Take a Chance on Me

TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

(Mirabelle Harbor, Book 1)

BY

MARILYN BRANT

TAKE A CHANCE ON ME is Book 1 in Marilyn Brant’s Mirabelle Harbor series, but this story and all of the contemporary romances in this series can be enjoyed as stand-alone novels.

Welcome to Mirabelle Harbor! In this scenic suburb on Chicago’s North Shore, overlooking the sparkling waters of Lake Michigan, the Michaelsen family has made their home for generations. Although their parents and grandparents are now gone, siblings Derek, Blake, Sharlene, and the twins—Chandler and Chance—all have fond memories of growing up in town, and most still live there.

Chance Michaelsen, the youngest member of the family (by two minutes) and the quietest (by far), is a dedicated twenty-eight-year-old personal trainer at the local gym. While he might not say much, Chance has made it clear that he’s not a fan of toxic people, unhealthy habits, or sharing too many of his emotions. With anybody.

Enter Antonia “Nia” Pappayiannis—the prettiest member of the loudest and most overly demonstrative family in town. They’re also the owners of The Gala, a Greek restaurant and bakery known for its decadent pastries and located just a few steps from Chance’s gym. He considers their entire family business to be the enemy of good health, but he can’t quite shake his attraction to Nia, who doesn’t seem nearly as impressed with him or his sculpted physique as most of the women around Mirabelle Harbor.

Unfortunately, between her doctor’s orders and the interfering ways of Chance’s crazy-making ex-girlfriend, who just happens to be one of Nia’s long-time friends, Chance gets assigned to be Nia’s fitness coach for the month. Pure torture. And if his ex weren’t already causing enough problems, he also has to deal with Nia’s current boyfriend—some hotshot Chicago CEO who talks big but, in Chance’s opinion, is as fake as a Styrofoam barbell.

The road to romance is going to be a rocky one, and though Nia has her doubts about moving forward, Chance has a well-developed competitive streak and might just be willing to give it a shot…if he can convince her to do the same.

In matters of the heart, would you risk it all? TAKE A CHANCE ON ME, a Mirabelle Harbor story

Take A Chance On Me

(Mirabelle Harbor, Book 1)

Copyright © 2015 by Marilyn B. Weigel

Twelfth Night Publishing

Editor: Hamilton Editing

Formatter: Author E.M.S.

Cover Designer: Sterling Design Studios

Ebook Edition

ISBN-13: 978-0-9961178-2-1

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting brief quotations used in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, businesses or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication & Thanks

For my awesome readers, who’d requested that one of my romances take place in a gym, especially after reading so many of my Facebook posts detailing my health-club adventures. “Hey Girl”…this book is for you!

Thanks to Sarah Pressly for our tagline talks over endless cups of coffee, Erika Danou for suggesting the “Pappayiannis” name, Laura Moore for being such a stellar critique partner, and each and every one of my wonderful early readers & reviewers. Ladies, I truly appreciate your encouragement and friendship.

As always, my love to my family, especially Jeff & Andrew. And my heartfelt appreciation to the fabulous women of the Glenview Book Club for six years of support and for making it a requirement that I include tasty dishes & desserts in every novel. We never lack delicious cuisine ideas to go along with our book discussions!

Finally, my gratitude to my incredible brother Joe for trying to explain the mystery of a good workout—and the various muscle groups and exercise equipment used in the process—to his far less athletic sister. Love you, Bro.

Chapter One

~ Chance ~

I was heading over to the front desk of Harbor Fitness to greet my one-thirty appointment when I spotted it. The transparent cellophane wrap. The curly golden ribbons. The bulging collection of edibles. All the tell-tale signs of a gift basket from The Gala’s bakery.

Aw, bloody hell. Another personal training client who was actively trying to kill me.

“Chance!” Mrs. Margot Dollinger cried, thrusting the gift of deadly delights in my face. “I wanted to give this to you as a special thanks for all of your advice in helping me recover from my shoulder injury. My range of motion is just incredible now.”

To demonstrate, the fifty-three-year-old mother of four pumped her arms straight up in the air with high energy, reminding me of a fifth grader in the front seat of a plunging roller coaster.

“That’s, er, wonderful, Mrs. Dollinger,” I told her, through a haze of cellophane and dread. How was I going to politely get rid of this monstrosity?

I briefly studied the contents of the basket: Baklava dripping with honeyed syrup, cookies made with pure butter, some kind of rich custard thing in phyllo dough, and other Greek pastries I couldn’t begin to identify. It was a freakin’ heart attack waiting to happen.

I set the gift-wrapped nightmare firmly on the counter. “Should we get started on your final session?”

“Yes, yes,” the woman replied. “And I was talking with my husband about, maybe, signing up for some additional sessions with you over the spring and summer. To work more on those delta muscles you were telling me about.”

Delta muscles?
I squinted at her. What the hell?

