Page 50 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“I’ll go now,” said Flo sotto voce. “I’ve got to get Digger home. Call me if you need anything?”

Ross nodded, touching Flo’s arm in thanks, all the while gazing down at Petra as she slept.

After he heard the door close downstairs, he stood drinking his tea, thinking. But then he roused himself. She needed as much warmth as possible, as quickly as possible. He put down his mug, sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes, and then—gently so as not to disturb her—he molded himself into her back before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

Petra stirred, nestling against him and sighing before the gentle, regular breathing of sleep resumed.

It was hardly surprising that she was exhausted, he thought, his fears now totally allayed that this time it was sleep and not an incipient coma. It was late, and he was exhausted too, not only by the physical challenges but also by his endlessly circling thoughts.

But now, all that ended. She was safe and she was with him. All was well.

Chapter Nineteen

There was a woodpecker in Petra’s dream. It was summertime and she was in the churchyard at the top of the hill, sitting on the grass and leaning against the sunbaked wall, which was warm against her back. She was alone but—somehow—not lonely. The dream—and she knew it was a dream—felt so vivid that she could feel the sun’s rays on her face and hear the woodpecker tip-tapping away in the ancient yew tree by the church. For reasons she could not grasp, the sickly anxiety of recent days had dissipated, and she was bathing in a newly acquired serenity and calm—a feeling of absolute safety and quiet happiness.

And then, as her sleep phase lightened, her conscious mind, worrying at the puzzle of this new mindset, insisted on flooding her mind with brutal lucidity, and she groaned with dismay as the delightful dream rushed away from her.

She lay, unmoving and unwilling, with her eyes still closed but—dammit—that woodpecker was still tapping like a mini pneumatic drill. What the hell was that? Could it be that the little flat at the top of Capelthorne’s had deathwatch beetles in the roof timbers? She had read somewhere that they were audible in the spring, tapping their way out of the wooden beams. She should let Jules know. Groaning again audibly at having to impart bad news, thereby ruining someone else’s day as comprehensively as her own, she reluctantly opened her eyes.

But what was this? The curtains at the window were blue linen, not the blowsy rose chintz pattern she had gotten to know so well. And the window was smaller too. Lower. With an entirely different view of grazing black-and-white cows rather than the Portneath rooftops. Where the hell was she?

At least the tapping had stopped.

“Morning, Rip Van Winkle,” came a deep, familiar voice.

The feelings of absurd happiness and security returned in a rush.

“Um,” said Petra, turning over in bed to see Ross sitting in a little armchair in the corner of the room, his laptop on his knees.

Ah. The tapping noise explained. Typing.

“What do you remember?” he asked. “About last night?”

“Er . . . not sure,” said Petra, playing for time. She definitely now remembered the sensation of being in his arms. It had been lovely, but—like everything else—the circumstances were a bit hazy. She peeked under the bedclothes. Fully clothed. Hmm. “Did we . . . ?”

“God, no,” Ross replied. “I mean, I would never . . .” He gestured. “I’m not massively into necrophilia, for a start.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Also, I’d like to think it would at least be a little bit memorable.”

Petra chuckled. “You’d like to think,” she teased. And then the despair of last night filled her again—more an emotion than a memory.

“I found you on the bench at the top of the hill,” he said.

Petra stared ahead, frowning. It was coming back to her now. “I went up the hill after work,” she said. “I needed to get my head straight.”

Ross nodded. “And then?”

“It got misty,” she admitted. “So I couldn’t really see where I was going. Somehow, I came off the path. Then it was dark as well—I didn’t have my phone, so I had no light—I went back up to the top again so I could find the path. Then I realized I was going to have to wait ’til dawn . . . I think I went to sleep.”

“Not sure sleep is the right description,” said Ross evenly, but then his frustration overcame him. “What kind of an idiot are you, going off walking at that time of day, anyhow? And with nothing on you? When I found you on the bench, you were freezing. You wouldn’t have made it ’til morning!”

“Sorry,” said Petra in a small voice. “Sorry to put you to the trouble. You could have hurt yourself.”

“I would have done worse to myself than that if I hadn’t been there to bring you down safe,” said Ross in a low voice, rubbing his temples distractedly. “Petra, I—”

“—I did some thinking,” said Petra, interrupting. Not wanting to let him say it. “While I was walking last night. And I realize I do want to represent you. More than anything.”

That was a lie. If she were doing what her heart was telling her to do, she would be refusing to work with him, choosing to have him in her life in an entirely different way. But then the world would never read that beautiful book. And he would never have the chance to shine again. If she cared about him less, she would be happy to deny him that.

“But I’ve been thinking too,” said Ross. “And I don’t want you to do it. Not anymore.”