Taking a Chance on Love Read online

  Title

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 Erin Green

  The right of Erin Green to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This Ebook edition first published in 2020

  by HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this

  publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in

  any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of

  the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in

  accordance with the terms of licences issued by the

  Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is

  available from the British Library

  Author photograph © Aimee Spinks

  Cover images © Shutterstock and Getty Images

  eISBN 978 1 4722 6356 8

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also By Erin Green

  Praise for Erin Green

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Taking a Chance on Love Bonus Material

  Erin Green’s Favourites

  Don’t Miss New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

  About the Author

  Erin Green was born and raised in Warwickshire, where she resides with her husband. An avid reader since childhood, her imagination was instinctively drawn to creative writing as she grew older. Erin has two Hons degrees: BA English literature and another BSc Psychology – her previous careers have ranged from part-time waitress, the retail industry, fitness industry and education.

  She has an obsession about time, owns several tortoises and an infectious laugh! Erin writes contemporary novels focusing on love, life and laughter. Erin is an active member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and was delighted to be awarded The Katie Fforde Bursary in 2017. An ideal day for Erin involves writing, people watching and drinking copious amounts of tea.

  For more information about Erin, visit her website: www.ErinGreenAuthor.co.uk, find her on Facebook www.facebook.com/ErinGreenAuthor or follow her on Twitter @ErinGreenAuthor.

  Also By Erin Green

  By Erin Green

  A Christmas Wish

  The Single Girl’s Calendar

  The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

  New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

  Taking a Chance on Love

  Praise for Erin Green

  Praise for Erin Green:

  ‘Utterly charming . . . an uplifting and optimistic story’

  Hot Brands Cool Places

  ‘Like a scrummy bowl of Devon cream and strawberries, this is a tasty, rich and delicious summer read laced with the warmth of friendships and the possibilities of new beginnings . . . The author has the knack of making her characters spring off the pages so real that you’ll care about them’

  Peterborough Telegraph

  About the Book

  One question can change everything.

  Meet Carmen, Polly and Dana – all happy and successful women, with very different views on relationships.

  Carmen has made a life with Elliot for the past eight years. She’s ready for the next step but a proposal seems to be as far away as ever.

  Polly is devoted to her family. But after her parents’ bitter divorce, she’s wary of marriage – even after sharing twenty years and one son with Fraser.

  Single mother Dana longs for companionship, despite her dedication to raising her son Luke. Finding the right person to bring into their lives feels impossible – until a unique way to select a potential Mr Right comes along.

  With 29th February fast approaching, will they each take the chance this Leap Year to take control of their fates?

  Dedication

  To every 29 February – what a difference a day makes!

  Chapter One

  Friday 14 February – Valentine’s Day

  Carmen

  I tap in the security code to void the boutique’s alarm system, automatically flicking on the light switches as I stride through the room towards the red velvet curtain which hides our small kitchenette.

  I fill the kettle, plug it in and wait.

  It doesn’t take long, just enough time to remove my coat, grab three mugs from the draining board and spoon in the necessary coffee and sugars before the front door opens admitting the first arrival of the day.

  ‘Helllllllo, how are we?’ calls Trish, her cheery tone confirming my fears. Her slender frame nips around the curtain divide and it’s obvious – her husband, Terry, has come up with the goods again!

  ‘Bloody miserable,’ I moan, hating myself for allowing it to affect my mood. ‘And you, need I ask?’

  ‘Breakfast in bed, a bit of a cuddle and . . .’ Trish sucks in her pale cheeks and rolls the words around her mouth before continuing. She’s carefully selecting the next piece of information, knowing it could push my mood further along the ‘woe is me’ scale.

  ‘Go on,’ I urge, eager to get this conversation over and done with.

  ‘Thirty-six long-stemmed roses – one for each month we’ve been married.’

  I perform my usual head tilt and sigh. I love her husband. Why can’t I have a man as attentive and as thoughtful as Terry?

  ‘Sorry, Carmen,’ says Trish, rubbing my forearm as I suddenly turn to busy myself with pouring boiling water and stirring mugs. ‘Dare I ask?’

  ‘Go ahead, ask away,’ I mutter, grabbing the milk from the mini fridge.

  ‘Hiya!’ calls Anna, sweeping aside the velvet curtain to join our conversation. ‘How are we this beautiful morning?’

  Trish and I exchange a fleeting glance. Neither of us answers the teenager, whose cheeks are aglow, eyes sparkling like diamonds and bursting with delight.

  ‘Well?’ asks Anna, her asymmetric black fringe swinging as her head turns to each of us.

  ‘I received thirty-six beautiful red roses,’ repeats Trish, a coy smile brightening her delicate features. ‘You?’

