Page 50 of Falling for Raine
I’m running an errand. Join me? I’ll take you for a pint afterward.I typed the address, slipped my cell into my pocket, then smiled for the first time in hours.
I greetedthe salesperson at my Savile Row tailor, Ives and Harris, and declined the offer of tea, informing her that I was expecting a guest.
“Certainly, Mr. Horsham. May I have his or her name, please?”
“Ray-n Edwards.”
She cocked her head curiously. “Pardon?”
I gave a sheepish nod, surprised at my lazy accent. “His name is Raine.”
“Lovely.” She motioned toward the elegant adjoining parlor. “Lawrence is ready for you, sir.”
Ives and Harris was a London institution that had fashioned elegant suits for kings, dukes, and noblemen for two centuries. And now…a gay man from the wrong side of the River Wear.
Mind you, I hadn’t had the guts or money to enter the building till I’d started my own firm and put my first million in the bank. With my rough manner of speech, untidy beard, and the poor fit of my off-the-rack suit, I’d probably looked like a bloke who’d lost a dare. I figured there was a good chance the staff had tossed a coin to see who’d have to shoo the fly away. Lawrence won, and he’d been my personal tailor at Ives and Harris for almost fifteen years now.
Lawrence was a handsome balding black man in his midfifties who spoke with the poshest accent I’d ever heard. His eye contact was on point, his manners were infallible, and he walked with his head held high, his spine straight, and one arm at his back or in his pocket. Lawrence was always friendly yet slightly aloof.
I’d wanted to be just like him. I still did.
He shook my hand politely, asked after my health, my family, and chided me gently for working too hard before wooing me with bolts of herringbone, tweed, and linen.
Was this my mature self’s idea of fun? No, not really. I might wear impeccable three-piece suits, but I was infinitely more at home in joggers and a T-shirt. This was my daytime armor, nothing more.
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.”