Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
There wasn’t much else I could say without sounding mental.
I had no one to blame but myself. Because I hadn’t paid attention to Raine’s plans, I was stuck with a technicolor whirling dervish who gave me a mild case of tachycardia.
“He-lloo! There you are! I’m so sorry. I went to the wrong train station.” Winnie gestured wildly between King’s Cross on the other side of the road to St. Pancras behind us. “I’ve been standing in front of the platform departure sign, waiting and waiting. Raine dropped me off and said, ‘Go that way,’ but I chose the wrong way, and oh sweet baby Jesus, if stress burned calories, I’d be a supermodel. Not to worry, I’m here and ready to get this party started. Shall we?”
I adjusted my spectacles, attempting a calming smile as Winnie fanned his face, panting like a fish out of water. “There’s no reason to panic. Our train leaves at half three.”
Winnie frowned, thrusting his rainbow-bejeweled phone toward me. “This says fifteen thirty. That’s two thirty.”
“No, it’s half three. Or three thirty p.m., if you’d like.” I checked my watch. “We have plenty of time to check in and have a spot of tea. Follow me.”
“Wait up. I’m supposed to be in charge of travel stuff. I have our tickets and—”
“I have an e-ticket on my mobile. You can be in charge of the tea.”
“I can do that,” Winnie grinned, turning his two suitcases back-to-back and securing his long fingers around both handles before reaching for mine.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking your suitcase. An assistant must assist,” he singsonged, turning to the entrance.
Two steps in, Winnie jolted to an abrupt stop, nearly impaling himself on the spires of luggage handles.
“Let me—”
“No, no. I’ve got this.” He waved me off, but I certainly wasn’t going to let him wheel three large suitcases and a carry-on alone. That was madness.
“I insist.” I grabbed the nearest handle, gave a sharp tug, and accidentally dislodged the bag from Winnie’s shoulder.
It slipped down his arm and toppled to the ground, spilling half the contents. A water bottle rolled toward the curb along with hand sanitizer, an eye mask, and a first-aid kit.
Winnie gasped in horror and hurried off to rescue the runaway water while I dealt with the items at my feet. Including a travel-sized container of hand cream and lube and…a massive pink silicone phallus.
“Maybe we should carry our own—oh! Roger escaped. Naughty, naughty.” Winnie plucked the dildo out of my hand and made a production of dusting it off, winking at a curious businessman passing by. “I think that’s everything. Let’s get the show on the road, honey.”
And with that, he was gone, breezing away as if it were perfectly normal to drop a sex toy at an international train station in broad daylight. I stared after him for a beat with my mouth wide open, then licked my dry lips, straightened my jacket, and headed inside, where Winnie was casually waiting for me at the end of the general ticketing queue.
I motioned at the first-class signage. He did that single-raised-brow trick again and wordlessly wheeled his hefty suitcases to join me. The queue was much shorter here, but the usual security hassles applied, with slow-moving passengers and brusque agents.
I was painfully aware of Winnie as I shuffled ahead of him, passport in hand.
“You are traveling alone?” the border agent asked.
“No, I—”
“We’re together!” Winnie popped up at my side, fussing with the collar on his peacock ensemble. “Do me a favor and make the ink mark super dark for me, please. I want everyone to know I’ve been to France.”
The older man’s lips twisted in amusement as he stamped our passports. “Like this?”
“Yes, perfect. I mean…oui, oui!” Winnie grinned. “Bon-gher, miss-ure.”
“Safe travels.”
I stepped aside to give Winnie room to maneuver around me. The agent caught my eye and inclined his chin in what seemed like…admiration by association. Or a nonverbal, “Your boyfriend is lovely.”
“He’s not my—we’re not—” Oh, bloody hell.
I cleared my throat and speed-walked to catch up with Winnie.
I pushed the button for the lift to the second-floor first-class lounge. It was usually quieter upstairs with ample seating. I gratefully commandeered two comfortable leather chairs and sank into the one closest to the window.
Winnie insisted on getting drinks and returned a few minutes later with tea for me and a glass of champagne for himself.
“I feel like I just ran a marathon.” He scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned toward me, raising his glass in a toast. “To Paris!”
I tapped my cup to his flute awkwardly. “To Paris.”
Winnie watched me cautiously. “Did I get your tea right? Raine said you like a smidge of milk and sugar.”
“Uh, yes…brilliant. Thank you.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome. What should we do now?”
“Wait for the train,” I replied evenly.
Winnie threw his head back and laughed, drawing a few curious glances our way. The lounge wasn’t exactly a library, but there was an unspoken acknowledgment that this was a quiet zone.