Page 17 of Falling for Raine

“That’s fine.” I waved dismissively and pointed out the window. “Are we taking you home or to the airport to fetch your car?”

She squeezed my hand affectionately and beamed. “Home, please.”

I didn’t mind the fifteen-minute detour. I was exhausted, famished, and mildly annoyed, but I’d won. And so had Julia. I’d have some peace of mind that a newbie wouldn’t inadvertently screw with my deal, and she’d have a cushion for her new adventure in the wilds of Scotland.

All right, it was a bigger win for her than me, but I’d take it.

Win something, lose something. Win someone, lose someone.

And just like that, I was thinking of Raine again.

Christ. It had been one night…only one. Now he was gone and it was over, which was exactly how it was supposed to go. I was in the business of acquiring failing financial institutions, not men. I didn’t do complications of any sort. Ever.

Nonetheless, my instinct told me I’d miscalculated, misunderstood, and misread…him. In short, I’d fucked up. I didn’t know how, though. I hadn’t acted out of the ordinary. I’d cut ties at the door and said good-bye before my curiosity could be misconstrued as interest. I’d done all the right things, yet I still felt hollow…the way you did when you’d lost something important.

For someone who liked to win, it was a hard pill to swallow.

5

RAINE

Holy shit. This place was insane.

I’d never been in an office building so shiny I needed sunglasses to mute the glare inside. No kidding. The massive lobby was all white and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. Wide columns and potted plants as big as grown-ass trees in a park dotted the path to the elevators. I tapped my badge and tipped my chin at the security guard in greeting. If I wanted to be taken seriously, I had to act like I fucking belonged here.

Easier said than done.

First of all, I didn’t really look the part. Seemingly everyone in the building was dressed in executive designer duds in pinstripes and somber colors. The guy next to me in the elevator—excuse me, lift—wore a three-piece suit with an honest-to-God handkerchief in his front pocket. I’d had no idea that was still a thing.

I’d known this would be strange. Sure, we spoke the same language, but England was a different country and I had some things to get used to.

Like…the money was big and colorful, a WC was apparently the same as the loo or restroom, and they drove on the wrong side of the road. And those were the things I’d learned at the fucking airport. I mean, okay…I’d known a few of those things already, but it was trippy to experience a new country in person and on my own.

Honestly, I was kind of proud of myself. I’d managed to find my way into the city without getting lost and picked up my keys to my new digs—a third level, two-bedroom walk-up located over an Indian takeout joint on the fringe of Kensington. My new roommate, Ronan, was a soft-spoken engineering consultant from Belfast with a mop of shaggy reddish hair, freckles galore, and a friendly smile. He was roughly my age, but unlike me, Ronan had his shit together.

He owned the apartment and had needed someone to sublet for his roommate, who was currently backpacking in the US. At least I thought that was what he’d said. His accent was pretty thick and after a long flight, my body was convinced it was ridiculous o’clock.

I fell asleep on a twin-sized mattress in a room so small there was literally no space for anything more than a bed, a nightstand, and a wardrobe. Thankfully, I traveled light. I woke up the following afternoon to the smell of curry.

No joke. The strong scent clung to the walls and the bedsheets. No doubt it would permeate every stitch of my clothing and I’d slowly morph into Curry Man. My coworkers would snap their fingers when they couldn’t recall my name and say, “You know, the chap who smells of curry.” I had a feeling that smell was going to be burned into my membrane long after I returned home.

Whatever. I liked curry, the price was right, and Ronan seemed like a good guy.

He’d been kind enough to point out the neighborhood market, the nearest Tube station, and had given me a mini linguistics tutorial. Crosswalks were zebra crossings, shopping carts were trolleys, and apartments were called flats in the UK, which made Ronan my flatmate, not my roommate.

“No idea where flat comes from? Maybe it’s ’cause it’s on one floor? You know…it’s all flat?”

By the way, Ronan spoke in question marks. It was confusing as hell but charming too.

I straightened the perma-crease in my navy sport coat, my gaze locked on the expansive row of numbers on the elevator panel as a rogue thought struck me that Graham would probably have known the etymology of the word flat and?—

Whoa.Where did that come from?

Thankfully, the door slid open before I could wonder why my brain had churned up oddball thoughts about a one-night stand.

I exited with a gaggle of important-looking businessfolks and, with a bright smile, strode purposefully toward the space-agey glass-and-steel reception desk.

“Hi, I’m Raine Edwards and I’m here for Julia Wells.”