Page 44 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“Read it? Or represent me?”

Petra wavered. She was craving to read more, in a sickly way that made her think about crack addicts.

“I’ll read it,” she said, more gently. “Of course I will. But represent you? No. I’m not going to do that.”

At this, Ross looked even more dejected, which was ridiculous, Petra thought. He was dodging a bullet. He should be pleased.

“Why won’t you?” he said.

Because I’m terrified, thought Petra. Because this particular book, written by this particular writer, matters too much. Because I’m scared that I’ll fail and damage his career, she thought, gazing at him and picking up her beer with a shaking hand.

Because hurting this man in any way at all would be totally unthinkable.

“Because I’m not a literary agent,” she said at last. “Not anymore.”

“Coward.”

“Ouch, not fair,” she protested, stung. “You weren’t there. It was grim.”

“It was a TYPO!” he shouted, waving a tortilla chip loaded with guacamole in a way that put the hearth rug in significant danger. “You literally threw away your entire career because something awkward and embarrassing happened. Have you any idea how awkward and embarrassing it is being me?” he demanded. “To have to go crawling back to the publishers, the reviewers, the readers, and explain why I absented myself for the last five years?”

“Sure, it’s gotta be pretty bad,” said Petra, her voice laced with sarcasm, “being a devilishly handsome debut novelist with a first novel achieving stellar success, the darling of the literati, and now being ready to come back to them with more of the same? They’re going to hate you . . . I mean I’d be embarrassed if I were you,” she told him. “Anyway, it wasn’t just the typo thingy—although it was genuinely bad,” she went on, hearing and hating the self-pity in her voice, “I was disillusioned by then anyhow.”

She declared, “I’ve lost my mojo, and my clients deserved better than that. So do you.”

“Read it,” said Ross, handing over a folder he had just pulled out of his coat. “Just read it. If you hate it, fine. If you love it, then you tell me why you’re not the best person to represent my work. Deal?”

Despite almost every fiber in her body begging her not to, Petra reached forward and took it. Then she sighed performatively, flopping back on the sofa cushion in capitulation. “Fine,” she said, clutching the folder to her chest.

“And there’s something else I need to tell you,” Ross said quietly.

“Oh, goodie,” replied Petra. Jeez, the fun was just going on and on this evening.

“This bit’s difficult,” he muttered, hanging his head before raising it again and looking her right in the eye, his entire body tense, as if he was bracing himself. “I need you to be my agent, but—if you decide you are prepared help me, and I hope you will—there is a price to pay.”

“Now he tells me,” joked Petra, furious to be unable to suppress the tremble in her voice.

“You and me. Being . . . friends,” he said. “Or whatever this—thing—is, between us?”

Petra nodded, an icy trickle running down her back. She had been here before. She knew what being dumped looked like. And—hell—this wasn’t even a romance. Being dumped before a romantic relationship even began had to be a new low.

Chapter Seventeen

Later, after leaving the folder in the kitchen—it felt contaminated now that she understood it was part of such a Faustian pact—Petra lay on her back in the pitch-black bedroom, her eyes glued to the invisible ceiling. “Whatever this—thing—is,” he had told her. And now her mind kept repeating his words on a death loop. “Whatever this thing is,” “whatever this thing is . . .”

What was this “thing”? What was it to Ross? Friendship? No. If he thought it was just that he would have said so, which indicated it was more . . . Which was good, because if Petra asked her heart what her relationship was with Ross, she would call it more than friendship too.

A lot more.

But then he had solemnly announced that if she represented him “it” would end. And that was fine, she tried to reassure herself, because she definitely, definitely wasn’t going to represent him. Especially now that she knew the deal. So . . . all good. No?

Petra groaned. Sleep was impossible. She picked up her phone. Just at three o’clock. She had to get up in four hours. Despite that, accepting the impossibility of rest, she snapped on the light and went off to the kitchen to fetch the folder.

When her alarm went off, Petra discovered she had been staring sightlessly into space for some time, the individual pages scattered on the bedspread, the final scenes of the manuscript he had given her still held loosely between her fingers. Although, of course, they were not the final scenes. Not quite.

The gray dawn had warmed fully into daylight now, with a watery yellow sun casting its cool rays across the rooftops. A perfect late spring day, chilly and bright. The dawn chorus had died away, leaving just a solitary thrush serenading, its quicksilver notes rising and falling through the air.

Petra looked down at last, struggling to persuade her strained, gritty eyes to focus on the manuscript. She rubbed her face and sighed before rolling her head to try to iron out her stiff neck.