Calamity Rayne Gets Hitched Read Online Lydia Michaels

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Funny Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
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I still recall how the strange adults towered over me like skyscrapers, blocking the sun. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find my mom or our familiar umbrella and blanket. Manhattan was sort of like that. Big, intimidating, unfamiliar, daunting, always bustling, and big. Did I mention it was big?

A cab honked its horn and Marty muttered a slur in Slavic language. In my head I had narrowed him down to Russian or Czech, or maybe he was Polish. Not that this mattered, but trying to pinpoint his homeland based on the eight—maybe ten—words he said in the past thirty minutes helped me not to freak out about encroaching surroundings.

A man jaywalked just as a traffic light was about to change from green to red and Marty hissed a few non-English words again. I was pretty sure he said something profane as we missed our chance to turn.

Our eyes met through the rearview mirror and the corner of his mouth twitched. He could so easily be a hitman, but that little winky-smirk threw me off. Leave it to me to buy an assassin hot cocoa. Holding his intimidating stare in the reflection, I laughed nervously.

We pulled up to the Plaza. A checkerboard walkway bordered a set of red-carpeted stairs. Doormen, dressed in timeless livery, assisted guests and carried luggage to gold bell carts. One opened my door and I flinched, not used to such rapid service.

Marty abandoned his post behind the wheel and began barking orders about my luggage. He took his job very seriously, his stern voice and dictator-like manner making about as much fuss as a motorcade. For a moment, I felt a little like an underqualified Princess Diana, overwhelmed by empathy for all the times her prince had abandoned her.

Then I frowned, not liking that scenario at all.

What was wrong with me? When had I become this needy co-dependent accessory to a man? Had my life become so sheltered in the short time I lived with the Davenports that I forgot how exhilarating it could be to live spontaneously?

Exhilarating? Maybe nauseating was a better term.

Misremembering how I used to live as a single woman had to be a sign of how deeply I’d embedded my life with the Davenports. It was like I completely forgot how to make decisions on my own. Maybe this trip was a necessary part of becoming more autonomous.

For the next few days, I’d be Rayne Meyers. Not Rayne, Hale’s fiancée or the future Mrs. Davenport. Not Rayne, Remington Davenport’s personal assistant. And not Rayne, Elara’s…whatever I was to Elara. Step-Daddy’s fiancée? No, that wasn’t right. Pre-step-parent? Whatever. Today, I was neither. I was just good old Rayne.

Before Hale, I did everything alone. I took risks and flew through life by the seat of my pants. Sure, there were some crash-and-burn moments, but I survived. I needed to tap into that Rayne Meyers and stop making such a big deal out of one little trip on my own.

Breathing a deep lungful of that fumid New York air, I prepared to exit the car. “This is a fun trip,” I reminded myself, scooching toward the open door.

Marty supervised the luggage transfer so I never needed to touch more than my purse. He even tipped the bellman so I didn’t have to.

“You have my number if you need to go anywhere.”

“Yes. Thank you.” I reached into my bag and withdrew my wallet.

He waved a hand. “Mr. Davenport’s taken care of everything.”

“Oh. Okay.” A car beeped and I flinched again.

Marty’s friendly expression turned into a scowl as he eyeballed the driver. Then he smiled at me and I noticed the large gap in his otherwise straight teeth. This man had definitely buried a body before.

“Right. Okay then. Well, thanks.”

With a nod, he returned to his sleek town car and pulled away. I wondered where he went. Did he just camp out in a parking garage nearby?

“Ma’am, if you’ll follow me I can show you to the front desk,” said a bellman, dressed head to toe in a literal gold-trimmed uniform. He wore white gloves. White gloves! I was living in an Annie musical.

Heat gusted from the grand entrance as hotel guests entered and exited the building. I stood on the red-carpeted steps, my gaze angling up, up, up, up the stonewalls to the cathedral-like angles of the enormous French Renaissance hotel. A year ago, if someone told me this was where I’d be standing I would have bet a million dollars they were wrong.

I verified my name with the front desk and told them I was staying in the Davenport suite. At that point, they pulled out all the stops. A woman in a sharp business suit explained the hotel layout as we skirted our way around guests and up to the twentieth floor.

“You have full use of our butler service. If there’s anything you require during your stay, please feel free to ask.” She opened the door to the penthouse and my jaw nearly hit the polished, herringbone floor.


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