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)
Raine rolled his eyes. “He’s very private. But I’m pretty sure he’s single and married to his work. I’ve thought about setting him up, but I have no idea about his sexual orientation. Besides, his perfect match would be an Egyptologist or an expert on Greco-Roman studies. Unfortunately, I don’t know anyone who’d fit the bill, and he doesn’t really talk about anything else.”
I wrinkled my nose. “What am I supposed to talk about with him?”
“Oh, please. You can talk to anyone.”
True. But a little insight would go a long way.
“You’ve worked for him for a couple of years now. You must know something personal about the professor.”
“Sure. He takes his tea with a dollop of milk and a teaspoon of sugar, and he loves biscuits…uh, cookies,” he translated with a chuckle, no doubt catching my confused expression. “Especially Jammie Dodgers. He’s a bit reserved, but it’s not as if you have to become best friends. Your job is to make sure Professor C gets to the conference center on time and—”
“To make sure his socks match,” I supplied.
Raine hit me with a no-BS stare. “I cannot stress how important that is. Wardrobe choices might not matter in a library or museum, but there will be photographers and videographers at these events.”
I perked up. “So what I’m hearing is…the professor needs a stylist.”
“Not a professional stylist, Win. More of a helpful nudge with his color palette.”
“Got it. Don’t you worry about a thing! I’ve got you covered.”
He smiled. “I know. I’ll introduce you properly at the museum tomorrow, and you’ll meet up the following day to catch the train to Paris. Eeps! Oh, Win, you’re going to love Paris! Did I tell you about the time…”
I tuned my friend out. The wine had gone to my head, and my brain was swimming with new ideas.
See, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been thinking about this venture the right way. I could be the professor’s unofficial stylist and sharpen my skills in the most fashionable city in the world.
Maybe this was fate. Maybe being overlooked at the salon time after time was a blessing in disguise. Maybe the universe was waiting for me to lose my ever-loving mind, throw in my broom, and step away from the shampoo station.
I could learn a lot in Paris. I’d take a million photos, gather fabric samples, study hair styles, and go home with a whole new edge to my portfolio. When I got back to LA, I could take private clients…Hollywood notables, rock stars, techies with lots of money and no fashion sense. I could reinvent myself. Yes, this could be very good indeed.
I melted into the marshmallow cushions, sipping wine and humming along to Raine’s travel plans as a wave of gratitude washed over me. This wasn’t a hiatus from real life. This was an opportunity to become a better me, and I intended to seize it.
The following day, I wasn’t so sure.
My head hurt from one too many glasses of wine, the sky was pissing rain, and the Tube was a crowded maze of humanity with blank faces and dripping umbrellas. By the time we exited the station at Russell Square and walked to the British Museum, I looked like a drowned rat.
Confession: I was a faux museum gay. I mean, guy. You could count on my best behavior for one hour before I lost interest and made my way to the gift shop or better yet, the cafeteria for a pastry and bottle of screw-top Chardonnay.
The funny thing was that I loved art and I had mad respect for painters, sculptors, and visionaries. I just didn’t enjoy aimlessly wandering through hallowed halls, whispering and pointing as if I understood the significance of a Greek statue of a muscular man with a gorgeous derriere and a tiny willy.
But I had to admit, the British Museum had that wow factor. Behind the stately stone exterior with its formal columns and grand entry was a modern glass dome that flooded the lobby with natural light…even on a gray day.
I gaped in awe at the crisscross glass ceiling above us. “This is gorgeous.”
“It’s called The Great Court. It was built in 2001, and that alcove in the middle is called The Reading Room. It’s an archive now and a study space.” Raine tugged my raincoat meaningfully. “This way.”
He pulled a badge from his pocket and handed it over to a serious-looking man standing sentry at a private entrance. The guard smiled warmly at Raine, treated me to a brief once-over, and stepped aside.
We took an elevator to a lower level and emerged in a dimly lit beige-and-white corridor. Everything was dull and monotone, from the chipped tiled flooring to the drab paint on the walls. Glum city.
Raine picked up the pace, the way some weirdos do when they’re excited to be at work. I lengthened my stride to match Raine’s until he stopped at the end of the hall in front of a door with a discreet sign labeled, “Antiquities Department, Creighton.”