She pointed vaguely at the area around her shoulders.

Oh. “You mean the anterior and posterior deltoids,” I corrected.

“Yes, them.” Then with a plump index finger, she poked lightly at my upper bicep, visible to the world because I was wearing a sleeveless gray tank top—my daily uniform as head trainer at the gym. “My husband’s arms don’t look like yours,” Mrs. Dollinger mused. “Maybe George should sign up for some sessions with you, too.”

To that, I only smiled and led her toward the free weights. Some people liked to chatter endlessly. I wasn’t one of them. Didn’t need to be. My twin, Chandler, used to speak for both of us when we were kids, and our big brother Blake was a DJ in town. That guy did enough talking for our whole family.

In fact, the gym piped in music for us from Blake’s workplace—Mirabelle Harbor’s only local radio station, 102.5 LOVE FM. It was playing now. Not loudly enough, though, because even a power ballad by Guns n’ Roses couldn’t drown out Mrs. Dollinger’s squeals of delight and speculation.

“And how many sessions do you think it would take before George’s stomach started to undulate like yours?”

Undulate?
Odd word choice.

“You know,” she continued. “To ripple like that?”

Ah. “The abdominals typically take some time to develop. Does your husband have a membership at Harbor Fitness or at any other gym?”

“Not yet! But don’t you think that would be a really great gift to give him for our thirtieth wedding anniversary in mid-May? We’re going on a Caribbean cruise to celebrate, and he could be all rippled like you by then.”

I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing. What was I supposed to tell her? I mean, I’d spend the better part of the past decade—from age eighteen to twenty-eight—working to refine my six pack. Being extremely dedicated to exercise and a healthful diet helped, of course. Muscle tone got harder to maintain as any man aged, though, and who knew what kind of shape George Dollinger was in at present? I doubted that anyone who hadn’t made a lifetime commitment to fitness could get ripped abs (or “rippled” ones, for that matter, as George’s wife had said) in six weeks or less. But how was I going to break that news to her?

“Um,” I began.

“I know he could do it in record time. Especially working with someone as knowledgeable as you are,” she said.

Mrs. Dollinger’s expectations irritated me, but they weren’t entirely her fault. Those TV infomercials that tried to convince viewers that their product could make big body changes happen fast were a total scam. Yet, people still bought into the lies. Wanted “magic.” Thought high levels of fitness could be sold in stores—they just needed the right pill, the right equipment…or the right personal trainer.

I cleared my throat. “If your husband is interested, I’d be happy to meet with him and talk with him about his fitness goals.” Then, before she could suggest any other super fun ideas, I handed her a pair of three-pound weights, “Let’s go over those exercises to strengthen your shoulders and upper back. The ones you did when you were here last week, okay?”

By the time she left, I was ready to collapse. Thirty straight minutes of getting pummeled by chitchat was about twenty-nine more than my brainstem could take. Thankfully, I didn’t have a two o’clock appointment, so I could sack out in the staff lounge if I wanted. Maybe eat an organic protein bar and read up on some of the latest training strategies in articles from the gym’s magazine collection.

When I got to the front desk, though, my coworker Gillian handed me a slip of yellow paper. “Donna called,” she said.

Oh, crap.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I seriously did not need this. My ex-girlfriend was…was… Well, the diplomatic way of saying it was that she was just
not
the best fit for me. Nor I for her. In any way. And don’t think I didn’t try to explain that to her, very gently, but with a total lack of success. I ended up having to use a lame excuse to finally break up with her.

As someone who liked to try to stay on a Zen-like even keel, no matter who I was dealing with, there were still certain types of personalities that got on my nerves. Donna’s was one of them. What the hell did she want now?

I glanced at Gillian and raised my eyebrows. We had worked together long enough that she could read my nonverbal question.

“No idea what she wanted to chat with you about, Chance, but she told me she’d also called so she could sign up for one of Yasmine’s classes. She had that hyper sound in her voice, like she was in the middle of some light electroshock therapy.” She shrugged. “Good luck.”

I groaned. Audibly.

My coworker pointed at the giant gift basket, still sitting on the counter. “I’d have a few Greek pastries before you call her back if I were you. You’ll need the sugar rush to keep your energy up.”

Now I scowled. Gillian was just joking but, in a way, she was probably right. I’d be damned if I’d resort to using unhealthy eating habits to deal with toxic people, though. However tempting.

I pushed the basket closer to her. “Take this health hazard and put it
anywhere
else.”

“Can I have a piece of baklava first?” Gillian asked with a grin.

“You can have the whole bloody thing if you want it. It’s your poison.”

She laughed. “Thanks, but I promise to share with the rest of the staff. This is too sweet to go to waste.”

The Pappayiannis family that owned The Gala, the town’s Greek restaurant and bakery, were supposedly nice enough folks. At least according to other people.