Elizabeth Eulberg is having us fall in love with her stories again and this time she's taking us across the pond to deal with a break up. And what better way to get over your ex than by getting close to a cute London busker? Of course, bumping into them once is nbd, but twice in a row where you least expect it, well, then that obviously means that fate is bringing y'all together somehow.

Cosmopolitan has an exclusive look at Take a Chance on Me, which is set to be released on March 4, 2025. After a bad breakup inspires her to go to London, Evie bumps into Aiden, a cute busker who she keeps bumping into throughout the city. London is small, but is it really that small? Here's some more info from our friends at Scholastic:

Evie is heartbroken and betrayed when a video of her confronting her cheating ex boyfriend goes viral, so what's a girl to do? Flee to London for the summer, of course! Evie loves everything about London — the double decker buses, afternoon tea, history around every corner. Everything that is but having to stay with the person who's hurt her most of all — her father.

Desperate for a distraction from their contentious relationship, Evie spends her days wandering the historic streets ... where as though fate is intervening, she keeps meeting a charming and beautiful British busker named Aiden.

Evie doesn't want to open herself up again, but Aiden is funny, kind, and he never treats Evie like she's too much. He may just be worth taking a chance on ... if Evie can keep her past from getting in the way of her future.

Internationally bestselling author Elizabeth Eulberg pens an unforgettable journey that's heartwarming, hilarious, and heavy on both romance and jetlag.

“I'm beyond excited to be back to writing love stories with all the swoons and banter. Take a Chance on Me is also a love letter to London, a city I can now call home," Elizabeth told Cosmopolitan. "I had the best time walking in Evie and Aiden's footsteps--literally!--and eating scones, all in the name of research. I hope readers love them as much as I do, and well, if you get certain songs stuck in your head--sorry! (Not sorry.)"

You don't have to get on a long flight to see where Evie's journey takes her. You can check out an exclusive excerpt below! Just make sure to pre-order Take a Chance on Me and maybe even pick up some of Elizabeth's other books as well!

An Excerpt From Take a Chance on Me
By Elizabeth Eulberg

1

“Why am I here?

“That’s an excellent question. I’ve spent the last eight hours flying over the Atlantic asking myself that very thing. Along with What are you thinking, Evie? What’s the plan? Have you even a shred of common sense?

“So here’s the truth: I have no idea. A week ago, I thought I’d be spending my summer like always: working and hanging out. It’s the summer before my senior year. It’s supposed to be filled with being fun and carefree. And then . . . well, everything just fell apart. I won’t bore you with the details of all the drama, but let me assure you, there was a lot of drama. A lot.”

I pause for a moment to rub my tired eyes since I can never sleep on planes.

“So yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to be here. I’m sure I’ll get no sympathy for spending my summer abroad, but it does come with its own issues. I seem to be running away from one problem just to land in the next. I won’t even get into it, but trust me, this was the last place I thought I’d be. When I really think about it, most people would just get a pint of ice cream to drown their sorrows, but noooo, I had to flee the United States. So, as you can tell, things are going great for me right now. Just swell.

“But I’m going to try to be positive. I mean, what other choice do I have, right? At least, I can’t think of any. Especially because I haven’t slept in—” I try to do the math, but my brain isn’t cooperating. “A while. So yeah. I’ve got a lot of work to do: on myself, on my relationships, on what on earth I’m going to do with myself for an entire summer— but I’m not technically here for work, so I guess to answer your question, I’m here for vacation. Except the first thing I’m going to do when I get settled is sleep. But not too long— don’t want to get jet lag. Although it’s not like—”

The customs agent interrupts me by stamping my passport and motioning for the next person in line.

“Oh,” I say as he hands my passport back.

He gives me a curt nod. “Welcome to London.”

2

Keep moving, keep moving . . .

I drag my feet over the white-and-red-painted Chelsea Bridge a few hours after landing. My only plan right now is to defeat jet lag. It’s way better than having to deal with the questions that keep flooding my head. Then once I’m adjusted, I can figure out what else to do. I was in such a rush to leave my home back in Winnetka, Illinois, I hadn’t thought any of this through.

