Joyce - The Wedding Date

Will youdate me?

Delilah James, singleton and smoothie-addict, has six months to find a date for her oldest friends wedding. Oh, and to prove to her ex, best man Ben, that she has totally moved on since he dumped her out-of-the-blue nine months, eight days and seventeen hours ago

So, with her two BFFs playing Cupid, Delilah launches herself into the high-tech, fast-paced and frankly terrifying world of dating. Luckily theres the hot new guy at work, Adam Sinclair, to practice her flirting on even if, as a colleague, hes strictly off-limits!

Yet times running out and date after disastrous date forces Delilah to tell a little white lie and invent a fake boyfriend! But will her secret crush on Adam ruin everything? Does she even care about Ben anymore? And is it too late to untangle her web of lies and take a real date to the wedding?

A laugh-out-loud, feel-good romantic comedy perfect for fans of Jane Costello and Mandy Baggot!

The Mince Pie Mix-Up

The Wedding Date

Jennifer Joyce

www.CarinaUK.com

J ENNIFER J OYCE

is a writer of romantic comedies. Shes been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bees knees typing on THAT. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything). Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their bunnies Cinnamon and Leah and Jack Russell Luna. When she isnt writing, Jennifer likes to make things shell use any excuse to get her craft box out! She spends far too much time on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram. You can find out more about Jennifer on her blog at jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk, on Twitter at @writer_jenn and on Facebook at facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

Thank you to my family for all your support, especially my mum, June and sister, Michelle, who have been patiently listening to me waffle about my writing for quite some time now. Im not saying Im going to stop waffling or anything, but thank you.

My husband, Chris is another waffle-listener, so massive thanks to him, especially as he rescued me from dating hell back in 2001. Thank you to our daughters, Rianne and Isobel, just for being you. Thank you to Charlotte Mursell and the Carina UK team for helping me to make The Wedding Date into an actual, readable book.

Thank you to the wonderful people Ive met through social media: Team Novelicious, the authors who take the time to chat to aspiring writers and offer encouragement (it means A LOT. Seriously) and all the book bloggers and book nerds who love to share their enthusiasm for reading.

Finally, thank you to all the readers who have taken a chance on my books. I still cant quite believe people have plucked my book from all the squillions of books on offer. I only hope you enjoy The Wedding Date as much as Ive enjoyed writing it.

For Chris, dating-hell-rescuer, and our daughters, Rianne and Isobel

Delilah

Text Message:

Ryan: My, my, my Delilah. Why, why, why Delilah?

Delilah: Bog off, Ryan

Ryan: You and your pussy cat lips!

Delilah: Thats the wrong song, you dweeb

I hitch up my skirt why oh why did I choose to wear the tightest pencil skirt known to man this morning? and scuttle along the pavement as the bus trundles towards the bus stop ahead. At least Im wearing my ballet flats, as even attempting to run in heels would have been impossible. If Im honest, the flat shoes werent part of a logical, well-thought-out plan. I didnt know Id be pelting along the main road, eyes fixed on the quickly approaching bus, as Id dragged on my pencil skirt this morning, my toothbrush poking out of my mouth as I multi-tasked my getting-ready-for-work. Ah yes. Thats why Id chosen the pencil skirt. It was the first thing my fingers made contact with as I stuck a hand in the wardrobe, fumbling for an outfit any outfit as I brushed my teeth with the other hand. Id slept through my alarm (not my fault. Totally the responsibility of Dan the Barman for supplying me with drink after drink the night before. I mean, the guy was just doing his job and everything, but he should have known the consequences, really). So I was running late. Majorly late. And the ballet flats were just there, their sequins twinkling at me from the shoe rack. Id shoved them on my feet before hurling my body into the bathroom to spit (in the sink), rinse and dump my toothbrush in the pot on the side.

So the ballet flats were quite a fortunate choice as I find myself running (as best as I can in the damn pencil skirt) towards the bus stop. Im almost there. I can make it. As long as the driver isnt a complete bum-wipe and puts his foot down, I can make it. I just need to

Waaaah! Wonky pavement! Im stumbling. Nope, Im full-on falling. Arms flailing, strangled cry, thud. Im on the ground. My knee is throbbing like a mother fudger and the bus is sailing past. I look up in time to see the smile twitching at the corner of the drivers mouth, his eyes glinting in a mean-scumbag kind of way.

Oh, for fu

Are you all right, lovey? Theres a hand on my shoulder, which only makes the whole situation worse. Oh yes, it can get worse. Not only am I late for work (and now running even later), Ive fallen to the ground with a witness. Not only have I hurt my knee (which really is stinging, FYI), Ive also hurt my pride, which everybody knows is much more painful.

Yes. Thank you. Im willing the owner of the voice to leave. Just go. Take your concern and skedaddle. Nothing to see here, maam. Nobody fell and humiliated themselves. Im fine. Ow! Ive attempted to stand but it turns out hurt pride isnt more painful than physical injury after all. I stumble as pain shoots from my knee, causing a little bit of swearing to escape my lips. But sod it. This hurts.

Come on, lovey. Come and sit down for a minute. A hand on my elbow steadies me and guides me towards the bus stop (which is only a tiny little hobble away. I would have made it if I hadnt tripped over the chuffing pavement). Oh dear. Youve cut yourself.

I look down at my knee. Shes right. My tights have ripped at the knee, displaying a bloody patch. My knee starts to sting even more now that Ive seen the damage.

Let me see if I have a plaster.

My Good Samaritan is an elderly lady with wispy white hair and sagging jowls. She must be at least ninety and it takes her a good thirty seconds just to pop the clasp on her handbag with her gnarly fingers. She smiles at me as the bag opens and its a kind smile. As witnesses to my mortifying pavement-hugging go, it could have been worse. A lot worse. What if it had been Katey-Louise whod seen me fall? She wouldnt have helped me up and she wouldnt have been rifling through her handbag for a plaster. At this moment in time, shed have been busily uploading the footage from her phone to YouTube.

Hmm, lets see. Items are removed from the handbag and placed on the bench in between us: a navy blue umbrella with white polka dots, neatly folded and secured with the Velcro tab, half a packet of Polo mints, a mini pot of Nivea cream. Im sure I have some. You never know when youll need a plaster. Keys, jangling with a million keyrings, a mobile (blimey, its an iPhone. Go, super-tech Granny), a hairbrush with wispy white hair caught up in the bristles. Im sure A bingo marker (red) and a biro (blue). No, sorry, lovey. No plasters. I dont even have a clean tissue for you.