Page 3 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“But definitely dressed as one, though,” Petra doubled down. “Filming a movie?” she scanned the area for the usual filmmaking paraphernalia. “Actor?” she went on. “Maybe just an extra? Nothing wrong with that . . .” Wow, he had a fabulously piratical glower, she observed delightedly. He was totally wasted as an extra, for sure.

Although they did seem to be alone on the platform, which was weird. Usually filming meant crowds of people and tons of equipment.

“Nope,” he said. “Not a pirate. Not even pretending to be a pirate.”

“Children’s party?” she hazarded, slow to process what he was saying. Although, to be fair, he looked a bit too scary to be a kids’ entertainer.

“This,” he said heavily, gesturing at himself, “is not a costume. These are my clothes,” he emphasized.

“Then, why . . . ?” Petra was genuinely confused. Sure, he was missing the tricorn hat, she conceded. And the parrot. And the wooden leg . . . Doubt began to creep in. Could it possibly be that she had done it again? She stifled a groan. Nice start, Petra.

“And please stop jumping out of moving trains,” he added stiffly. “Because, as far as I can tell, you’re not in the movies, either. And get those skinned knees cleaned up, okay?” At that, with one last glare, he turned, striding down the platform, long coat flapping, his rear view radiating offense.

Petra groaned, hanging her head. There she went again, with her unerring ability to insult everyone. She should come with a government health warning. Although he need not have been quite so annoyed. It wasn’t like she had called him a pedophile or anything. He got off lightly. As far as she was concerned, being called a pirate was a compliment. And anyway, people shouldn’t go around with bushy beards and swirly coats. It wasn’t that much of a leap. Other people were bound to get confused. Maybe even people who hadn’t just been dreaming about them. Maybe.

Sighing, she hoicked her backpack up onto her back.

By the time she was ready to look for the station exit, he had vanished.

Chapter Two

The taxi rank was unhelpfully empty, but Google maps told her it was only an eight-minute walk. Casting a doubtful look at the lowering sky, Petra adjusted her backpack more comfortably on her shoulders and set off, trying to ignore her protesting knees.

It may only be January, but Portneath really was picture postcard stuff, she thought as she crossed the bridge over the wide river mouth. The little town sprawled decorously on either side of the estuary, with the town quay on one side, and wide sandy beaches on the other. The light was fading rapidly now. On the horizon, the sky was stained red and gold, with stars already piercing the inky blue velvet above. Lights had twinkled into life in the windows of the fishermen’s cottages lining the road along the shore, and an avenue of streetlights delineated the main street that stretched up the hill from the quay to a little castle on the summit.

From Jules’s instructions and Google maps, Petra knew Capelthorne’s was near the bottom of this hill, and she found it easily. It was a cute little shopfront, with its rose-colored limewash and a multipaned bow window. It was clearly freshly painted, sporting a coat of green gloss paint with the name picked out in bright gold lettering above. It looked like a remnant from a Dickens novel—utterly charming—but the shop window was dark, and the sign, hanging askew in the doorway, was turned to “closed.”

With her back to the shop, Petra surveyed the scene. There! The restaurant Jules had told her about was just yards away. Freya’s. It was early evening still—not quite six o’clock—and there were no customers at tables, but Petra could see the staff, in neat slate gray aprons, flitting around the little wooden tables in the warmly lit interior, straightening the knives and forks, and laying down starched white napkins in preparation for evening service. One member of the staff was standing behind the bar area, polishing glasses and surveying the scene. Here, Petra had been told, they were keeping the key to the shop and to the flat above. After her peculiar interaction with the man at the train station, she was dubious about further conversations with the Portneath natives, but—hey ho . . . She walked over and pushed confidently at the restaurant door.

It was locked, causing her to rebound with some force, but a member of the staff hurried over to unlock it, opening their mouth to explain the obvious, but Petra interrupted—she was cold, tired, and the grazes on her knees were burning. “I think you have the keys? To Capelthorne’s? I’m—” but before she had a chance to explain, a little blond figure in chef’s whites who had just appeared out of the room behind called across:

“Hellooo! Are you Petra?”

Petra nodded wordlessly as the woman trotted across the room and enveloped her in a warm hug.

“Gosh, poor you, you must be exhausted,” she chattered. “I’m Freya. I’ve promised Jules and Roman that we’ll take really good care of you. Oh no!” she added, having stepped back to take in Jules’s entire appearance. “Your poor knees, what happened? We need to clean you up. Lucy, will you fetch the first-aid kit for me? Come and sit . . . Glass of wine? We’ve got this amazing local Chardonnay; you’ve got to try it.”

“Do you ever breathe?” interrupted Petra. Oops, that was unintentionally rude. Again.

“Sorry!” Freya replied, unabashed. “Finn tells me all the time that I talk too much—when I let him get a word in.” She giggled. “Jules was so thrilled you were coming. We all are.”

“Who is we?”

“Oh, you know. The crowd. Obviously, Jules and Roman aren’t around, but everyone else . . . you’ll get to know us.”

By this time, Lucy had quietly slid a green plastic first-aid box onto the table, and Freya was rummaging through it efficiently, lining up scissors, sterilizing wipes, and strips of bandage material.

“Ouchy, sorry,” she crooned in empathy as she gently dabbed Petra’s scraped knees, cleaning off the blood and grit. Underneath, the flesh was pink and oozing, but there were no deep cuts. She would live.

Cutting bandage strips and tenderly placing them over the grazes, Freya chattered away guilelessly.

“Capelthorne’s is the best bookshop in the world,” she was saying. “Jules and Roman have really turned it around. Well, it was Jules mostly, not that Flo wasn’t doing a good job, but she’s ancient, bless her, and she’s adoring her retirement. That said, she won’t resist coming in to have a good look at you, and she’ll be itching to help if you let her.”

Soothed by Freya’s chatter and succumbing to the blissful warmth, Petra was breathing in the most intoxicating scent of fresh garlic and butter. In response to the possibility of food, despite having felt too sick to eat since the awful disaster struck, her stomach gave an enormous, resonant, and extended growl.

“Gosh, sorry,” muttered Petra, putting her hand over her abdomen.

Freya giggled again. “Music to my ears,” she said. “I love hungry people. Now, for an early supper, I recommend the lobster linguine. Absolute simple perfection,” she declared. “And the lobster is fresh off the boats this morning,” she went on. “Roman’s paying, by the way. He said to make sure you had a good meal on him when you arrived.”