As I approach Battersea Park, a large Victorian park on the River Thames, I decide to focus on the positive. I get to spend the entire summer in London. I never get sick of seeing all the touristy sites or walking around a museum or park. And I love an afternoon tea with the fire of a thousand burning suns.

While my mind wills me to keep moving along the waterfront promenade, my body has other ideas. I take a deserved break on a bench and study the redbrick residences across the river.

Okay, here’s the thing: I know what I should be doing. When I think about it, the only way to move forward is to start erasing the past. I take out my phone and study the newest messages from my former friends: I’m so sorry. Talk to me. I swear I didn’t know. Blah, blah, blah. Well, that’s enough of that. With each tap of the delete and block buttons, an unpleasant scene from last week flashes in my head. If only a button could block memories so easily.

All that remains are messages from two people: my mom and my roommate for the summer.

His messages began the second I connected to the Wi- Fi in his shiny, super- posh flat.

HIM: Please alert me when you arrive and take a car.

ME: Already in the flat. Took the tube.

HIM: Why didn’t you take a car? And switch your phone to roaming. I’ll pay for it.

See, there’s a benefit for having a cheap cell plan: international roaming is super expensive. The last thing I need right now is to be connected to every moment of life back home.

ME: There’s Wi- Fi everywhere here.

HIM: Don’t start.

ME: I’m not starting anything, simply stating facts.

Pretty much every coffee shop, store, pub, restaurant, you name it in London has free Wi- Fi. I’m just a press of a button away from seeing the backstabbers back home celebrating their summer without me.

Isn’t technology delightful?

One could think his motivation for having me available to him 24/7 would be because he’s simply concerned about my well- being.

Absolutely not. For him, it’s about having control over me. That’s always his endgame.

Saying alwaysisn’t really fair. There was a time when he was human. When he was caring and wonderful.

That person disappeared years ago. It was a different time. He was someone else completely, and I guess so was I.

HIM: Evie.

ME: But yes, I got in safely. Thanks for your concern, Dad.

I feel my eyes get heavy, and I stand up from the bench to keep walking.

There’s a possibility that perhaps attempting to figure out my life on little sleep isn’t the best idea. But what else do I have to do today? Tomorrow? The rest of the summer?

The sound of an acoustic guitar cuts through the quiet. It’s followed by someone singing. I glance around the nearly empty park. Usually, buskers hit up the more touristy places: the London Eye, Piccadilly Circus, Tower Bridge, Covent Garden, Hyde Park. I walk toward the music and see a tall, lanky guy around my age, playing his guitar with his eyes closed, not a soul around.

He sways back and forth as he strums with more force. The wooden body of the guitar has been worn down from his playing. His messy black curly hair moves in the wind. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with several holes in it, faded gray jeans, and a black and-white plaid scarf around his neck.

When he opens his mouth again, it’s more of a wail that comes out. “I am the wreckage of your void, haunted by the emptiness without you.”

His voice breaks at the end.

He continues to repeat “without you,” each time with more anguish.

You have got to be kidding me.

I came to London to get away from the pain, not to be confronted head-on mere hours after landing.

The busker suddenly stops singing and opens his eyes. He’s looking directly at me. Sadness is washed over his face.

I feel my pockets for change, but I don’t have any. And I certainly don’t want to get in a conversation. Sure, Old Evie would’ve wanted to talk to him since he’s, like, cute or whatever, but New Evie has learned from her mistakes. Or at least I hope to God I have.

Besides, what would I even talk to him about except our mutual heartbreak: Oh, hi, you’re also miserable? Isn’t it just the worst?

Once again: no, thank you.

So I turn on my heels and walk away.

I’ve got enough problems of my own.

3

“Oh my God, it’s so great to finally meet you!”

