Eva Woods

The Thirty List


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      EVA WOODS grew up in Ireland and lives in London, where she writes and teaches creative writing. She likes wine, pop music and holidays. And she thinks that online dating is like the worst board game ever invented. This is her first romantic comedy.

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Alexandra Turner,

       my favourite primary-school teacher

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Dedication

       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

       Epilogue

       ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

       Endpages

       Copyright

       Prologue

      If you believe the films, there should be a moment in life when it all comes together. When you’ve got everything you ever wanted, and your happy ending is here. The music is swelling. Everyone’s smiling at you.

      Well, this was mine. This was my happy ending. And I was more terrified than I’d ever been in my life.

      Beside me in the portico of the church, Dad was nervously tying and retying his cravat, ready for the short walk we were about to undertake. It was only thirty seconds, tops. But once it was over, nothing would be the same again. I’d be married to Dan. I’d be someone’s wife.

      ‘All right, Muffin?’

      ‘Just a bit … you know.’

      ‘Nervous?’ In fact, I was frozen in terror, unable to move my vintage-style Mary Janes a single step forward. ‘I don’t blame you. All those eyes looking at you.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s just like my recurring nightmare about being on Countdown and only able to make three-letter words.’

      ‘Yes, it’s exactly like that.’

      ‘Except I’ve got my clothes on in this one.’

      ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Inside the door of the church, the organ was already playing. I hadn’t wanted