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)
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.”
I shook his hand, smiling as I assessed his every detail with militant thoroughness. Chancellor Robbins was three inches shorter than my six two, slim bordering on lanky with short dark-blond hair, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that—no wait.
He had one blue eye and one brown eye. Huh. That was interesting. So was the hint of an infinity tattoo on his wrist under the cuff of his ruthlessly starched oxford shirt.
Oh…and he smelled amazing. Like expensive cologne and peppermint.
Based on appearance alone, I should have been relieved that he hadn’t oversold himself. He looked like his photo for sure, but a more—how can I say this nicely?—uptight version. The kind of guy you wouldn’t be surprised to learn folds and files his socks by color, irons his bedsheets, and squeegees the shower door after every use. Based on first impressions alone, I couldn’t quite picture this man being interested in rock ’n’ roll memorabilia or knowing the first thing about ’90s music. Jesus, maybe he seriously thought “Truly Madly Deeply” was the most perfect song of that era.
Crap, this might be a long dinner.
I released Chance’s hand when the waiter stopped by to take his drink order. We settled into the booth, sharing an awkward half smile before we tried conversation.
“How was your—”
“This is a nice—”
We chuckled at our timing and tried again with the same results.
“You go first.”
“No, you,” I insisted.
Chance licked his lips, reaching for his water just as his cocktail magically appeared. An espresso martini with three tiny coffee beans floating atop a foamy surface. My sister had this hypothesis that you could tell a lot about someone based on their drink order. She was a bartender in college, so she probably knew what she was talking about.
According to Molly, beer was safe, but lazy…unless you ordered local brew or certain IPAs. The same logic applied to cocktails and my martini, shaken not stirred with two olives, somehow indicated that I played it safe. More adventurous people ordered snazzier fare. She also said there was a fine line between being adventurous and pretentious. I didn’t think either description applied to Chance. He just seemed very…conservative. Like a banker or a barrister. But that drink order was promising, right?
I nodded absently when the waiter listed the specials of the day and promised to send fresh bread to our table before leaving us to peruse the menu in silence.
Chance lifted his glass in a toast. “Cheers. It’s nice to finally meet in person.”
“Cheers.”
He took the tiniest sip of his martini, shifting his gaze from me to the window as if to hide the sudden tint of color on his cheeks. Now, that was cute. And kind of boyishly adorable. It was a nice contrast to his prim and proper façade and made him look fun—the kind of guy I could joke around with about goofy music from a bygone era.