I’m attacked by a blond twiglike beast the second I return to Dad’s big, fancy flat. Her grip is tight and she smells of lilacs and desperation.

While I don’t personally know this woman, I know her kind. She’s one of Dad’s numerous interchangeable girlfriends.

They’re all the same, starting with their names. It’s either (a) they’re spelled with an unnecessary X (see past gems Xtina and Dextiny), (b) they’re named after an herb or flower (I’m not kidding, I’ve met a Sage and an Arugula), or (c) they go by their social media handles, like his classy girlfriend last Christmas who introduced herself as “at gymbabe69.” He’s met them at either (a) the gym, (b) London’s hottest new restaurant/bar/club, or (c) a pressed juicery or organic grocer. They’re all in their midtwenties and stay around for about two months, if they know how to play Dad’s game.

“Hello,” I reply coolly, looking around to see if my father is home. Of course he would forget to mention he has a new girlfriend—or even be here to welcome his only child— but she is no doubt under the impression that he’s talked about her like a normal single father would to his daughter.

“You must be exhausted,” she states. I take her in. She’s petite, with ginormous breasts, bleached blond hair, fake eyelashes, and a tight black dress so short I pray she’s wearing underwear for hygiene’s sake.

She is one-thousand-percent Dad’s type.

“Your dad is running a wee bit late,” she says with an eye roll. “But he wanted to make sure you’re ready for dinner. We’re going to Sketch!” She claps like she’s been given some ridiculously expensive bobble of jewelry.

I’m too exhausted to survive a long dinner with this girl and my father. Although I could’ve gotten forty hours of sleep on a cloud, being swaddled by puppies and fanned by angels, and I’d still be too tired for this crap.

“Let’s look at your clothes!” She grabs my hand to drag me to my room, but I stop her.

I know exactly what’s going on here. Dad has employed his newest plaything to pick out clothes for me and do my hair and makeup so I can be “acceptable” at the swanky London restaurant he wants to parade us around.

No surprise, this girl is strong— prob ably from spending hours at the gym every day. “I’m good,” I reply as I attempt to hold my ground.

The door to the flat opens and Dad strolls in. He throws his keys in the Waterford crystal bowl next to the door. Even though he’s coming off a ten- hour workday, he’s as put together and handsome as always in his still- crisp tailored suit. Every strand of his short brown hair— which matches mine only in color, not tidiness—is perfectly styled. He doesn’t sport a millimeter of stubble— thanks to the barber who comes to his office every morning to give him a fresh shave. He’s tan, he’s fit, he’s half the man he used to be.

“Evie.” He nods before coming over to give me a hug. “It’s lovely to see you.”

No matter how long he’s been this version of himself, I’ll never get used to his hugs now. They’re cold. They’re formal. They absolutely suck.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Awww,” the girl coos.

“How was your flight?” he asks.

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Yep.”

The girlfriend keeps looking back and forth between us, probably wondering when we’ll start acting more like father and daughter and less like two strangers stuck in an elevator talking about the weather. While we have similar features— same button nose, oval face, and dark brown eyes— our personalities are completely opposite. I’m a fun, warmhearted person and he’s a robotic jerk. But hey, that’s just my opinion.

“Ah, so . . .” He starts but doesn’t finish.

We used to never be like this, but now we’re both so aware of how self- conscious we are around each other, and we both know that we’re aware and it makes us even more stilted and awkward and it’s just a vicious cycle.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Well, let me get a good look at you.”

Oh great, things just got worse. Fun.

Every flaw on my face is currently being scrutinized. His eyes linger on the pimple that developed on my chin somewhere over the Atlantic. They then drift up to my eyebrows.

“Poppy, darling, you should take Evie to your salon, or show her how to use tweezers,” Dad says to his girlfriend, who is named after a flower, thank you very much.

Unlike Poppy, who has had every inch of her skin plucked, exfoliated, tanned, and shined, I’ve decided to let my eyebrows be natural. They’re full, but I’ve been known to pluck a stray hair here or there.

