Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
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?
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’t know him. 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 would definitely fuck 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.