Page 1 of Falling for Raine

1

RAINE

“After all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.”— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The flightfrom LA to Vegas took less than an hour, which shouldn’t have been enough time to wrinkle a shirt beyond redemption or put permanent creases in khakis, right?

I winced at my reflection in the Vegas hotel lobby men’s room as I washed my hands, using a little water to pat down the wayward cowlick that had sprouted from the top of my noggin, thanks to my noise-canceling headphones and a bad haircut. This was what I got for not investing in EarPods…and for letting Winnie Rodriguez go all Edward Scissorhands on me.

Sadly, those were my best options. I couldn’t afford new headphones or a haircut from a seasoned professional. I couldn’t afford a snazzy suit, either. I’d have to wow the Brits with my winning personality and hope my new boss could overlook the fact that I’d missed my original flight, taken a taxi to the wrong hotel, and erroneously assumed it would take less time to walk from the Bellagio to The Palazzo than deal with the traffic on the Strip.

Wrong.

As in…totally, absolutely, bad-decision wrong.

I’d sweated buckets dodging drunken pedestrians armed with flasks the size of small pets as I’d wheeled my carry-on suitcase through the Forum Shops at Caesars Palace, up an escalator, and across the footbridge to The Palazzo. One glance at the line in front of the reception area later, I’d made an executive decision to forgo checking into my room for now. The Horsham Group Meet and Greet had started two hours ago, and I needed to get my ass to the right convention room, stat.

I fussed with my hair, straightened my collar, and released a long rush of air, willing my heartbeat to slow. Fuck, I was a hot mess. And I was in so far over my head, it wasn’t funny. That didn’t matter. I needed this job, and I had every intention of being the best-ever assistant to the assistant in the history of assistants.

Sure, I might have overstated my qualifications a tad and yes, I’d asked Winnie’s brother-in-law, Milo, for a mega-glowing reference even though I’d technically only worked at his law firm for a month. Not a big deal. I intended to deliver the goods.

I could do this. I was smart, ambitious, and I wasn’t afraid of change. If little ol’ gay me from a teensy-tiny town in New Mexico with a queer population of one could adapt to ultra-fabulous West Hollywood, I could certainly adapt to a new job in a new country.

I inhaled deeply and stepped away from the sink.

Time to slay.

Unfortunately, finding the convention room took another ten minutes.

I thanked the hotel employee who’d personally escorted me to a swanky junior ballroom with cascading crystal chandeliers and ornate paneling. I swiped my clammy palms on my khakis,hid my suitcase behind a potted plant, and surveyed the few attendees milling near the bar. Where had everyone gone?

A couple of waiters were busy clearing empty glasses and plates, indicating I’d missed food service and was easily three drinks behind everyone else. There weren’t many people left, though. And the dozen or so still there were well-heeled professionals who somehow managed to look sophisticated and intimidating with paper name tags stuck to the lapels of their designer suits.

Ugh. This was not my scene.

Well, it was now.

I pushed my shoulders back and strode toward the nearest group of well-coiffed thirtysomethings sipping cocktails and juggling empty plates.

“Hi, there, I’m Raine Edwards,” I announced with my hand outstretched.

They paused midconversation, eyeing me warily. A wiry dude with a perfect mustache and short reddish hair broke the staring contest to shake my hand.

“Hallo, Raine. Are you here to give us the weather report?” he asked in a posh British accent.

Ahh, good one.

But I didn’t miss a beat. “April in Vegas is hot as hell with a chance of sweating your balls off, but no precipitation,” I replied with forced cheer, quickly adding, “Would one of you happen to be Celia Carter or Julia Wells?”

A low rumble of amusement flitted through the group. Mr. Posh, however, didn’t crack a smile.

“I’m Cecil Carter. Good of you to join us, Mr. Edwards,” he said haughtily.

“Oh, sorry. There was an accident on the 405 and the traffic was hideous, so I missed my flight and—it’s been a day. I didn’tmean to interrupt, but I think you were the one I was supposed to talk to about meeting Ms. Wells. Is she still here or?—”

“No, she is not. If you’ll excuse us.” Cecil stepped away from the others and inclined his head, wordlessly requesting me to follow. He led me to an abandoned refreshment table and gave me a thorough once-over. “Ms. Wells left over an hour ago with Mr. Horsham. They were anxious to prepare for a meeting with the Mint and Cooperton team.”

Whatever the fuck that meant. “Uh…okay.”