“Maybe do something about this hair as well,” he comments as he picks up a strand of my naturally brown, slightly wavy collarbone- length hair. You know, the hair I got from him.

The concept of natural is very foreign to my father.

But the awkwardness is just beginning as Dad looks down at my body, currently clad in baggy jeans, a striped T-shirt, and flip- flops. Awesome.

Now, I don’t like to put emphasis on someone’s weight. A well- adjusted person looking at me would see a fairly average teenage girl. I’m not skinny, nor would I be considered the loaded f- word. I’ve got my mom’s smaller bone structure, but with some curves from Dad’s side. Since my father— the opposite of well- adjusted— believes you can never be too rich or too thin, I instantly tense up at his gaze.

“You should join us at spin tomorrow. Poppy’s an excellent instructor.” He gives her a wink and she responds by giggling.

“Thanks, but I’m going to sleep in.” I pull myself away from his judgmental gaze and reach into my worn backpack. I take out a bag of cheddar-and-onion crisps. To my father’s abject horror, I open it up and pop a crisp into my mouth.

It’s one of my favorite things to do in front of him. Every day, I’ll go to a grocer and scour the se lection of potato chips (known as crisps in England), then proceed to eat them in front of him. I could bring a different guy home every night and Dad wouldn’t be as offended as he is right now. Honestly, sometimes it’s the only way to get an emotion out of him. And hey, if that requires me to eat some delicious crisps, win- win.

“Those are disgusting,” he says with a curl of his lip.

“I think you mean delicious.” I put three more in my mouth.

The only sound in his pristine, bright white marble kitchen is of the crunch of the crisps.

I hold out the bag to Poppy. “You want one?” I ask with an intentionally full mouth.

She looks at me as if I were trying to hand her a rattlesnake instead of complex carbs.

“Evie, please don’t start,” he says as a look of disappointment flashes on his face. It’s a look I’ve become quite used to.

Don’t start. It’s the same thing he texted me this morning. Basically, he wants me to just shut up and behave. In fairness to my dad— which is a concession I don’t give lightly— I would never act this way with my mother.

But the difference between the two is that my mom actually parents me. She cares about me, the person, and isn’t so fixated on the outside. And oh yeah, she didn’t up and leave me.

I bat my uncurled and mascara- free eyelashes at him. “My sincerest apologies, Father.”

Then I shove a few more crisps into my mouth.

“Please get ready for dinner. Your current attire is entirely unacceptable,” Dad replies evenly. It’s clear that his patience is already running thin.

At least we have that one thing in common.

“I’m going to stay in,” I admit, then throw in a yawn for good measure. Part of an uneaten crisp falls out of my mouth.

He sighs. “Evie, it’s your first night here. I haven’t seen you in months. I went out of my way to make these dinner plans for you.

It’s not easy to get a booking.”

“Yes, but you didn’t ask me what I wanted to do on my first night.”

You never ask, I want to add. That’s why he likes these young girls. They’re simply content to go along with his plans, especially since that means an expensive meal and— if they behave— a nice trinket or two.

His daughter, however, can’t be bribed.

“Fine,” he replies with a huff. “I was looking forward to spending some time with my daughter but have it your way. Poppy and I are going out to enjoy a lovely meal.”

“Have a wonderful evening,” I reply, not even hiding the bitterness.

Dad shakes his head. “Honestly, Evie, if this is how you’re going to be the entire time you’re here, it’s going to be a long summer.” No kidding.

4

The benefit of being in a jet lag– induced sleep coma is that I missed seeing Dad when he got home from dinner and when he left in the morning. The only items on the kitchen counter were two crisp twenty- pound bills with no note. I left the cash behind. He should know better by now. It’s a point of pride that I don’t take any of the money he tries to throw at me. I am not for sale. Although it’s tempting. A week in London costs months of my coffee shop earnings. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to afford a whole summer with my meager savings, even if I can get a job. No point stressing, since I don’t even know how long I’ll actually end up staying here.

