6 sizzling fun-size chick lit stories...
Six of Australia’s leading chick lit authors present a touching and humorous collection of short stories that show winter may bring the chill factor but romance can turn up the heat.
Settle back by the fire with a hot chocolate, dotted with marshmallows, and a cosy rug, and let the warmth of these tales suffuse you from head to toe.
Wish Upon a Star by Sarah Belle
Abby can’t wait to marry her gorgeous fiancé, Xander – until she realises they’ve never had an argument. How can she expect their marriage to weather life’s storms when their relationship has never truly been tested?
A Friend in Need by Laura Greaves
When her best friend announces that it’s not possible for people in committed relationships to have single friends of the opposite sex, Megan is determined to prove her wrong. But are her feelings for her boyfriend’s best mate, Rye, purely friendly – or is Megan playing with fire?
The Reject Club by Carla Caruso
Tired of being rejected in both her personal and professional lives, Maya has retreated to her grandmother’s seaside cottage to clear her head. The last thing she needs is a man to complicate matters – especially one as alluring as Garrett…
The Getaway by Vanessa Stubbs
When Dominique heads to the Tasmanian wilderness with husband Ricky, it’s a make-or-break weekend for their struggling marriage. Is Ricky the same man she fell in love with – or is rugged Cal what she really needs?
Bad Things Come in Threes by Belinda Williams
First her marriage collapsed. Then she lost her job. Wynter isn’t sure whether she can cope with another disaster. And when Marty enters her life, she doesn’t know whether he’s the best thing to happen to her – or the very worst.
Songbird by Samantha Bond
Washed-up pop star George would do anything for another crack at the big time, and when he discovers talented young singer Annabella he sees his chance. There’s just one problem: Annabella’s feisty mother, Catherine.
Excerpt from Bad Things Come in Threes, by Belinda Williams:
‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.’ Out of sheer desperation I turned the key in the ignition again although I knew it would be futile. The car didn’t even register a pulse this time. On my previous attempts the engine had at least choked out a strangled cough and the dash lights had flashed momentarily. Now the car was silent, like it was no longer talking to me.
‘No, Bessie, no,’ I begged, because despite the hysteria setting in it was completely normal to be having a conversation with my car. ‘Don’t give up on me. Please.’
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, clinging to a shred of hope that my reliable Bessie wouldn’t fail me. ‘You can’t stop working now,’ I informed her. ‘We’ve been through too much together and you can’t desert me. Not after Grant, and now this. . . this setback at work. I need you.’
I turned the key again, certain my little pep talk would do the trick, like it always had in the past. This was how our relationship worked. She was all vintage charm and creaking hinges and required lots of love and adoration to stay on the road. Adoration I usually heaped on her in large dollops — and at considerable expense. But the last six months? Not so much. I’d been too busy distracting myself with work.
Bessie didn’t respond. I brought my palms down hard on the steering wheel in frustration, like I was attempting chest compressions on a dying man.
Bessie remained silent, unmoved by my desperation. With a cry of dismay I shoved open the door and stepped out of the car. The frigid winter wind brutally slapped my face. The multi-level car park was a wind tunnel at the best of times, but this latest mid-winter cold front was something else.
I turned back to the car feeling too betrayed to worry about my numb cheeks. ‘Why, Bessie? Why?’ I demanded. ‘It’s not all about you, you know.’
‘It certainly looks like it’s all about her, if you ask me.’
I squealed and spun around in the direction of an amused male voice, clutching my chest as if I was playing the lead in a pantomime.
The owner of the voice strolled toward me. He was either unaware or choosing graciously to ignore my tendency for the dramatic. I dropped my hands from my chest and shoved them in my pockets because my fingers were going stiff from the cold. I went to open my mouth, but discovered my jaw was frozen in place.
The guy — all right, man; he was too sophisticated to be just some guy — stopped near my car. He let out a low whistle, which the howling wind caught and threw wildly around the walls of the car park so it echoed around us.
‘I’ve been wondering who owned this car,’ he said, looking at Bessie’s silver exterior, and not me.
It was just as well his eyes were on my car, because I was staring. And my jaw wasn’t frozen in place after all. My mouth now hung open, slack with surprise at this stranger’s appearance.
He was good looking. There was no getting past that. His tailored navy suit stretched across broad shoulders suggesting a physique that was lithe rather than sturdy. But that wouldn’t stop a girl in her tracks in our office. Well-presented guys in suits were part of the job description.
No, this tall, dark, handsome man had something of the gentleman about him, with his dark brown hair swept away from his forehead in a subtle wave. The same way Bessie captivated passersby with her yesteryear beauty, this man could have stepped out of a 1940’s film.
‘Is she yours? Not your boyfriend’s?’
‘She’s mine,’ I said, finally finding my voice. It came out the same way a six year old might state ownership of her favourite toy.