Page 37 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“Look,” Ross said seriously—or was he? “I know I deflect. That’s all it is. I’m working on it, but it’s hard, you know? I value your opinion more than anyone else I know.”

“Okay—so—I’m also the only person you appear to know,” Petra pointed out.

“True,” he admitted. “But I’ve been working. I’ve been writing. That’s why I haven’t been around. I just needed to get into my own head. Coming out into the daylight again, seeing you, I feel kind of exposed, and my defenses go up. Forgive me?”

“If you let me read it, maybe . . .” Petra replied.

“Funny you should say,” Ross replied lightly, but there was a tiny tremor in his voice that made her look at him sharply.

Avoiding her gaze, his hand went back into his carrier bag and reappeared with an A4 cardboard folder. He proffered it to her and she took it gingerly, still expecting a joke.

“I’m not going to find fifty typed pages with ‘All work and no play makes Ross a dull boy’ written on it, am I?”

“Only if I am now so inescapably insane, I don’t even know that’s what I’ve done.” He grinned. “Fun fact: That little detail in the film was Stanley Kubrick’s idea. It’s not in the book.”

“I didn’t know that,” Petra admitted. Stephen King was a genius of course, but horror was not her reading genre of choice. Being allowed to watch The Shining by a babysitter when she was just ten years old had left her having nightmares about twins in pink dresses for weeks.

“It’s just the opening pages,” he explained. “First ten thousand words, more or less.”

“Sure. I’m looking forward to it,” she said, totally serious now. And she was. Suddenly, she could barely wait for him to leave. “Thank you. For trusting me with it,” she said.

“No need to thank me. I owe you a favor if anything,” he replied. “Whatever I can do . . .”

“There is something actually,” Petra said, remembering her conversation with Flo that day. “We want to resurrect the kids’ story-reading session in the shop. It’s just half an hour on market days. Lets the parents get on with their shopping in peace.”

“And makes them come in and buy books,” suggested Ross.

“Naturally.”

Ross winced. “Do I really have to?”

“Don’t you like kids?”

“No, it’s not that. I love kids.”

“Because you are one?”

“Yeah.” He smiled sheepishly. “But my concern is, how will this play with my whole incognito thing?”

“How many six-year-olds have read your first novel?”

“Only novel,” he corrected her absently. “Not fair though. They aren’t the people I’m hiding from.”

“Sure,” said Petra, “but you’ve been living here for months, and—even over the last few weeks without the beardy disguise—how many people have recognized you?”

“You did.”

“Okay,” Petra amended patiently. “How many people—who don’t have a job where they are supposed to know this stuff—have recognized you?”

“Fair.” Ross made a face and thought for a long, silent moment. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he said.

“Great. Next Saturday, ten o’clock, we’ll provide the book. Feel free to practice some silly voices. Kids love silly voices.”

“Listen, I love silly voices,” Ross said, looking at his watch and standing up to leave. “Will you promise me something?” he asked.

“What?”

“It’s already late, so don’t stay up half the night reading, okay? It can wait. And you look tired.”