After a shower to feel human again, I head to the Sloane Square tube station to decide where I’ll spend the day, and I end up at the Tower of London, the medieval stone castle that has kept the modern office buildings from completely taking over. I weave between the tourists as I walk the perimeter of the castle, letting the history soak in before walking across Tower Bridge. I notice a couple trying to fit the Tower of London in their selfie.

“Do you want me to take your picture?” I offer.

“Yes, please,” the guy replies with an accent as he hands me his phone.

“Where are you from?” I line up their smiling faces and try to not have a twinge of sadness as they wrap their arms around each other.

“Germany,” he answers. “Oh, where?”

“You know Germany?”

“Uh, not really. I’d like to visit someday. I know it’s a super- quick flight. I need to take advantage of the fact that London is so close to Europe.”

They reply by posing for me.

Oh, right. The photo. That I’m supposed to be taking.

I snap a few pics, then check to make sure they came out okay.

“You both look fabulous.”

The couple smiles as they study the photos. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I can do more. Or if you want I can—”

“It is okay. Thanks.” He gives me a small nod as they walk away hand in hand.

While I stand there like an idiot.

So this is your summer. Aimlessly walking around while you avoid dealing with your problems, and stalking tourists. Well, done, Evie. Well done.

I put my earbuds in to block out the completely reasonable— yet inconvenient in the fact I’m still in denial— thoughts in my head. As a kid, Dad made me a UK bands play list I still listen to today.

I put it on shuffle, wondering who is going to accompany my walk: the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Queen, the Smiths, Joy Division, Oasis, the Kinks, Radiohead, Blur . . . The list goes on and on. He may be a jerk, but my dad has great taste in music.

Had. Because now he likes to go to clubs and listen to electronic dance music and pretend that he’s not a forty- five- year- old man whose midlife crisis has been going on for ten years.

I push down my anger as I walk along the other side of the Thames. Maybe I’ll walk all the way down to the London Eye. I can cross over the river again to visit Westminster Abbey. And Buckingham Palace.

I have all day.

I have all summer.

Then why do I feel like I have nothing?

There are a couple of tourists gathered around a guy playing a guitar. He seems familiar, then it hits me.

No way. Just no way. What are the odds?

It’s the same busker from yesterday. We’re both miles away from where we were. I slowly approach, but there he is. In the same gray jeans, but this time with a black T-shirt. His plaid scarf is tied around a belt loop in his jeans. His eyes are closed again.

I pause Queen, who is telling me to find someone to love. No offense to Freddie Mercury, but there’s something about this guy’s voice that causes my entire body to erupt in goose bumps.

“There’s nothing left inside of me,” he bellows as he taps a beat with his worn black Converse sneaker.

Seriously? Can this guy read my mind? Or is this the universe forcing me to come to terms with what happened instead of running away?

As I study his face, I won der whether my heartbreak is as visible. His radiates like a scorching heat. Whoever broke his heart did a proper job stomping all over it.

I honestly thought that kind of passionate love existed only in books and movies. Certainly not an emotion a teenage boy could possess. At least none of the ones I know.

The feeling of loneliness I’ve been trying to shove down comes up again. My summer had been mapped out. They Who Will Not Be Named and I had a Summer Shenanigans list of things we were going to do, both big (Six Flags, boating on Lake Michigan) and small (Pizza Wednesdays, Pool Sundays). While they’ll be gathered around the big corner table (“our table”) at Mario’s tonight, I’ll prob ably be eating a packet of crisps by myself in Dad’s empty flat.

Am I really going to randomly walk around alone for the entire summer? Maybe I should just go to my grandparents’ house in the country. There’s less to do there, but I could at least . . . I don’t know.

That right there is the problem. I don’t know. I’m stuck.

There’s a smattering of applause as the guy finishes. A couple of people drop some coins in the open guitar case by his feet. Since I finally have change, I reach into my pocket for a few pounds and freeze as I see him look up. There’s a flash of recognition on his face.

