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We hope you enjoyed readingSunny Days at the Second Chances Sweet Shop. If you did,please leave a review. If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is available to purchase in paperback, hardback, large print and audio.
New Beginnings at Wildflower Lock, the first instalment in another feel-good series from Hannah Lynn, is available to buy now by clicking on the image below. Or read on for an exclusive extract…
Chapter One
Daisy May pressed her phone to her ear as she fought her way through the horde of bustling London commuters.
‘I can’t talk right now, Mum,’ she said, narrowly avoiding a briefcase as it swung through the air and towards her knees. ‘I’m just getting on the Tube. Yes, the job is fine. I promise I will call you when I get home.’
Her mum’s voice crackled down the line.
‘You’re breaking up, Mum. I’ll ring you when I get home. I can’t hear you.’ She glanced at her screen before pressing the end call button, then picked up her pace as she headed towards the trains.
At some point, Daisy hoped her mother, Pippa, would learn that five-thirty was not the ideal time to ring. Especially given the hours of her current job. Then again, the job was probably why Pippa was ringing. Four months was the longest Daisy had worked anywhere in the last three years, which at twenty-four was hardly something to be proud of. No doubt her mother was starting to worry that Daisy was getting itchy feet, the way she’d done with all her other jobs. But so far, that hadn’t happened.
Daisy’s twenties had felt as if they’d sprung out of nowhere. And with them, a whole heap of adulting she hoped to avoid. It wasn’t just the normal life maintenance like bills and jobs that kept her down. Every week it felt like another friend was getting engaged or moving in with the love of their life. And she was still here, trying to find a job she didn’t despise so much, she wanted to quit after the first week.
‘Can you move?’ A jolt from the side jerked Daisy back into the moment and she realised her train was at the platform. As the doors hissed open, dozens of commuters pushed past one another. Those who were trying to get on had zero regard for those that were trying to get off. Had it been any other situation, the sheer lack of manners would have warranted a few curt words from Daisy, but this was London on a Friday evening, people desperate to get home after a week spent working a job they probably didn’t like all that much either. Some days, people deserved a break.
The doors beeped, announcing their imminent closure, spurring Daisy into action. With an uncharacteristically energetic hop, she jumped onto the train and squeezed in right at the end of the carriage.
It was a fairly straightforward journey from the office to her flat, with one change followed by another seventeen minutes on the overground. After that, it was a ten-minute walk home.
Despite the erraticism in Daisy’s career, her flat had been a constant since she’d moved to London. It had been the first place she viewed when she’d packed up her life and moved here three years ago. It was pure luck – or perhaps fate – that she found somewhere in her price range in the location she was after, but it hadn’t been without its flaws. The landlord had been desperate to get the place rented after his last tenants had walked out without warning and left him high and dry, apparently not having emptied the bins or hoovered for the best part of a year. So Daisy agreed she would clean up the place and in exchange, the rent would be more than fair. Thankfully, the landlord hadn’t put the rent up once in the three years she’d been there and all it had taken was a good steam clean, a bit of elbow grease, and some heavy-duty air fresheners to make the flat liveable.
And cheap rent wasn’t the only bonus.
As she approached her front door, she spied a small plastic bag hung on the handle. The shop below, which had been everything from a hairdresser to a jeweller, was now stable as a funky, high-end bakery. Not only did that mean that she was woken each morning by the smell of fresh bread, but a couple of times a week, she would come home to find a bag like this hanging on her door.
She picked it up and took a quick peek inside. Since its opening, the bakery had formed an impeccable reputation, but anything that hadn’t been sold that day, or wasn’t up to their exacting standard, could end up in her bag. A quick rifle around gave her an overview of what treats she had in store. There were definitely croissants. And by the looks of it, some quiches too, which meant both dinner and lunch tomorrow were sorted. One time, they left her an entire red-velvet cake, which she had taken into the office the next day. That was her previous job, and she’d left the week after. In part because no one thought to thank her for the cake.
Feeling grateful that she didn’t have to worry about doing any food shopping, Daisy turned the key and let herself in. She picked up a bundle of envelopes from the floor and dragged herself upstairs, where, as always, the smell of fresh pastries had permeated through.
The modest-sized flat consisted of an open-plan living area, with a small, round dining table and a pull-out sofa bed that had probably been the best investment of her life, given how often Bex slept on it after a night out.
Remembering her promise to call her mum back, Daisy kicked off her shoes, dumped the post on the dining table, and headed to the kitchen where she flicked on the kettle. Evening phone calls with her mum always required a cup of tea. No doubt there would be lots Pippa needed to tell her, like how her neighbour’s hip replacement had been delayed again, and whether the couple from four doors down had got back together after they broke off their engagement. Yes, a cup of tea was definitely needed for that, if not something slightly stronger.
She left the kettle to boil and moved back to the pile of post. With a tired groan, she scanned through the contents. There was the usual mix of circulars and takeaway menus, along with a letter from her bank about their latest deals, and a large piece of paper inviting her to a group chat to talk about UFO sightings. As she expected, there was nothing worth opening, let alone keeping, and she was about to drop it all in the bin when she spotted something unexpected. An A4, brown envelope that had become folded up in the mix.
Flattening it out, she saw her name and address typed neatly on the front. On the reverse side were the sender details: FCS Solicitors and Co.
She had never received a letter from a solicitor before, but had seen enough from television shows to know that it was unlikely to be good news. Staring blankly at the nondescript envelope, Daisy racked her brain, trying to figure out what a solicitor could want with her. Whatever was in the envelope felt a lot thicker than just a single letter.
‘Oh,’ she said as a sinking feeling settled in her gut. Maybe this was to do with how she’d walked out on her last job without giving the full two weeks’ notice. Of course, it wasn’t her fault. They had withdrawn her application for vacation only three days before she was due to go and either she quit there and then, or she lost all the money she’d paid for the holiday. It wasn’t as if she felt any loyalty to that place though, not after they docked her pay twice for being four minutes late back from her lunch break. She looked at the envelope. Surely they couldn’t be so petty they were going to sue her? And if they did, how the hell was she going to afford that with the rent and the cost of living constantly rising?
Unprepared to open it just yet, she went back to the kettle to fix her cup of tea, yet as she poured the water, the large, brown envelope continued to stare at her. What would happen if she just ignored it? Could she do that? They didn’t send bailiffs around for things like that, did they? And even if they did, it wasn’t like she had anything they could take.
‘Crap!’ Water from the kettle ran over the edge of the mug and onto the worktop, only narrowly avoiding her hand. Daisy grabbed a tea towel and mopped the mess up, although even when the spillage was rectified, she didn’t pick up her drink. Whatever was in that letter wouldn’t go away just because she ignored it. So, with a steeling breath, she marched over to the table, picked it up and slid her finger beneath the seal.
Her eyes scanned down the front sheet of paper, once, then twice, then a third time, a deeper and deeper crease forming between her eyebrows with every read. When she was certain that there was no mistake, and she was in fact able to read correctly, she dropped into a dining chair and picked up her phone.
‘I need you,’ she said. ‘I need you now.’
