Page 36 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

What? Radio silence for more than two weeks, and then a five-word text? What the hell? Trying to be affronted, Petra felt a tremulous smile spread across her face. She was going to see him. And soon.

“Thank goodness,” said Flo drily. “I take it that’s what you’ve been waiting for?”

“Yeah . . . just a friend,” Petra admitted, trying to sound airy and casual. “Wondering if I fancy meeting up for a drink, that’s all.”

“Well, say yes, for God’s sake,” Flo shot back, pulling on her coat and leaning down to clip on Digger’s lead. “And I think we’re all jolly relieved he—or she?—has finally contacted you. There we are, old boy,” she murmured to Digger. “Walkies and din-dins at last, you will be relieved to know . . .”

As Flo closed the door behind her, Petra’s phone dinged again. Clearly Ross felt his first text had been insufficiently compelling.

I have snacks???? 😉

Petra went and peered out of the door, into the rain-glossed street. Then she saw him. Standing on the street corner with a bulging bag from Finn’s delicatessen in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing the khaki coat she first saw him in and an embarrassed grin. And he was soaked.

She gave him a lopsided smile and held the door open.

“Thanks,” he said, coming in and heading straight for the stairs to the flat.

It was only when he was kneeling, lighting the fire, and she was returning from the kitchen with the bottle opener that either of them spoke again.

“Where have you been?” she said. “I thought you’d died.”

He leaned back on his heels. “I’ve been a complete jerk,” he admitted. “A drama queen, a self-obsessed brat, and—worst of all—a crappy friend.”

“Yeah, well,” mumbled Petra, “I’m still a little bit pleased to see you.”

“Tell me that’s not just because of the snacks,” Ross teased, laying out his wares on the coffee table. There was a little pot of fat kalamata olives, each one stuffed with a whole almond, Roquefort cheese straws, thick-cut potato chips liberally dusted with smoked paprika, and some glistening scarlet sweet mini-peppers filled with goat’s cheese. They were Petra’s favorite. She would eat them every day, if she could afford to.

“It is mainly the snacks, to be honest,” she replied, reaching for an olive. “So what have you been up to all this time? Writing?” As soon as she said it, she was metaphorically beating herself over the head. Of all the things to say! Would she ever train herself out of opening her big mouth? Probably not, realistically . . .

“I actually have been writing,” Ross said, leaning back and taking a long drag of his beer before crossing one leg over the other at the knee and relaxing, beer bottle swinging between fingers and thumb, that familiar lock of dark hair hanging over one eye. He was the image of the handsome bohemian intellectual at play.

“Care to tell me more?” said Petra, raising an eyebrow in what she fondly imagined was a mirror of his own insouciance.

“What do you want to know?”

Ooh, this was promising. Unless he was just reeling her in, for fun.

“First line?”

“The cat . . .” He paused, with a faraway look on his face.

Petra leaned in, unconsciously.

“. . . sat on the mat.”

He was reeling her in for fun. Of course he was.

“You’re supposed to be feeling penitent, remember,” she reminded him sternly. “I didn’t let you in just so you could yank my chain.”

“Okay, okay, for real this time?”

Petra waited.

“It was a dark and stormy night—” he declaimed, tipping his head back and looking down his nose at a point on the far wall.

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” snapped Petra. She had forgotten how annoying he could be. When was he going to stop teasing her like a kid brother? It was getting old. She was done.

There was a stiff silence.