Jennifer Joyce - The Wedding that Changed Everything - a gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy

Love happens when you least expect it!

Emily Atkinson stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago! She’s fed up of dating frogs in order to track down her very own Prince Charming, despite the best efforts of her matchmaking best friend…

But now she’s been invited to the wedding of the year at the enchanting Durban Castle, and perhaps bumping into a knight in shining armour isn’t as far away as she thought!

Will Emily survive the wedding and walk away an unscathed singleton – or finally find her own happily ever after?

A cosy and charming romance, perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley and Caroline Roberts.

Also by Jennifer Joyce

The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

The Little Bed & Breakfast by the Sea

The Wedding Date

The Mince Pie Mix-Up

The Wedding that Changed Everything

Jennifer Joyce

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Excerpt

Acknowledgements

Endpages

Copyright

JENNIFER JOYCE

is a writer of romantic comedies. She’s 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 bee’s 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 bunny, Cinnamon and Jack Russell, Luna. When she isn’t writing, Jennifer likes to make things – she’ll 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_jennand on Facebook at facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

For my Joyces,

Chris, Rianne and Isobel

Chapter One

I’m going to have to dump him, which is a shame as he’s a good-looking guy (not that looks should matter, but there’s no denying the bloke is pretty damn hot). His dark hair is styled (but not overly so), he has the perfect amount of stubble, and deep, expressive eyes beneath defined brows, and – his best asset, in my opinion – a wide, readily available smile. He has good teeth, his fingernails are neatly trimmed, and he always smells divine. He has good manners too. He’s attentive and interesting and never monopolises our conversations. And, most impressive of all, when we spoke about our work (I’m a history teacher at the local secondary school) and he asked about my favourite time period, he didn’t gloss over as I gushed about my passion for all things Tudor. He is, on the surface, the perfect package.

But he has to go, I’m afraid.

‘It’s too soon, isn’t it?’ he asks as I sit staring at him from across the table, my fork suspended between plate and (gaping) mouth. I haven’t said a word since he suggested I meet his parents next weekend, but I manage to pull myself together, snapping my cavernous mouth shut and pushing my lips into what I hope resembles a smile and not the grimace I’m feeling deep inside.

‘No. Of course it isn’t too soon.’

I’m lying. It’s way too soon. This is our third date , for goodness’ sake! I’ve had a longer, more fulfilling relationship with the half-packet of Polos in my handbag. I don’t know him well enough to meet his parents; I don’t know whether he prefers salt and vinegar crisps or cheese and onion, which supermarket he frequents, how many sugars he takes in his tea or coffee (see, I don’t even know his preference of hot beverage!) or how he feels about Brexit. We haven’t even slept together yet! Now, call me crazy, but I’d quite like to know what he’s like in the sack before we start doing full-on couple stuff.

‘So?’ He looks at me with those gorgeous eyes, eyebrows lifted, fingertips meeting above his plate as though half in prayer. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s… an idea.’

A stupid idea. Ludicrous. Who meets the parents of somebody they’ve been on three measly dates with? We won’t make it to a fourth, that’s for sure. I’d probably find an engagement ring floating in my Chardonnay considering the speed this bloke works at.

‘Great!’ If he senses my discomfort, he doesn’t show it as he flashes his wide smile. ‘What do you want to do?’

Go home? Curl up on the sofa with Carrot (my cat, not a root vegetable) and pretend this date never happened?

‘We could go for a hike?’ he suggests when I don’t respond. My fork is still frozen in the air, the speared stuffed mushroom no longer appetising. ‘We could take a picnic or stop off for a pub lunch? Do you own a pair of hiking boots? We can pick some up on the way if you don’t.’

‘Are you a big fan of hiking?’ I’m enquiring more to avoid answering the question than out of genuine interest, to be honest, but he doesn’t pick up on this.

‘Oh, yes.’ He nods effusively and picks up his cutlery while I place mine down gently on my plate. ‘We love it! The fresh air, the views…’ He sighs happily and starts to saw into his steak. ‘Gets your heart rate going too.’

Do you know what else gets your heart rate going? The prospect of dumping a perfectly nice guy because he’s galloping way ahead of you, moving you on to a new stage of your relationship before you’re even remotely ready. But I have to do this, before I find myself clad in brand-new hiking boots, making polite conversation with Mr and Mrs Nice Guy while dragging my carcass up a hill.

But just look at him. He’s so sweet, chatting away animatedly about the top hiking routes to take on the outskirts of Woodgate, the pubs that serve the best lunches, where to buy my new boots (his treat). I need to let him down – gently, obviously – but I’m not sure how to do it without hurting his feelings.

‘Maybe we can spend the weekend after with your parents.’ His fate is sealed as he pops a forkful of steak into his mouth. I now know, without a doubt, that this three-date relationship will be over before he’s swallowed.

My house is just ahead, a two-bed terrace nestled between the Chelsea Flower Show and a drug den. Okay, so it isn’t the actual Chelsea Flower Show, but our neighbour has filled the tiny strip of yard at the front of her house with enough shrubs, blooms and decorative solar lights to create a mini exhibition. And our other neighbouring property isn’t really a drug den, though the lads who live there do dabble in a bit of weed dealing. The smell is sometimes as overpowering as Mrs Hodgkinson’s primroses.

I’ve lived in this little house with my best friend for a decade, ever since we were students commuting daily into Manchester for uni and the waitressing jobs that helped fund our not-quite-lavish lifestyles. Alice is technically my landlady as she owns the house, but I’m an exemplary lodger so it’s never been a problem. It works for us, anyway. I love living with my best friend and the rent is extremely reasonable, which helps when you’re a teacher at a state school, and Alice likes to wind her family up (especially her annoying stepmother) by still ‘living in squalor like a student’. We don’t live in squalor, but Francelia Monroe (the annoying stepmother) has issues.