Page 1 of The London Chance

1

CHANCE

’90s most underrated jam? Most overrated? Most perfect song?

I ponderedthe question with a goofy smile as I waited for my luggage at the carousel with my fellow bleary-eyed travelers. I stepped aside to make room for the harried-looking mom soothing a hysterical toddler and an older couple racing a baggage cart toward the exit. It was typical airport commotion, but exhaustion left me feeling desensitized and uncharacteristically mellow.

The flight from Los Angeles to London Heathrow had gone smoothly, but damn…ten hours was a long-ass time to be in a tin can. I’d fallen asleep somewhere over the Atlantic for an hour and that was all the rest I’d get until I collected my luggage, made my way through customs, and caught the train into the city. I still had to figure out if my hotel was close enough to walk to from Paddington Station, but that worry could wait.

So could the barrage of messages from my office and the two hundred unread emails that lit up my screen the second I powered up my phone. I knew from experience not to jump straight into problem-solving mode after a tedious flight. Those types of correspondences were best dealt with after some rest…and a few gallons of coffee. So I ignored them and slid into the Heart to Heart app deftly hidden on my cell.

I raked my teeth over my bottom lip thoughtfully. ’90s songs…hmm.

Most underrated, “No Scrubs” by TLC. Most overrated, anything by Oasis, and perfect… “Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden, I typed, grinning like a fool as I awaited Roman’s undoubtedly caustic response.

He didn’t disappoint.

You’d better be fucking with me. I almost chucked my phone at the wall. Savage Garden? No way. Try again.

I liberally dotted the screen with laughing emojis.Nope. That’s my answer and I’m sticking to it. Your turn.

Roman countered with twenty eye-roll emojis before replying,Most underrated, anything by Britney, most overrated, anything by Oasis, and perfect… “This Is How We Do It” by Montell Jordan. Mic drop.

I laughed out loud.That’s just silly.

Yeah, but it’s a jam.

Maybe we shouldn’t meet after all, I teased.

No response.

The carousel beeped and whirled to life, spewing out the first few cases. I shifted to get a better view of the conveyor and glanced down at my cell again.

Nothing.

I paced the perimeter of the steel luggage rack and stole a second peek at the screen.

Still nothing. No funny emojis, rude memes, or even dancing dots. A wave of disappointment and uncertainty crashed over me.

What was I doing?

This was ridiculous. I was thirty-five fucking years old. I should have been ashamed of myself for mooning over a man I’d met on a dating app…who happened to live on another continent. It was beneath me. I was in London for business, for fuck’s sake. Not a booty call.

Sure, I’d created a sales opportunity out of thin air, made a strong argument for an in-person meeting instead of a series of Zoom calls, then enthusiastically volunteered to spend ten days in London to close the deal. To be fair, this wasn’t all about Roman. I looked like a superstar to the board of directors at Masterson, Barnaby, and Klein for my initiative, and I’d avoid my ex when he finally moved his crap out of storage in my garage while visiting a country I loved. Win-win.

But if I were being completely honest, I wouldn’t have bothered manufacturing a reason to be in the UK in the first place if it wasn’t for Roman—and that app.

And here’s the crazy thing…I made the profile on a drunken dare. One of those “Would you rather shoot three more tequila shots in rapid succession or create a profile for a dating app?” Neither, but I’d been three margaritas into a happy-hour buzz with my best friend, David, at our favorite karaoke bar, so the whole thing was kind of a blur. I could remember us laughing like a couple of hyenas as we embellished my talents and interests in a tipsy stream-of-consciousness way with no real rhythm or rhyme.

For instance, fiddling with the crappy guitar I’d owned since college became “rock star in the making,” and the guitar picks and concert stubs I’d squirreled away for years became “collector of valuable rock ’n’ roll memorabilia.” David had snorted gleefully into his margarita when I’d reminded him of the Spice Girls poster I’d hung in my dorm room our freshman year at UCLA.

Somehow that had sparked a new round of silliness. And one of us…probably me—had thought it would be funny to add that I was a jet-setting bigwig who made frequent trips to the UK. We’d typed and deleted “to see the Spice Girls” half a dozen times before the karaoke portion of the night began and I immediately forgot the profile. I hadn’t thought anything of it ’cause A, drunk and B, I was sure I hadn’t pressed Save.

But I must have.

The next morning, a “match” alert popped up on my iPad during a meeting at my office. I’d done a double take at the unfamiliar icon and pressed the link, and rainbow hearts had twinkled across the screen like confetti. I’d cast my gaze between our loquacious head of marketing and the Tower Bridge avatar for a solid minute, then had finally given in to temptation.

Roman Crawford, age thirty-eight, industrial engineer and business owner from Toronto living in London. Loves music, hockey, hiking, and anyone with a good sense of humor.No photo attached. The short bio wasn’t exciting by any means, but the one-line icebreaker question caught my attention.Would you rather be forced to sing along or dance to every song you hear?