Take a Chance on Me

Beth Moran

Description

Meet Patrick Cooper– desperately down on his luck, and head-over-heels in unrequited love with his best friend Bridget.

Meet Bridget's sister, Emma Donovan -eternally single maker-of-cakes for many a happy couple, whilst never making it down the aisle herself.

Emma has four younger sisters, all of whom are married or getting married, and an Italian mother who can’t understand what is ‘wrong’ with her eldest daughter, who seems to be stranded on the shelf. Despairing of her own ability to find a suitable husband, Emma agrees to be part of a compatibility project to get married at first sight.

Meanwhile Cooper is struggling to get over his crush on Bridget and seems destined to stay firmly on the shelf too. Perhaps it’s time his fate was taken out of his hands…

Is happily-ever-after just about daring to take a chance, or do you need some extra magic to make love last?

Join Beth Moran, Cooper and the Donovan sisters on this life-affirming and uplifting tale of love, family, friendship, and risking it all for happiness.

Praise for Beth Moran:

'Beth Moran's heartwarming books never fail to leave me feeling uplifted' Jessica Redland

‘Life-affirming, joyful and tender.’ Zoe Folbigg

'Every day is a perfect day to read this.’Shari Low

'A British author to watch.'*Publisher's Weekly

'A wonderfully warm-hearted story full of love and laughter.'Victoria Connelly

Sujets

• Mashups
• Holidays
• Siblings
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Dating
• Workplace
• Romantic Comedy
• Sibling
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• General
• Holiday
• Contemporary
• Topic
• Family Life
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 04 février 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838893446
• Langue: English

Extrait

TAKE A CHANCE ON ME


BETH MORAN
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

Copyright © Beth Moran, 2021
Cover Design by Debbie Clement Design
Cover Photography: Shutterstock
The moral right of Beth Moran to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-80048-849-6
Large Print ISBN 978-1-83889-342-2
Hardback ISBN 978-1-80162-612-5
Ebook ISBN 978-1-83889-344-6 
Kindle ISBN 978-1-83889-343-9 
Audio CD ISBN 978-1-80048-846-5
MP3 CD ISBN 978-1-83889-340-8
Digital audio download ISBN 978-1-80048-847-2


Boldwood Books Ltd
23 Bowerdean Street
London SW6 3TN
www.boldwoodbooks.com
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29


More from Beth Moran

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

About the Author

Also by Beth Moran

About Boldwood Books
For Matthew and Paul Robbins
The kind of brothers who meant that I never once wished for a sister instead.
1
EMMA

I’ve been on thirty-seven first dates in the past three years. Five made it to a second. Two of those to number three. One of them even became a nearly-relationship, managing to limp along for seven weeks.
I’ve met men who never bothered dragging their eyes up above my neckline, tried to ‘loosen me up’ with shots, came right out with it and asked if I was going to sleep with them before we’d finished our first drink. Men who talked about their exes the entire time. Or about themselves. Men who lied, men who pretended to have forgotten their wallet or, on one delightful occasion, took one look at me, turned around and walked straight back out of the pub.
I’ve spent evenings with men I found eye-wateringly boring. Wasted hours with some who were rude, patronising, creepy or, in one instance, later revealed himself to be horrifically racist. I lost a whole afternoon on a pleasure cruise with a man who wore a balaclava to prevent non-existent government drones from getting a photo of his face. Two invaluable lessons learnt there: always ensure I have an escape route and never let my sister Orla set me up.
Around half my dates were fine. A good few were fun, interesting evenings, and I would have happily seen the guys again. But then he was busy, or I was busy, or he lived that little too far away or actually had just met someone else or was about to go travelling round the world for a year or…
So now, to this evening, and I was on what had turned out to be the Date of All Dates. Oh yes, this one topped them all. Not as in, ‘So, kids, this was how your father and I met.’ More like, ‘I will be retelling this terrible date story for the rest of my life.’
The man in question? My reasonably attractive neighbour, Ralph Hutchens.
The reason I was still here, with a man who had arrived drunk, proceeded to get even drunker, undone every button on his shirt because ‘it’s hotter than a brothel in this craphole’, asked the waitress for her phone number, then had the audacity to ask me why I was still single, at my age – ‘You’re what – forty?’ (I’m thirty-three) – then proceeded to fall asleep, while crying, face-first into his pasta?
Reason one: it was the Saturday after Valentine’s Day, and in my warped, semi-desperate mind even being out on a hideous date tonight somehow compensated for being at home alone every other night this week. Reason two: I wouldn’t be home alone if I’d stayed in. My littlest sister, Bridget, was getting engaged at that very moment in the apartment we shared. Reason three: I was hungry, the food here was delicious, and the least Ralph could do was buy me dinner.
Dinner was one thing – I wasn’t quite desperate enough to hang around for dessert. The instant he fell asleep I grabbed my coconut milk cheesecake, which the waitress had decanted into a takeaway box before I’d even told her I was leaving, handed her a decent tip and left Ralph Hutchens the bill.
I had, perhaps somewhat over-optimistically given my recent date track record, promised Bridget’s boyfriend, Paolo, that I would be out until late that evening. Having spoken, in person, to my charming, funny and stone-cold sober neighbour on multiple occasions, I had stuck out the ninety-minute date for eighty-nine minutes longer than it deserved, but it was still only nine-fifteen when I arrived back at the Victorian house containing the two-bedroom apartment we called home.
Tiptoeing barefoot down the hallway, praying the music emanating from our open-plan kitchen-living space would drown out the creak of my bedroom door, I crept inside, unpopped the button on my jeans and crawled under the duvet. Realising that I had no cutlery to eat my dessert with, I improvised with a credit card, then opened my laptop to Netflix. An hour later, as I prepared to turn out the light and hopefully enter blissful oblivion, the messages started pinging through to our SisterApp WhatsApp group:
Orla, second eldest sister after me:


