The train was packed. These strikes only cause problems for the commuters, not the companies, she thought. Checking her watch, she realised the train was also now running late. Great. Could anything go right today? To be fair, the morning had started off well. Her boss had called her into her office and asked her to go to Paris tomorrow. There was a big client presentation over there, and she would be leading the demonstration for the first time. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, a chance to prove her capabilities. However, from that moment, everything had gone downhill. First, she’d spilt her coffee down her top; then her laptop had crashed in the middle of preparing the presentation (thankfully not from spilling coffee on it); her socks and shoes had been soaked in the rain when nipping to Tesco for her meal deal; and to top it all off, her phone had ran out of battery, so she was unable to call for a taxi when she realised the trains were all over the place, again. So she was stuck waiting for the train after all - which of course was now running late. Typical. It seemed the other passengers were also disgruntled. That’s what happens when you cancel 3 peak-time trains in a row. She decided to people watch. There was a man in a suit, pretending to read the paper, checking his watch every few seconds, willing time to move faster - or at the very least, this godforsaken train. There was a lady talking loudly on the phone, presumably to a close friend by the level of excruciating details she was projecting of her previous night’s escapades. If only this lady’s phone would run out of battery too. Or better yet, if her own phone hadn’t died, she could be comfortable in a taxi right now, in the peace and quiet, not listening to this conversation, and sitting down. Oh, to be sitting down with warm, dry feet again. By the door, stood a red-haired man. Headphones in, eyes closed, tapping his head in time to the music. Tearing her attention away from the lady, who was now describing her date’s enormous something-or-other, she focused instead on the man. His music was almost audible enough for her to listen too. A beat. A guitar. A female voice. It sounded vaguely familiar. Intent upon distracting herself from the ever-increasing volume and expletives of the phone conversation, she closed her eyes and focused on the beat. She definitely knew the song. And the artist. Love Story. It was Love Story by Taylor Swift. A few thoughts entered her head. First, what an interesting song choice for this red-haired male. Second, she really loved this song. Third, perhaps she would have her own love story in Paris. How romantic that would be! The city of love and opportunities. She couldn’t wait. She lent her head back against the wall and imagined herself there, wandering along the Champs D’Elysee, coffee in hand - rather than down her top - and a handsome man on her arm. Preoccupied with her daydream, she startled when the voiceover announced they were now approaching Partick. Scrambling for her bags, she checked her phone once more, forgetting it was dead. Force of habit, she thought. Tomorrow, she would be back on the train, but it would be in Paris instead. Her very own Love Story, she mused as she dashed through the doors before they closed. PARIS The trains in Paris were almost as unreliable as Glasgow. It appeared they were on strike too. Rolling her eyes, she shook the thought away, determined to enjoy her first day in Paris. In just 20 minutes, she’d be arriving at her stop and undertaking her first big presentation. She had travelled before for work, many times, but this was the first time leading the job. Everything was ready. The slides. The content. The speech. Even the list of questions they might ask. Over and over, she rehearsed her talk, quietly mouthing the words as she went. Eternally grateful for the fact this client speaks English, shuddering at the memory of barely scraping a ‘C’ in her Higher French exam. She continued her rehearsal. Introduction, sorted. First point, made. Then the second. What came after that again? She tried to focus. Frowning, distracted by a noise behind her, people could be so inconsiderate on public transport. Was it the sales projections here? - - Tsshh! Tsshh - No, it wasn’t that. That came later. - - Tsshhh! tssshhhh - Something about a client - - Tssshh! tsssshh - If only she could concentrate. What was that infernal noise? Glowering from her seat, she looked up. Music. It was music playing through someone’s headphones. - Tssshhhh!! Tssshhhh! - Once again, it sounded familiar. Taylor Swift. Again? But it wasn’t Love Story this time. What was it? Shake it Off. She glanced around for the source, following the beat, and looked straight into the eyes of the offender. It was the red-haired man from yesterday. Taken aback, she forgot she was annoyed about his music disturbing her practice. The same man. The same wavy red hair, freckled face, and Taylor Swift obsession. What a strange coincidence. Today, he was wearing an emerald-coloured jumper, which contrasted beautifully with his hair. He looked up. Their eyes met. She had never seen eyes like them. Sharp and green, yet soft and gentle. A twinkle of mischief behind them. “Sorry. Is my music too loud?” His voice was velvety and deep. A true Brit, she mused, always apologising. “Are you listening to Taylor Swift?” She asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. He laughed, a warm rumble from deep within his chest. “Guilty. I can’t get enough of her. She tells such great stories through her music.” He paused, taking her in for a moment. “Have we met before? You look familiar.” “I saw you on the train yesterday in Glasgow. You were listening to Taylor Swift then too.” Mortified at her honesty, and what could only be seen as extreme stalker-behaviour, she quickly followed with, “I only realised that just now. I mean, because you’re listening to her again. I mean, I didn’t realise. I’m in Paris with work. I didn’t follow you here.” She was only making matters worse, colour flushed to her cheeks. He laughed a beautiful, velvety laugh, and her cheeks burned deeper than she thought possible. “What’s your name?” He asked, still laughing. “Katie. You?” “Rhuridh. Nice to meet you, Katie.” Holding out a hand to shake. “So, aside from stalking me, what are you doing here? For work you said?” The conversation flowed effortlessly. From work, to travel, to Taylor Swift; it seemed they had a lot in common, having both travelled extensively for work. “Maybe we’ve been on the same train in the same city before; always crossing paths but never meeting,” Rhuridh mused. It was a real possibility. They had been in many of the same cities at roughly the same time. “Well, that’s what you think. I’ve seen you lots of times. I’ve been stalking you, remember?” She jested. Katie’s dream from yesterday flitted across her mind. She could see herself walking through Paris, side-by-side with Rhuridh, laughing, talking and comparing favourite Taylor Swift songs. Was her own Love Story about to begin?