  ‘A card from my ex . . . which is nice. My mum says I need to distance myself and not encourage him, but it’s still nice to receive a Valentine’s card.’ Anna turns to me, her expectant face eager to hear of my Valentine bounty.

  ‘Me? Oh, I got a card, the tiniest card ever produced and probably picked up from the local petrol station on his drive home last night and written whilst in the bathroom this morning, I imagine,’ I say, my voice monotone. Hearing it, I want to kick my own arse for being so miserable.

  ‘
Ah never mind, maybe tonight . . .’

  I interrupt her by raising my palm. ‘No! Please don’t make excuses for Elliot’s sorry effort by suggesting that a candle-lit meal for two, or a table booked at a swanky restaurant, or rose petals strewn across our bed awaits my arrival home . . . eh-eh! That’s not Elliot’s style.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  Trish interrupts her this time. ‘Nah! He’s definitely lacking in the romance department . . . Carmen’s had this every year for . . . seven years?’

  ‘Eight,’ I correct her.

  ‘Eight years . . . She knows him well enough to know what to expect when she gets home.’ Trish gives her habitual knowing nod.

  ‘But this year might be the year when . . .’ mutters Anna.

  ‘No,’ we say in unison.

  ‘You’ll only make the day harder for me by suggesting that there are treats waiting for me at home. I know there aren’t, so let’s not pretend.’ I ignore my scalding coffee and swill the teaspoon under the tap, knowing that both my employees are watching my every move for fear of a delayed reaction.

  ‘Can I ask what you got him?’ asks Anna.

  ‘A card . . . from the petrol station . . . bought two nights ago,’ I mutter, drying my hands.

  ‘There you go then!’ exclaims Anna, about to put my relationship to rights.

  ‘I’ll leave Trish to explain why.’ I leave the kitchenette, safe in the knowledge that Trish will recall my disastrous Valentine of six years ago when I vowed to ‘see how he liked it’ and got him nothing but a cheap card. Elliot didn’t even notice and so, sadly, I’ve continued. And he’s never changed or learnt what I truly want. So how can I go back on my word?

  The velvet curtain swishes into place separating me from their conversation and I begin my morning routine. I inhale the smell of the fresh rose petals that decorate our reception counter. I make a lap of the boutique, my eagle eyes searching for anything out of place. I briskly straighten the rails of cellophane-covered gowns, ensuring they look presentable for our first appointment at ten o’clock. I inspect the large gilt mirrors, strategically positioned to enable a wedding gown to be viewed from every angle, for smears or fingerprints. I titivate the tiara display, straightening each to ensure the overhead spotlights highlight each delicate bead or crystal droplet. I pick a thread of cotton from the burgundy chaise longue, on which a row of family and friends will perch, eager for a first glimpse of the chosen bridal gown. A box of tissues sits close at hand on the nearest table, ready to frantically dab at their tears of joy.

  I check my own reflection in the nearest mirror: smart green suit, natural-looking russet-toned make-up and a mane of vibrant red hair, which I quickly tease into place.

  Once I’m satisfied, I flick the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.

  Another day begins at The Wedding Boutique.

  I love my tiny empire, situated near the upper end of the High Street, nestled between the travel agents and what was once the local department store – now empty. A pretty high street of honey-coloured stone buildings, each dominated by aged bay windows, and a cobbled walkway.

  I love my job, which makes days like today so much harder to handle. I don’t resent Trish’s moment of loved-up joy – honestly, I don’t. I’m not asking for grand gestures, just slightly more than a garage forecourt card.

  Staring out of the front window, between two mannequins adorned in ivory tulle and beaded satin, I watch the passers-by striding to work. I can’t help but pick out individuals and wonder.

  I bet she received flowers.

  I bet he sent a fancy Hallmark card.

  I bet he received chocolates.

  I bet even those schoolkids received a proper sturdy card and not a cheap, flimsy effort.

  Valentine’s Day is a cruel, twisted reminder that I, Carmen Smith, am the owner of a successful bridal gown boutique and am unmarried despite being in a committed relationship for eight years. Every day I hear about beautiful plans for amazing weddings days. I don’t begrudge my brides their moment of joy, their detailed wedding plans, their dream day or even their handsome husbands. I simply want my very own slice of wedding happiness and a gold band, which I believe is overdue by approximately five years. I may seem self-centred, maybe a tad impatient, but in my world, when you commit, you commit properly.

  We, Elliot and I, have acquired a joint mortgage. We have joint ownership of a border collie, Maisy, despite him never walking her. We have joint bank accounts, a king-size bed, matching toothbrushes, and the automatic alternate-year Christmas dinner at each other’s parents. We even have a couple of joint promises regarding godchildren, who we’ve vowed to raise in a morally correct manner should anything happen to our dear friends, which we share too.

