well-dressed man stepped onto the mat next to me, pausing for a moment to close his umbrella and dart a quick look between us.
Raine pursed his lips, then burst into laughter when the man entered the shop. “Ha! You should see your face. I was kidding.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I huffed, my lips twitching.
“I’ll be good, Daddy. Don’t spank me.”
“Don’t test me.” I pretended not to notice him fanning himself with a slack-jawed expression as I gestured toward the pub on the next block. “If we stay under the eaves, we’ll stay dry, but we’ll have to hurry.”
“No need. I bet they sell umbrellas in there.”
I squinted at the tourist shop at the corner on the opposite side of the street, its windows papered with Union Jack memorabilia. “That’s crap, Ray-n.”