Page 41 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

Seconds passed, and they sat, opposite each other at the little table—knees touching—the hum and clatter of the café seemed to fade into silence.

For an insane moment, Petra was convinced he was going to kiss her. She closed her eyes and leaned imperceptibly toward him, but . . . nothing.

When she opened her eyes again, Ross had looked away. The moment was gone. He sat, gazing out of the condensation-streaked window at the heaving green-gray sea beyond. His fingers were busy, fidgeting with his paper napkin, twisting it into a rope.

Suddenly he came to, looking back at her and simultaneously gesturing for the bill.

“We should go,” he announced briskly. “I have to write.”

Petra heard nothing from Ross the following day. Or the next.

On Wednesday, she received a text from him. Sorry, it said. Writing.

For someone who was all about language, sending just a two-word text felt like the brush-off Petra assumed was intended. Clearly, if he felt half the intensity Petra had experienced during their last conversation, he had thought better of it.

Enough! She was like a silly, infatuated schoolgirl and needed to get a grip.

Plus, she needed to focus on herself and her real reason for being in Portneath.

Running the bookshop was now a pleasure—okay, maybe not completely unadulterated. Lugging boxes of books around was not an unalloyed joy—but for the most part, the customers were great fun, and Petra was having the best time implementing some small changes, with Flo’s approval. No, the sadness in not seeing him—she told herself—was only about not having the chance to download the day’s experiences with him as a friend—a friend who was, like her, rediscovering the joy in books.

Once the shop was closed, though, Petra was alone with her thoughts.

Mostly, they were not jolly thoughts.

Like, what she was going to do with herself once Jules and Roman wanted their shop back, for example . . . Books were no longer her enemy, but going back to London and taking up the reins of her literary-agent life still felt impossibly daunting. Plus, she had a massive hole in her list where her most lucrative clients had been. Which was a problem.

It was impossible not to have a creeping thought that Ross—writing a new book at last—might be looking for representation, but then she dismissed the idea as hubris. As if a major novelist like him would seriously consider asking her to be his agent. She wondered if he would at least allow her to read more of the manuscript. In the meantime, inspired by his passion, she pledged to herself that she would “be more Miranda” in all of her endeavors. She thought that Caliban—and perhaps even Ross—would approve.

After such a strange day together, Petra had half assumed Ross would think better of allowing her to press-gang him into reading to the little ones on Saturday.

Which was why she was astonished—and delighted—when he slipped quietly into the shop that Saturday morning.

“Sorry,” he said, pecking her on the cheek—which was a new habit, Petra noted—“it’s been quite a week!”

“In a good way, I hope?”

“Yeah, definitely, but my brain hurts. It’s great to take a break.”

Flo, sharp-eyed and very obviously clocking the kiss, presented herself for an introduction.

“Flo, this is Ross—Ross, Flo—he’s doing our story-reading session for us? I’m sure I said . . . ?”

“You did!” exclaimed Flo. “You are a darling! Petra says you’re the master of silly voices.”

“Damned with faint praise,” said Ross, equably enough. “Hopefully not my only skill. What am I reading?”

“Have you heard of Jill Murphy? The Last Noo-noo?” asked Petra, riffling through a pile of books at the front desk for the one she wanted, with its picture of an adorable baby monster looking extremely cross on the cover.

“Of course I’ve heard of Jill Murphy,” said Ross. “I’m not a complete philistine, but what, in the name of all that is holy, is a ‘noo-noo’?”

“Don’t panic, the noo-noo’s just a pacifier,” laughed Petra, handing him the book. “One of the mums popped in this week to buy a copy. She wants her little boy to stop using a pacifier before he starts nursery school, and he’s struggling, poor little thing. He’s called Archie. She’s probably bringing him in for the session, so I thought it would be a good one to start with.”

“Thanks,” said Ross, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “I think I assumed I’d be reading Tolkien or something.”

“That could work,” said Flo. “That’s providing you are planning on doing this every Saturday for the next hundred years.”

“I could be persuaded,” said Ross, glancing at Petra and then decidedly looking away. “I can think of worse things than spending the next hundred years trapped in a bookshop.”