  We have everything apart from a shared surname and a wedding certificate.

  The name situation is neither here nor there; I could rectify that quite easily, with one legal document, a swift signature and – bingo! – I could officially sign his name. It’s the certificate I want. The commitment shown to me. I need to build the future I’ve dreamt of – a family home, children, the future I thought would automatically come my way, in the circle of life. I want finger paintings covering the fridge door, the dead goldfish drama and the frantic extra-curricular activity timetable. I wouldn’t mind him getting a man shed, the end of date nights because of no babysitter or even the growing old and pottering around together stage. But nothing can officially start without a commitment.

  How do you get the man you love to propose to you? Without forcing the issue, creating a marriage minefield or patiently waiting while he gets his act together?

  If, indeed, he ever does!

  The boutique is empty and we’re busy steaming a delicate lace bridal train ready for collection when the door opens. We each hold our breath and pose like mannequins as the local florist struggles to get through the door carrying a cellophane-wrapped bouquet.

  Trish looks at me, her eyes wide with excitement. I curtail any reaction, acting calm and serene whilst my heart pounds a little faster.

  Really?

  ‘Flowers!’ cries Anna, glancing between us two older ladies. I say older because when you’re the tender age of eighteen, my thirty-nine years and Trish’s forty-one seem ancient. Anna will arrive at our age in a blink of an eye; she simply doesn’t know that yet.

  ‘Delivery for Anna Chaplin,’ announces the florist, her eager gaze switching from face to face to identify the lucky lady.

  ‘Mine?’ beams Anna, dropping her end of the lace train and dancing on the spot, her excitement overflowing, before dashing forwards to collect the bouquet. ‘A dozen long-stemmed roses!’

  The florist leaves us open-mouthed and staring as Anna rips open the accompanying card.

  ‘Who from?’ I ask, knowing full well I’m being nosy. Eighteen, single and yet she receives roses – go figure!

  ‘That would be telling,’ she teases, tapping the side of her nose.

  ‘Oh no, missy . . . if you’re going to flaunt your Valentine spoils in the kitchenette’s sink all day and deflate me even more, you need to be prepared to share on the info front,’ I say, putting the steaming nozzle down. Trish releases the layers of delicate lace as we await the announcement.

  ‘Cody? That’s the guy from the bathroom store, isn’t it?’ she explains, her fingers pinching the simple card.

  ‘He’s cute . . . he walks past here most lunchtimes,’ says Trish, nodding in admiration.

  ‘I know. I’ve seen him round town in local pubs, we’ve chatted once or twice but this . . . wow!’

  ‘Who’s a lucky lady?’ I say, curbing my jealousy on seeing her delighted face.

  ‘I don’t know what to do . . . How do I thank him?’

  ‘Mmmm, believe me, if he’s forked out for roses on Valentine’s Day, he’ll be seeking you out tonight, so don’t wo
rry,’ laughs Trish, lifting the next layer of lace so I can resume steaming the delicate train.

  Dana

  I read the website’s payment page. I’m hesitant to enter my debit card number and press the send button. It might be nerves but I suspect it’s the remnants of my dignity disappearing into the World Wide Web never to be seen again if I conform to society’s expectations and sign up for a dating site. I, Dana, vowed never to join a dating website, under any circumstances, regardless of my situation or lifestyle. I was never going to follow the lead of the other single chummy-mummies at the school gate and seek love via a dating app. I’m proud that I’ve confidently upheld that vow for five long years. Five busy years. Five devoted and yet lonely years, during which I frequently reminded all who’d listen – mainly at birthdays, New Year, Easter, midsummer’s parties, summer holiday fortnights, midwinter nativities and, finally, Christmas – that I would find a man the old-fashioned way. In the flesh. In real life. Someone tall, dark and handsome and in need of a decent, law-abiding yet slightly sassy – especially after wine consumption – loving woman. A loving woman with an adorable young son.

  Sadly, I haven’t succeeded.

  My computer screen flickers, flashes and somewhere inside my head I hear a million tiny padlocks open as the gated entrances to millions of warm, loving relationships are potentially flung wide if I enter my card number and press ‘send’.

  Or, I could sign up and find it’s all an almighty scam, taking twenty-five pounds a month by direct payment and eons of my time should I ever attempt to cancel my membership. Much like a gym membership can do . . . once did, many moons ago in my previous life. And what for? So I can join the chummy-mummies complaining about meeting endless morons – who I’d never give the time of day to in real life but who I feel the need to converse with politely, should I be lucky enough to receive the offer of a date, just because I’ve paid for the privilege each month. Then, in time, I’ll also be a skint chummy-mummy, venting about the conniving, cheating bastards who lose my number once I’ve organised a costly babysitter, bribed the child to be good and curled my hair. Only to have to return home after being stood up.