Page 14 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

Curiously, she picked up her phone and googled “Ross McCloud.”

What she saw made her throw her phone across the room in astonishment.

She skittered to retrieve it from the hearth and scowling back at her were multiple search results showing the same photograph—a brooding, handsome man, with that lock of dark hair falling over his face, and those cheekbones accentuating the eyes with their thousand-yard stare. It was a moody black-and-white image. But Petra knew those eyes were green.

Milton man. Not just “Ross,” the man with the insanely beautiful cheekbones, but “Ross McCloud,” a writing luminary rising high and bright before disappearing from the world altogether. Or so it had seemed.

And here he was, hiding out in Portneath of all places. And Petra had found him. Damn it, she would love to find her copy of his book, but most of her possessions were still in her little flat in London.

Too hyper to stay sitting by the fire, Petra leaped up and thundered down the stairs to the used books section. Thumbing impatiently through the shelves to find the Ms, she scanned along and—yelping with glee—pulled out a copy of his book.

She recognized the cover instantly. It was the hardback edition, just like her own copy, still with its dust jacket intact and here—on the back flyleaf of the dust jacket—was the same moody black-and-white photo she had just seen on her phone.

No wonder she kept feeling like she had seen him before. The question now was, would she ever see him again?

Chapter Seven

Days passed, with Petra jumping every time the shop door opened. She took to scanning the streets outside too, desperate to spot him. Why was he not turning up? He knew where she was. She only wished she could say the same, puzzling over his brief description of where he lived. He had pointed at some roofs from the top of the hill.

It wasn’t a lot to go on.

She kicked herself that they had not exchanged cell phone numbers, but then why would they have? As far as he was concerned, she was this mildly demented—but presumably harmless—woman who ran a bookshop and was quite possibly stalking him, given the number of times they had randomly bumped into each other. None of those assumptions would lead him to seek her out, she could see that. And the random bumping into each other thing seemed to have come to a halt, unfortunately. That was to say, unfortunately for her.

But she, a literary agent—okay, an ex-literary agent—had stumbled across the most significant new writer of the decade. That had to mean something. It was fate, right? Somehow it made sense of all the crap that had happened, because it had led her to this town, hell, it had even led her to disembark from that train, at that moment, and in that—admittedly unconventional—way. If none of those things had happened, then . . . It was a sliding doors moment. There had to be more to the story than “literary agent bumps into fugitive author, and then never sees him again. The end.”

If Flo thought Petra was acting strangely that Saturday, she was too tactful to say anything. Petra’s hopes that Ross might pop up were heightened. It was market day, so, surely, he would be in town again like last week? All she had to do was spot him in the crowds and then what? Dash out of the shop and rugby tackle him to the ground? Actually, yes, she decided. That sounded like a perfectly legitimate plan.

In the end, physical intervention wasn’t necessary because—just at the end of the day—when Petra had given up hope, the bell rang and in he strode.

Petra yelped, and dived into position at the register, all but pushing Flo out of the way. “You go and get yourself a cup of tea,” she gabbled to Flo, not taking her eyes off him for fear that he might dematerialize before she had a chance to speak to him. She need not have worried, as he made straight for her,

“I know you,” she told him as he reached the desk.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Are we seriously going to do this every time?” he asked. “We’ve met,” he said heavily. “A lot.”

“I know, I know—I mean I know who you are.”

“Yay! I know who I am too,” he quipped, but his face had drained of color and his voice was not entirely steady.

Petra raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “So you’re . . .” She glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot and then leaned in and murmured out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re him.”

She leaned back again, nodding emphatically.

He sighed again, but this time, his sigh seemed to come up from somewhere deep in his soul.

He closed his eyes. “Busted,” he said, hanging his head in an attitude of abject despair. He turned to go, and then—as if he had just remembered something—he turned back. “I came to give you this,” he said, reaching into his coat and producing a chunky, red leather, gold-tooled volume. “Jane Eyre,” he said. “You told me you collected different editions, like I do with Paradise Lost,” he reminded her.

Petra could hardly bring herself to take her eyes from his face, but she glanced down at the book he was holding out and dazedly took it from him. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s so kind. I didn’t—”

But he was walking away, not waiting for her to finish.

“No, no, no, no,” she gabbled, running after him and grabbing his arm, just as he reached the door.

“I have to go,” he told her, not wrenching his arm away, but looking pointedly at her hand.

“Why?” she said. “Go where?”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you that, am I?” he reasoned. “Excuse me, I have to go and pack. I’ll be gone by morning, so there’s no point calling anyone. By the time they get here, it’ll be too late.”