Page 12 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

Feeling slightly better after having made a plan, Petra wolfed down her omelet, which was—if she said so herself—absolutely delicious. Then she filled the bathtub and wallowed until her fingertips went white and were as wrinkly as prunes. By the time she climbed into bed, she was yawning. She used to read herself to sleep, but that habit had irreversibly slipped it seemed. Thanks to topping up her cell phone data, she had been able to download TikTok again, probably ill-advisedly.

Ten minutes in to scrolling videos of dogs that “talked like humans”—only they didn’t really, it turned out—Petra fell fast asleep with her phone still in her hand.

A high, pale blue sky and a hard frost greeted her on Sunday morning. She shivered as she dressed, layering on a thermal vest, two sweaters, and thick, fleecy leggings under her jeans. Porridge with cream and golden syrup warmed her from within, and by the time she had drained her mug of tea, Petra was raring to go.

A minute later, she was marching up the near-deserted main street, discovering the gate to the network of public footpaths just where Flo had said, on the far side of the graveyard at the top of the hill. The gate led directly to a crossroads of three paths, each marked with a finger post pointing roughly north, east, and west. The northerly path looked as if it would take Petra most directly through the valley to the funny little conical hill that was nearest, so she strode off confidently in that direction.

Soon she was panting, her breath turning to clouds of mist in the frosty air. By the time she stood at the foot of the hill, contemplating the climb, she was ready to peel off some layers. She looked around her, catching her breath. Lower down in the valley, she had passed a little cluster of stone cottages, but here there was no sign of human habitation, just some rabbit tracks and burrows, with a brave robin singing to frighten her away while perched in a bare thorn bush by the path.

Her oxygen levels restored, Petra set off up the path at a brisk pace, looking forward to seeing the view from the peak. The sky was so clear today she was sure she would be able to see for miles.

It was when it was too late to turn back that Petra spotted two things on the peak. The first was a bench, and the second was its occupant, a man—judging by the broad shoulders. He was facing away from her toward the view she was so desperate to see herself. Making polite conversation with a stranger had not been on the agenda. But she mustn’t be rude, she told herself. A few remarks about the weather were all she needed to summon up. Being polite to strangers was an important life skill, she reminded herself. Not a biggie.

Only it wasn’t a stranger. By the time he had stood and turned to see who was approaching him, she had already recognized the khaki jacket, and her heart sank as she remembered her behavior the previous day.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, eyebrows raised in what looked like genuine pleasure. “Join me?” He waved gallantly at the narrow wooden bench.

“I wasn’t following you,” Petra said, and then realized she had made it sound like that was exactly what she was doing.

Thankfully, he didn’t hear, or at least pretended not to, instead busying himself wiping the frost off the other end of the bench for her with his scarf.

Sitting down with a decorous distance between them, Petra was glad to be excused from eye contact by sitting side by side. It was eye contact with this man that had made her behave like an idiot the day before. Instead, there was the view she had longed for, and it did not disappoint. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

Below them was a patchwork of farmland, harvest-striped fields, and copses of trees checkered with neat hedgerows. In the clear winter sunshine, the river gleamed silver-blue as it widened toward the harbor below them.

“Do you come here often?” she blurted and then giggled. “Oops, world’s worst chat-up line ever,” she added, hoping he would put her pink cheeks down to the bracing cold. “Not that I was chatting you up, obviously,” she went on, resisting the urge to slap herself on the forehead.

“In answer to . . . whatever that was,” he replied patiently, “I do come here often. My cottage is that one down there.” He pointed to a red-clay tiled roof down below.

“Practically your back garden, then,” Petra said. “Such a funny little hill. Like a child’s drawing almost.”

“It’s volcanic apparently,” observed Ross.

“No way!”

“Way.”

“Kind of makes sense, though,” said Petra. “Actually, I can imagine it like a big zit on the landscape back when mankind wasn’t invented.” Dear God! What an allusion, she chided herself silently. What was the matter with her? There they were, enjoying the amazing view on a beautiful winter’s day, and she starts talking about pus. What was it her dad used to say? Sometimes it’s better to stay silent and have people think you are an idiot, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

“Nicely put,” Ross observed, nodding politely.

She stole a glance, sensitive to any suggestion of mockery. Although it wasn’t even the stupidest thing she had ever said to him—not by a long way, unfortunately. He had the most ridiculously handsome profile, she observed, even in his slightly dodgy maroon beanie hat. And—still—familiar . . .

“We have met,” she insisted.

“Yup. Station. Bookshop. Market. Bookshop again,” he reeled off, counting on his fingers.

“No, I mean . . .” hazarded Petra. But of course, he must be right. She had lived in London for years, and now here she was, hundreds of miles away, in self-imposed exile. It was ridiculous to think she was going to bump into someone she knew. Wasn’t that the entire point of coming here?

“I get it all the time,” he said. “I guess I’ve just got that kind of face. Here. Coffee?” He reached around and produced a thermos flask with a flourish.

“I can’t drink your coffee.”

“It’s not that bad,” he retorted, deliberately misunderstanding. He was opening it now, releasing a plume of steam as the hot liquid interacted with the freezing air. He handed the cup to Petra, and she sniffed it appreciatively.

“Black, no sugar, I’m afraid,” he said.

“What about you?” said Petra. “You haven’t got a cup.”