“Are you following me?” he asks with a tiny curve of a smile.

“No, I— I—” I stutter, not prepared to have an actual conversation with him. Up close, I see he has these bright green eyes.

“London can be a surprisingly small place,” he says with a laugh.

His face seems to have relaxed since he stopped singing.

He looks less like a tortured soul and more like a regular teenage dude.

I think about how I turned my back on him yesterday. He doesn’t seem put off by it, even though he does remember me. I have an itch to talk to somebody. There’s no way I can keep quiet the entire summer. Honestly, the last forty- eight hours have been hard enough. I’m a talker. It used to be one of my friends’ favorite things about me, until I said a few things they didn’t want to hear.

It’s going to be a long and lonely summer if something doesn’t change.

I open my mouth, think better of it, and close it.

Of all the people to strike up a conversation with, it shouldn’t be some random heartbroken boy. I should just go online and see if there’s some expat teen group I could join and just—

“Do you want to get a coffee?”

Whoa. Hold on, Evie. Did that just come out of your mouth?

Sure did.

His eyes open wide. “You’re American?” I nod.

“I’ve heard you lot can be quite forward.” Oh my God. I can’t believe I did that.

I can.

But then again, this guy is prob ably used to girls being “quite forward” with him. He plays all these heartbreak songs on a guitar. If that isn’t teenage girl catnip, I don’t know what is.

“Oh no, I’m not,” I start. Wow, you’re making such a great first impression. “Look, I just . . .” I take a deep breath. “I’m on my way to Borough Market, so I thought if you were taking a break, I’d buy you a coffee because I’ve heard you play a couple times and you’re really good. You don’t have to come, that’s totally cool. Unless you do want some coffee, and then that’s also cool. Whatever. No big deal. And I guess I should make it clear that I’m not interested in anything romantic, like at all. Especially with a guy. No offense, but I’m just not going there. Lesson learned, if you know what I mean.”

Stop talking, Evie.

It’s like I haven’t been able to have a real conversation with anybody in days, so a bizarre stream of consciousness has come vomiting out. It’s the customs officer all over again, which by the way, I could’ve used the automatic gates with my British passport, but no, I chose to stand in line to talk to someone, because that’s how desperate I’ve become. I did the same with the cashier at Tesco’s yesterday. And the porter at Dad’s building this morning.

“I understand,” he replies as he puts his guitar away. “My friend Fiona is a lesbian.”

“No, I’m not . . . I’m just saying that I’m taking a break from dating. So I’m not asking you out. Just for coffee. As a wow- you’re- really- good- at- playing- guitar coffee, not because you’re hot.” Sweet baby Jesus. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, you’re fine looking and all,

I’m just saying it’s coffee.”

Evie, you need to scrounge up the tiniest thread of dignity you have left and turn around and walk away without blabbing another word. Keep walking until you hit Scotland because dear Lord girl, you’re a mess.

A ruddiness spreads over his cheeks. “Well, with an invitation like that . . .”

So of course I keep talking. “Ha! Yeah, right. I mean, no worries. It’s cool if you don’t want to go. It’s cool if you do. Just whatever is cool,” I blubber, realizing I’ve used the word cool about fourteen thousand times. Cool, cool, cool. “Simply a girl wanting to drink some coffee because she’s done with dating because men are the worst.”

For the twelve billionth time this week I ask myself, What are you thinking, Evie? Who on earth would want to hang out with me after that pathetic display?

He picks up his guitar case. “Can’t say I blame you for that.” He begins to walk, then turns around. “Shall we?” What? Seriously?

I’m both in shock and incredibly grateful. I begin to walk next to him before he can change his mind. Maybe hurt recognizes hurt.

“I’m Aiden, by the way.”

“Evie.”

“Hey,” he says with a nod.

“Hey.”

Copyright © 2025 by Elizabeth Eulberg, Inc. Used with permission from Scholastic Inc.

Take a Chance on Me, by Elizabeth Eulberg will be released on March 4, 2025. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:

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