Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Whatever the fuck that meant. “Uh…okay.”
“You’ll have to meet with her in London now.”
“Shit.”
“Indeed. Your instructions were rather specific. Transportation can occasionally be unreliable, but it’s a shame that was the case today. One only makes one first impression,” he drawled condescendingly.
“Yeah, well…since I didn’t meet her tonight, I’ll get another shot.”
“Hmm.”
My bravado slipped a notch or five under Cecil’s judgy gaze. I was pretty sure he was HR, so I really wasn’t overly worried about offending him. I’d been hired as Julia’s assistant, and if I had the pecking order correct…she was Mr. Horsham’s right-hand person, and Mr. Horsham was The Big Boss—the man, the myth, the legend himself.
If neither was here, I had no idea who I was supposed to report to or what the fuck would happen next. Someone here could probably fill me in on the new hire itinerary. I hoped.
Fuck, maybe that someone was the pompous mustache man eyeing me like dog shit stuck to the sole of his Prada loafer. “So…what now?”
Cecil pursed his lips and arched a brow. “Check your email for travel arrangement information and…in the meantime, help yourself to a drink. From the looks of it, the bar will be closing shortly.”
I followed his gaze to a waiter exiting the room with a large tray of used glasses. “Right. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. See you in London, Mr. Edwards.”
He walked away, stranding me in the middle of the ballroom like a jilted bride. I cast a self-conscious glance around and awkwardly waved to the posse of execs staring at me while swirling their cognacs and bourbons. I could have gleefully pried that Sauvignon Blanc from the skinny blond wearing a gorgeous pair of Louboutin strappy sandals. And you know what? I could have made her like me too because damn it, I was good with people.
No kidding. Congeniality was my secret-sauce kryptonite.
Appearance-wise, I was as average as they came—five nine on a good day, and lean with brown hair and brown eyes. I didn’t turn heads unless I put some effort into it. Trust me, I’d learned the hard way that sequins, glitter, and gloss existed for a reason and that while a gym membership was all well and good, a snug-fitted tee and tight jeans brought me all the attention I needed at my favorite WeHo clubs.
But tarting it up wasn’t always an option, so I had to rely on good ol’ fashioned charm, wit, and my gift of gab.
I could have marched over to any one of these straggling groups of British funsters and struck up a conversation. Sharing a self-deprecating and slightly exaggerated tale of my day from hell might inspire a little reciprocation because of course, misery loves company. If nothing else, they’d get a good laugh at my expense. And I’d bet my first paycheck that within fifteen minutes or less, they’d issue an invite to join them at the next bar or maybe even dinner.
But I just didn’t have the energy.
The enormity of the move I was about to make hit me like a ton of bricks the second Cecil had opened his mouth and I’d realized I was moving to a country where I’d be the one with an accent. The American, the outsider, the dork in wrinkled khakis. What did they even call dorks in England? Note to self: look that up.
I backed away as unobtrusively as possible, rescued my suitcase from behind the potted plant, and got the hell out of dodge.
I checked into a very nice room overlooking the pool, showered, and slipped into a fluffy robe, contemplating room service while sprawled diagonally on my king-sized bed. Everything looked good, but damn it…I couldn’t waste a night in Vegas. I hadn’t been here in ages, and this was a fun town. A great place for a last hurrah before starting a new chapter.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right? My flight to London wasn’t leaving until late afternoon tomorrow, so as long as I didn’t wind up at a drive-through chapel with a stranger to get married by Elvis, it was cool. I might as well treat myself to a night out.
I called my bestie, Winnie, who insisted that the best gay clubs in Vegas were off the Strip. “I went to a fabulous one in Macon where the go-go boys were dressed like angels and—”
“Macon is in Georgia, Win. I’m in Vegas. Concentrate.”
“Oh, right. It was a cowboy joint, but I don’t remember the name, hon. Something manly with a horse…I think.”
“A horse,” I repeated. “Like a mustang?”
“No, that’s not it. I’ve got to scoot. Sorry. Just google ‘top five clubs,’ close your eyes, point, and go to the one that has a cowboy theme. And don’t forget to call me when you get to Scotland!”
“England, Win. I’m going to England.”
“I knew that. Love you!”