Page 22 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

As a double bonus, the little group seemed to have now accepted her as part of the furniture, benignly ignoring her, which suited Petra just fine; she was done having shouted conversations with each of them in turn, repeating her name, details of her recent retreat from London—the less said about the circumstances the better—and her purpose in Portneath.

They all seemed delightful, if crazily, glamorously good-looking. Freya’s partner, Finn, was one of the most handsome men Petra had ever met, and it was a high bar now that she knew Ross. Finn seemed sweetly protective of Freya too, resting his arm casually over the back of the wooden bench they were sharing and absently stroking her bare shoulder with one finger as he chatted to Gabriel about cheese. Could it really be cheese? Petra might have been mishearing. Finn and Freya checked in on each other often, locking eyes as if choreographed, Finn’s slightly intense expression relaxing into a sweet smile each time as Freya silently reassured him she was okay.

Aiden and Jess were cute with each other too, Jess gently teasing her partner whenever he got too serious, to which he responded by instantly playing the underdog for laughs.

Imogen and Gabriel were the most daunting of all, though. Jess had told her that Gabriel and Imogen lived in the manor house in Middlemass, just up the road. Jess had briefly divulged that Imogen was none other than Imogen Crawley, the Carnegie-award-winning children’s author and illustrator. Petra knew her agent slightly. The story of Imogen’s meteoric rise was approaching legendary in publishing circles. Petra was too shy to disclose to Imogen that she was from the same world, and she was hoping it wouldn’t come up. She had no impressive client names to bandy around, not anymore. In fact, she found herself too shy to speak to either of them much. Maybe next time.

Overall, she thought, glancing at the clock behind the bar, it was clear that being in Devon, with a partner who adored you, and a fulfilling job to do, made for a damned good life.

No wonder this Jules woman had defected from the London publishing scene.

It was nine o’clock already and Petra was stifling yawns. When the group thrashed out a plan to return to Finn and Freya’s so that Freya could knock them up some pizzas, Petra tactfully declined. They all put up enough resistance at this for her to feel wanted, but they walked her, en masse, to the shop door and allowed her to escape equitably enough.

Lying in bed with her eyes pinned open, staring at the ceiling, Petra smiled to herself. Having a group of friends to hang out with was nice. She had been lonely in London, where friendships seemed harder to come by, let alone maintain. Maybe Jules and Roman would want her to stay for longer? The thought of returning to London in August, the summer heat making it the very worst time to be in the city, was starting to fill her with dismay, and it wasn’t even spring yet. A lot could change in six months, she told herself, rolling onto her side and willing sleep to come.

Chapter Ten

Petra slept well that night. It might have been from relief.

Next morning, during a lull, she shared her latest idea with Flo.

“I’m going to ask the Beach Reads Book Club for their all-time favorite romance recommendations,” she told the older woman. “I’ve got them all coming in for cake and prosecco in a couple of days, so I can pick their brains, and then we can order in stock for Valentine’s Day.”

“Excellent!” said Flo. “And can I just say how lovely it is to see you be so enthusiastic. Fresh ideas, that’s what this place needs.”

Settling into her stewardship of Capelthorne’s, Petra realized she was waking with feelings of joy instead of dread most days. She would spring out of bed, well rested and excited, looking forward to everything in her schedule, from the first cup of tea, which she allowed herself to drink in bed while looking out at the wonderful view, to her days in the bookshop, chatting to customers; she had spent another pleasant evening in the pub with Freya and friends, was enjoying her catch-ups with Flo on Saturdays, and then there were her almost daily chats with Ross after work, which filled her evenings with laughter and companionship and inspiring conversations about anything and everything. Thankfully, she had almost stopped blushing at his ridiculous good looks too, as her understanding of him as a person deepened.

Then, by mid-evening most days, there was her retreat to bed again—pleasantly tired—usually with cocoa. This last act of the day was fabulous for another reason too: her reading habit was starting to return. And it felt like a pleasure too. She had started with the Jane Eyre edition Ross had given her. Its familiarity made it a brilliant gateway drug, giving her confidence to stretch her mind with other old favorites and then—with the odd lurch of painful memories from her recent career crash—some of the books that were the talk of the literary world. As Alistair had told her, working in Capelthorne’s provided her with “all the books she could eat,” and that was gradually becoming more a blessing than a curse as the new titles arrived in brown cardboard boxes a couple of times a week.

“Why did you choose Portneath?” Petra asked one evening, as she and Ross lounged in comfortable silence in front of the fire. “Did you know it?”

“No,” he replied. “I came here because I didn’t know it. I had no memories, no friends, no family here.”

“Are they terrible people, your family, then?” This was something Petra could relate to, having no close family herself. At least, no family she chose to keep close.

Ross considered. “No, they’re really not terrible at all. My mum’s a sweetheart, and Dad’s fine, apart from the emotional repression, which is generational, to be fair.”

“Where are they?”

“Can you guess?” he laughed.

“Okay, well, Scotland presumably. I notice you contrive to maintain an impenetrable Scottish accent.”

“Nothing contrived about it,” he defended himself. “Although I quite like being hard to understand; it makes people think I might be saying something profound when I’m not.”

“Or so you fondly assume,” Petra teased.

“Tell me about your family,” he said, ignoring her attempt to wind him up.

Petra shrugged. “Dad buggered off with another woman when I was little,” she told him. “He went on to marry her and have another family. I have two half-siblings. One is less than a year younger than me, so go figure. Mum was predictably furious and devastated. Refusing to have anything to do with him myself felt like solidarity at the time.”

Petra frowned. It was true, as a small child, she felt—and was possibly encouraged to feel—that asking to see her father was disloyal. As far as she was aware, he had made no attempt to maintain contact with her either. Her mother had made it clear he was doing nothing to support the two of them financially once he left. As Petra got older, she learned to despise him for this nearly as much as her mother did.

“Mum had to work really hard to support us both,” Petra went on, staring into the flames, remembering. “It was tough for her. I had everything I needed. She provided for me well.”

“But she wasn’t around much,” observed Ross. It wasn’t a question.

“No. I got used to letting myself into an empty house. I made my own tea. Did my homework on my own, got myself ready for bed . . .”