Page 29 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

A minute later he appeared again, balancing two laden wide white china bowls on his hand and forearm, with a pair of forks and an open bottle of red wine clutched in the other fist.

After popping the two bowls on the ottoman in front of the fire, he deftly topped up Petra’s glass, put the bottle of wine down on the hearth, and handed her a bowl with napkin and fork. Meaty steam rose from it, which smelled absolutely delicious.

“Shepherd’s pie,” Ross explained. “Honeyed, roasted carrots and—well—peas, as you can see,” he waved dismissively as he chucked another log into the stove and then flumped down beside her.

“Oh. My. God,” Petra groaned with her mouth full. The ground lamb was rich, soft, and intensely savory, redolent with wine and herbs; the mashed potato was golden and browned into crispy peaks on the top; and the carrots were the best she had ever tasted, intensely honeyed and roasted to a caramel perfection at the edges. “This is amazing! You are a fantastic cook! You are going to be cooking for me a lot from now on . . .” To think he had sat eating her baked potatoes with beans when he was capable of this.

“Fluke,” insisted Ross, although he was also tucking in with relish. “Actually, I say fluke—if I’m honest—I’ve been on a WhatsApp video call with my mum half the afternoon.”

Petra giggled. Somehow, she couldn’t picture Ross with his mum. “Tell her thank you from me,” she said.

“Yeeeaah, maybe not,” he admitted. “My mum gets ridiculously excited if I give her the slightest hint there’s a woman in my life.”

“Oops, don’t then, ’cause it’s definitely not . . .” said Petra, because it seemed required and Ross’s emphatic nod of agreement confirmed it.

In profile, as he sat next to her, with that lick of dark brown hair falling across his forehead, she was reminded—yet again—how handsome he was. Given this, why were the women not swarming like flies? And then it occurred to her they possibly were. She only saw him for a few hours a week after all. Lots of time to make his mum happy, if he chose to.

“I cheated with the dessert,” Ross admitted, bringing out small plates and cake forks, then returning with a large chunk of Freya’s raspberry gateau, the one Petra had rejected because it was too Valentiney. And that was without her having even noticed that Freya had decorated the top with little fresh raspberry jelly hearts.

Ross seemed oblivious, though, cutting them each a generous slice and digging enthusiastically into his. Petra didn’t even think she was still hungry but found it irresistible and surprisingly light. The fire was burning down to glowing embers now, and the little sitting room, shrouded in shadows, was cozy and warm.

“So—you were saying—you’ve not been here long?” she asked.

“Only since the autumn,” said Ross. “I’ve moved around a fair bit over the last few years.”

“Like the Incredible Hulk?”

“Um, yeees . . .” he said doubtfully, apparently failing to see why Petra would align him with a massive green creature prone to violence.

“I mean, because he moved around a lot. To avoid people finding out who he is.”

“Ah yes,” said Ross, “I see your point. So—now you know who I am—I suppose I should—”

“You know I’m not going to tell anyone,” Petra said rapidly. “Don’t go. You’re my only friend. At least wait until I leave in August?”

Ross thought for a moment. “I do really like Portneath actually,” he admitted. “And I like this,” he added, indicating himself and Petra. “I didn’t think I wanted to actually ‘know’ people, but—well—we have a lot in common.”

“Yeah, we’re both failures,” Petra agreed ruefully. “Misery loves company. Although actually,” she added hastily, “I’m surprisingly unmiserable here, aren’t you?”

“Same,” agreed Ross.

“So,” Petra went on, tentatively, “are you writing? At all? Even a little bit?”

Ross stiffened, and Petra’s heart sank. She had upset him. She should have kept her mouth shut. It had all been going so well.

He stood, and she wondered if he was going to invite her to leave, but instead he took down the box of nutty chocolate she had brought and sat back down with it, looking thoughtful as he carefully untied the knot and offered her the opened box.

“Just give me the first line,” Petra implored, taking a piece, thinking she had probably blown it anyhow. The first line of a second novel from the legendary Ross McCloud? How jealous her London contemporaries would be. But he wouldn’t do it, would he? And even if he did, she wouldn’t tell them.

“Okay then,” said Ross.

It was so unexpected, Petra sat bolt upright. “Go on,” she implored. “Give.”

“So let me just . . .” Ross handed her the chocolate and stood up in front of the fire, facing her. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “‘It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man’—” he intoned in a posh, high-pitched voice.

“Oi,” shouted Petra, chucking a bit of chocolate at him in remonstration. “You’re such a windup artist.”

“Me?” he protested. “Whadayamean? That could be my first line. For all you know, it’s a brave and innovative Jane Austen ‘homage.’” He was laughing at her now, dodging the blows as she followed up the chocolate with a barrage of sofa cushions.