A Chance at Love: The Complete Collection

A CHANCE AT LOVE THE COMPLETE COLLECTION KAT SAVAGE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Kat Savage All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. www.thekatsavage.com [email protected] CONTENTS A Fighting Chance LYLA LYLA LYLA GENTRY LYLA LYLA LYLA LYLA GENTRY LYLA LYLA LYLA LYLA GENTRY LYLA LYLA GENTRY LYLA LYLA GENTRY LYLA LYLA GENTRY LYLA LYLA GENTRY LYLA Epilogue Acknowledgments One More Chance Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Jensen Harper Harper Harper Epilogue Acknowledgments Taking A Chance Cora Cora Declan Cora Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Cora Declan Cora Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Declan Cora Cora Cora Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Also By Kat Savage A FIGHTING CHANCE BOOK ONE For all the bean flickers, lady-brain thinkers, and self-sabotagers. Your Gentry is out there, waiting to press his front to your front and write you sex notes. LYLA I’m probably not choking to death on a spider. That’s my first thought when I wake up in the middle of the night in a violent coughing fit, gasping for air. I think back on that debunked article I read, about how unlikely it is that people actually swallow eight spiders while sleeping each year. So, a small rush of relief hits me. Because even though I sit here, basically dying from this random assault on my esophagus, at least it probably isn’t due to a spider having crawled into my gaping mouth. There’s a small amount of comfort in that. I have no idea why I flew up in bed—choking and hacking and coughing up a lung—rising like the undead. All I know for sure is I’m choking on air. Just air. Air is trying to kill me. I don’t even inhale correctly. I sip water as I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to clear my windpipe. As it passes, I reach for my phone to check the time. Three after three in the morning is the last thing I want to see. But what’s more surprising is the text message from my sister. Given we only really exchange texts about three times a year, and see each other even less, this is…unexpected, to say the least. It isn’t that we don’t get along or dislike each other. We’ve made very different life choices and don’t have much in common, which has resulted in few conversational topic options. I open the message and her urgency nearly startles me into a new coughing fit. Harper Call me. It’s important. For Harper, this message may as well be a blaring SOS in the middle of the ocean. I check to see what time the text came in. Two twenty-seven A.M. This is highly unusual behavior for her. My sister is, for lack of a more precise term, not the type to be up so late without significant provocation. Okay, maybe that is pretty precise. Knowing that, I can tell whatever it’s about must actually be important. I press the call button without thinking about what time it is or much else, but it rings until her voicemail picks up. Then my thoughts really take a turn. Maybe she’s pregnant? No, she wouldn’t be texting so late with good news. Or she’d at least use an exclamation. Maybe someone died? Nan? Paw? Wow, no. Don’t think about that. Despite my need to wake up in three hours for work, I’ll most likely be unable to fall back asleep, thanks to her cryptic text. Awesome. I toss my head back on my pillow and roll onto my left side. I’m not sure why sleeping on a particular side of the bed is still important to me. I don’t have a boyfriend or husband or even a casual hookup to share the bed with. I can sprawl myself out all over the middle or other side or wherever I want, but I still choose to tuck myself neatly onto the right side of the bed. In which case, lying on my left side makes it so I’m staring into the empty expanse of the rest of my queen pillowtop. It’s like a fun little reminder built right in. Oh, right. Hey, Lyla? You’re alone. Most nights, I don’t hate it. I’ve been single for quite a few years now. And by quite a few years, I mean basically each one of my adulthood. I can attest to a few positive points. For one, I don’t have to concede television time, food options, or things like sides of the bed. I watch, eat, and do whatever I want. It has its merits. Plus, I don’t have to check in with anyone or worry about things like jealousy or how I split my time. My life is drama free. Worry free. Though, I am fairly certain my nan is worried I’ll become an old spinster lady with a bunch of cats. Lucky for both of us, I don’t really like cats. Are there spinster dog ladies? I could get on board with that. Hell, I would probably be on my way to such a glorious life if my apartment was pet-friendly. I punch my pillow several times, blaming it as the reason for my discomfort and inability to fall back asleep. Time passes in a strange fashion when you’re lying in bed, thinking too hard about nothing in particular. When I