Page 16 of The London Chance

“I do…smartass.” He glanced out the living room window at the evening sky. “It’s dark now. I can sneak in wearing someone else’s clothes at this hour without looking totally disreputable.”

“Or you can stay.”Huh?Was that me talking?

Chance widened his eyes. “And have another sleepover?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“For real? You didn’t like me last night.”

“Not true. You felt like a stranger last night. And then, you didn’t, and…I want to know more about you.” I gave an awkward half chuckle. “But you’re right. You should go to your hotel and get a good night’s sleep and—”

“You want to know about me?” He tucked his bare feet under him and cocked his head. “I’ll tell you a couple of things.…I bought a guitar in college and thought I could teach myself to play. It’s been fifteen years, and I still can’t play. I’m deathly afraid of the dentist. I took Ambien once before a visit and knocked myself out so completely that when I woke up, they’d put a blanket over me. It was three hours later. Another thing…I’m terrible at sports, but I’m in charge of fitness branding for my firm. Go figure. I’m either a fraud or a fabulous salesman. Oh! And I really love that Savage Garden song. Don’t dis it again.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “It’s terrible, and you know it.”

“I’m leaving,” he huffed, chomping a biscuit as he burrowed deeper into the sofa cushion.

“Stay.” I caressed his jaw tenderly.

Chance smiled.

And he stayed.

For five nights and counting.

Every morning I told myself it was the last day, but every night I hoped it wasn’t. I wasn’t sure what I was doing or what it said about me.

Then again, this was temporary, so…no harm, no foul.

Right?

* * *

“What is going on?Are you ill? Richard says you haven’t been in your office this week.”

“My secretary talks too much,” I grumbled without heat. “I’m fine and I’m here now. What’s up, Maxi?”

I adjusted my earbuds and wandered to the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. I might not have the biggest office at the top of the building, but it was still a great view…even on a cloudy April morning. I could see the dome of St. Paul’s on my right and Tower Bridge on my left. Pedestrians looked like tiny ants from here, bustling and rushing to get to work or to the next stop on their tour.

My office in Toronto had been laughably small in comparison. I’d been ultra careful not to expand too quickly or to take on more than I could afford. It had seemed wise at the time. I’d been newly engaged to a woman whose career in freelance fashion journalism demanded a significant amount of travel. One of us had to be stable. That was me. Mr. Stable.

However, conservativism didn’t translate when you were trying to launch a new enterprise. I’d muddled through for a year, closing old accounts at home while trying to find a foothold in a dynamic industry in a new country. Somewhere along the line, I’d clued in that life was all about perception and illusion—the illusion of success mattered as much as stability.

I’d heard once that big-name clients liked physical evidence that they’d entrusted their industrial planning to a successful corporation on the rise. So shortly before my divorce was final, I took a gamble and sprang for a small office in an elite location. I hired two of the finest industrial engineers in the UK, a talented architect, and a chatty, albeit loyal and fiercely organized secretary, and hit the pavement hard.

A few years later, I was pleased to report that my instincts had been correct. My clientele and staff had grown to the point that I could easily justify the mews house in Kensington, my sweet office view, and taking a day or two off without explaining myself.

Okay, maybe not that last part.

Apparently, when you made a habit of being at your desk before seven a.m. and not leaving until at least six p.m., people noticed when you ducked out early. Well, my secretary noticed. And since Maxine was the kind of friend who befriended secretaries, she now kind of sort of knew something was up.

“Nice try,” Maxine huffed. “Richard’s dead worried about you. But he says you were smiling when you came in this morning, so…it can’t be too bad, yeah?”

“I’m fine,” I repeated.

She gasped on the line. “You sneaky bugger. You’re seeing karaoke boy, aren’t you? The bloke from California. What’s his name again?”

“Chance.”