Page 2 of The London Chance

Easy.Sing along.

I’d replied without thinking and unwittingly sparked a small debate about dance music with a Canadian stranger who lived in Kensington.What song always gets you on the dance floor? What’s your go-to party song?I’d quoted lyrics from a Chaka Khan classic and suddenly had a new best friend.

We’d messaged once a day, exchanging silly questions and barbs for two weeks before sharing any personal information about our families or favorite colors. Even then, it had been basic info. For example, I learned that Roman was close to his family and that his older sister lived with her lumberjack husband and their three daughters near their parents in Toronto.

And I shared that my folks lived near Disneyland in the same house they raised my cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs sister and my obnoxious car-salesman brother. Oh, yeah…and we both loved the color blue.

We didn’t delve much deeper, though. Not right away. We stuck to pop culture trivia and surface personal tastes. I knew Roman loved sci-fi and adventure books and was allergic to shellfish, but I didn’t know his political or religious beliefs…and I had no idea what he looked like. Seriously. We’d been online “dating” for over two months before I finally took a leap and attached a photo David had taken of me at the beach the previous summer.

It was one of those rare shots where my smile didn’t scream awkward, sporadically friendly, or constipated. Plus the angle made my biceps pop and highlighted my light-brown hair with strands of gold. You know, it was the kind of pic that elevated me from skinny boy-next-door to fuckable boy-next-door. And on the off chance I ever made my way to London or he came to California, it might be the photo that sold me.

Roman reciprocated the following day and, um…let’s just say, he was the opposite of boy-next-door.

He was HOT. All caps. Dark wavy brown hair, thick brows, full lips, a sexy five-o’clock shadow, and the hint of dimples. The photo showed just enough of his torso to let me know he cared about fitness. We both responded with awkward thumbs-up emojis and trite-sounding “looking good.” Safer than voicing true but crude commentary of the “I’d totally do you” variety.

Honestly, I’d be up for anything with this guy, but the truth was…I still didn’tknowhim. I didn’t even know the sound of his voice. We were adept at surface conversation with lighthearted banter and silly chatter about a whole lot of nothing. But now what?

After four months of virtually maybe, kind of, sort of online dating, I wasn’t sure where this was supposed to lead. Long-distance flirtatious chats were one thing, but I had no “big romance” expectations here. And yes, I was very aware that an in-person meeting might fuck up a good thing. Actually, given my luck, it woulddefinitelyfuck this up.

But this was happening.

I was in London.

It helped that I had another reason to be here…or so I told myself, grabbing my suitcase when it cascaded toward me. If Roman turned out to be a douche or a bore or a creep with bad habits—a la picking his teeth at the dinner table—it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Please don’t let him be a douchey bore with bad habits.

I’d dealt with a lot of personal life BS over the past year. Was it too much to ask that at least one thing turn out okay? Maybe even better than okay? I glanced at my cell once more as I adjusted the handle on my suitcase. Still nothing.

Oh, well. It was best to have low expectations and not—

Sorry about that. One of my clients is having a crisis. Just another manic Monday.Upside down smiley-faced emoji.And yes, we’re absolutely meeting. I made a reservation for us tomorrow evening at Handel’s in Soho. I’ll send the address. Does 8 p.m. work?

My heart lurched, then soared, and my palms went clammy. I swiped my hand on my jacket before replying,Yes. I look forward to it.

2

ROMAN

Handel’s was nestled in a quiet alleyway off Regent Street behind a row of perfect spiral topiaries. The elegant tapered candles and artful floral arrangements on perfectly pressed white linen lent an aura of sophistication that went well with the modern lighting and deep-burgundy tufted booths.

I greeted the maître d’ warmly and thanked him for securing my favorite table tucked into the corner near the window. I ordered a martini and settled into the booth, my gaze wandering every so often to the reception area hidden partially behind a potted plant.

This was going to be…strange. I’d been on my fair share of random “dates.” Some were hookups only, but I was enough of a romantic to think there was a chance I’d meet someone I wanted to hang out with after round two or three. I wasn’t in the market for a significant other by any means, but I liked the idea of having someone interesting to talk to that didn’t involve hours’ worth of “get to know you” questions. Dating apps solved that issue nicely.

I already knew Chance was thirty-five, from Southern California, graduated from UCLA, was in sales and marketing for a major retail conglomerate, and liked music. I also knew he had a fun sense of humor and a killer smile. At least he did in the photo.

We’d messaged every day for months and in a way, it felt like we were old friends.

But of course, we weren’t.

Fuck, maybe I should have insisted on a video chat or two. I didn’t think he’d lie about himself, but what did I know? My wife left me for the trainer she’d been screwing behind my back for a year.Yeah, ouch.The difference here…I wasn’t marrying this man. And if it didn’t go well…it was just dinner. An hour or two out of my life wasn’t going to hurt—

“Roman?”

I glanced up at the dapper man in a pinstriped suit and blinked, hesitating for a beat before standing.

“Chance.”