Page 53 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

He looked stricken at the mention of his editor, Petra noticed. He really had had a rough time. It was important to make sure he was happy with his relationships this time around, she thought.

“You say that about not sharing,” she challenged him, “but you’re still not happy with the first three chapters,” Petra pointed out. “We’ve talked them over a million times. Would it not be helpful to have a fresh pairs of eyes? They’re never mean. You could be a visitor,” she suggested. “One session only. So if you don’t like it . . .”

Ross didn’t demure, so Petra pressed on. “We all submit some work for review by Sunday evening, and then talk about it together on Thursday, so you’d still be in time for this week.”

“Could I use a pen name?”

“’Course you could,” encouraged Petra. “Except why? Someone is going to work it out eventually, and then they might feel they’ve been manipulated. That’s maybe the only issue . . .”

“I worry people won’t be honest if they know,” said Ross, staring sightlessly at the pan he was stirring. “I mean, this novel is so completely and utterly different from the first, I was actually wondering about whether to change my writing name anyhow . . .”

With her literary agent hat on, there would have been no way Petra would allow him to waste the platform he had built with his first book by doing that. It would be madness. But she wasn’t his agent—so . . .

“Sure. Do that,” she said.

Whatever it took to get this particular horse to the starting gate, she thought. Clearly, whatever had happened to Ross the first time out had been bad enough that he needed—even more than other writers—the validation of honest criticism. He still hadn’t really talked with her about what had happened. She smiled ruefully, thinking of her client—ex-client—Isabella May, in contrast to Ross. That woman was such a raging narcissist, her editor had learned it was better for a manuscript to go unimproved than for her to suggest changes and deal with the seismic meltdown that invariably resulted.

Petra duly emailed Write Club to ask their permission for a new member. Of course—they were such a lovely crowd—the affirmations came flooding straight back, so she submitted his opening chapters just in time for discussion at the meeting the following week.

Petra tried to get into the shop before Flo that Saturday. It had become a weekly good-natured battle, and Petra rarely won, especially now that she found it hard to leave Ross. On this particular morning, by the time she and Ross had reluctantly gotten out of bed at the cottage, had breakfast, repeatedly said goodbye to each other (as if, Petra remarked, she was going into a war zone for months rather than Portneath for a single day), Petra was virtually jogging down the street to make up some time.

“Dirty stop out,” Flo remarked with a cheeky smile when Petra arrived to discover the door already unlocked and Flo in position behind the front desk.

Petra smiled, abashed. She and Ross being an item was still a new enough thing for her to feel awkward, and Flo was clearly going to extract every ounce of delight from the situation.

“So . . . you and Ross, then?” Flo remarked, in a lull later that morning.

Petra smiled. Here it comes, she thought. “What about me and Ross?”

“Only that I can’t think why the two of you took so long,” Flo told her. “And he’s a good one too. Brave. Kind. Devoted to you.”

“He speaks highly of you too,” smiled Petra. “You could form a mutual admiration society, the two of you.” Petra paused a moment. “When did you know?” she asked.

“My dear . . . I had my suspicions—and thoroughly approved too—but the deciding point for me was when you were missing that night. The look on his face will haunt me,” she remembered. “And when he finally arrived home, carrying you in his arms, so pale . . . blue, literally,” she told Petra, “he looked as if he would never let you out of his sight ever again. It was beautiful to see him caring for you,” Flo said, with the utmost sincerity, all teasing gone now. “He loves you, child.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Flo sighed happily. “How wonderful,” she said with relish. “Another Portneath triumph.”

“Hmm,” said Petra, loath to kill the mood. “It’s not as simple as that unfortunately,” she cautioned, busying herself tidying the table so she didn’t have to meet Flo’s eye.

“Oh?”

“He asked me to be his literary agent.”

“How perfect! No wonder you both have so much to talk about. I hope you said yes.”

“Actually, I said no,” Petra explained. “Before the hill thing, he wanted us to stop seeing each other because he wanted me to represent him. He has a strong aversion to combining work and pleasure.”

“Very wise.” Flo shrugged. “So you said no because you didn’t want to stop seeing him?”

“Yes.”

“You said yes?” Flo looked confused.

“No, I said no,” said Petra, starting to get confused herself. “Also, it’s partly because I’m not at all sure I want to be a literary agent anymore. And then, when I went up the mountain and got stuck, I realized that I had to say yes, because—caring about him so much—I would never forgive myself if I didn’t help him. He refuses to contemplate working with anyone else.”

“Okay, so now you will be his agent?” asked Flo, frowning.