Hey, Emma, howd your V-day date go with sexy neighbour???
Sofia, sister number three:


Did you get home ok?
Annie, older than Bridget by a full twenty-two minutes, and therefore sister number four:


Kiss goodnight after walking you home? Or walking INTO your home??
And then a text message from my Italian mother, who had no idea I’d been on a date, but always seemed to know when I least needed some ex-fiancé gossip, written in her trademark, near-indecipherable style:


Today Pam queuing at pharmacy tells me Jake and Helen having another baby. Pam say Helen is blooming again running marathons no sickness. Can you believe it Jake married and baby 3 coming and you still no man. Anyway, I gave them our love. See you Sunday, Mamma.
I sent a brief reply to my sisters, mainly to stop Sofia from worrying – she was supposed to be keeping her stress levels down:


Home safe and sound. Chose not to kiss neighbour, who seemed a lot less sexy after he had thrown up in plant pot. Will fill you in on Wednesday. You should all be too busy with your own men tonight to be worrying about my lack thereof xxx
I deleted my mum’s message. From my phone, at least. It wasn’t quite so easy to delete the pain jabbing between my ribs like a blunt pickaxe. Although, a nice long cry while working my way through half of my secret vegan chocolate stash helped. Okay, three-quarters of my secret stash, but hey – as the eldest of five sisters, three of whom were married before they turned twenty-five, and the fourth of whom was currently getting engaged, I was feeling the old-spinster-on-the-shelf pressure. That, with a big dollop of loneliness and disappointment thrown in. I had really liked sober Ralph Hutchens.



* * *
‘Morning, Old One.’ Bridget took one look at me, shuffling into the kitchen in my threadbare hoodie and faded pyjama bottoms, and jumped up to pour me a coffee, her dark bob swinging an inch above her shoulders.
‘Funny, that’s what our delightful neighbour called me last night.’ I accepted the mug gratefully, and slumped onto a chair.
‘I read the messages. Do I need to know details in case I cross paths with him in the foyer?’ Bridget slid a croissant out of the oven and onto a plate. She knew there was no point offering me one – I hadn’t eaten breakfast since Helen Richards called me The Emmapotamus in year seven.
‘He was smashed off his face. Had been with his workmates at another pub somewhere, but it’s hardly an excuse. I left as soon as he passed out. He probably won’t even remember it.’
‘That’s gross.’ Bridget’s tiny nose wrinkled in disgust.
‘It is. But this is your morning, if Paolo’s repeated messages ordering me to stay away last night are anything to go by. Tell me everything!’
She grinned, holding out her hand to show me the ring, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief at how similar it was to the ‘Dream Ring!!!!!!’ she’d put on the SisterApp a few months before. Just in case it ever came in useful for us to know what kind of engagement ring she liked. Of course, we’d immediately forwarded it on to Paolo, with #takethehint.
‘Wow, not a Haribo or a Hula Hoop! He must really mean it this time.’ I held her hand in mine, nodding appreciatively. ‘I hope he managed a better speech than the last time, too. What was it? “Please don’t go to London, I want to marry you and have kids and stuff and if you go you might end up falling for some swanky southerner”?’
Bridget rolled her eyes, her grin downgrading to a quirky smile. ‘ This time , he said I was the most amazing person he’d ever met, he’d known we were meant to be together since we were kids and he couldn’t imagine not spending the rest of his life with me.’
‘You don’t sound massively thrilled to have been proposed to by the love of your life. Haven’t you been waiting for this for, like, twenty years or someth