Page 62 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

Petra began to doubt the wisdom of limiting the festival to three days.

“Best to start smaller, though,” said Jess that evening, as they compared notes in the shop again.

Petra was checking her watch, knowing Ross was waiting for her at home. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, wondering how soon they could wrap up.

“Jules will pick up the threads when she gets back. Next year’s will be bigger.”

“What are ticket sales like?” Petra asked.

Jess grimaced. “Slowish,” she admitted. “But we only started putting the program up on the website a couple of weeks ago. Um, when are we going to announce Ross as our keynote speaker?”

“Not a peep about Ross yet, remember?” said Petra anxiously. She had been lying awake at night, running through all the scenarios as to when and how they would publicly announce that he would be there and that he would be declaring the existence of his manuscript. He was going to have to. Every time she thought of it, her insides gave a little lurch, leaving her wondering whether it was fear or excitement. She didn’t know whether it would be worse for it to be huge and uncontrollable, or whether she would feel even more terrible if she mishandled it, and the whole thing was a damp squib.

“I’m nervous about announcing the Ross thing,” admitted Jess, voicing Petra’s own fears. “He’s so kind to get involved with our teeny tiny little festival. I want to do him justice.”

“We will,” Petra reassured her, wishing badly she could reassure herself.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“You’re all fired up,” observed Ross, looking pleased as they had a late supper after the meeting.

“I am,” admitted Petra. “I’ve just done the orders, and I’ve had so many helpful recommendations and requests from customers, I’m starting to feel like I might actually know what I’m doing.”

She was acutely aware that Jules and Roman’s money needed to buy books that would actually sell. It was a responsibility. And, as she repeatedly reminded herself, Capelthorne’s wasn’t her plaything—it was Jules and Roman’s livelihood. Whatever she personally thought about any individual book, it was sales that mattered in the end.

“I’m so proud of you,” said Ross quietly, putting down his fork and smiling across the little supper table at her.

“Why?” said Petra.

“Fishing,” he teased, laughing at her perplexed expression. “Don’t look at me like that! I’m allowed to be proud of you! You’re smashing the whole running-a-bookshop thing, you’re doing the almost impossible job of giving me the emotional support to keep me writing, you’re making good friends locally—everybody loves you . . .” He shook his head, clearly struggling to think of more.

“What? Running out of compliments so soon?” said Petra, pretending to be offended. “What about my stunning talent for always saying the exact right thing at all times?”

But Ross refused to rise to it. “Do you think that you might just be able to be a tiny bit proud of yourself?” he asked her quietly, serious now.

Petra sighed. “Mmm . . . maybe,” she said. And, as Ross continued to gaze at her steadily, “Look, I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Ross told her. “Because I might not always be there to remind you to be.”

And the expression on his face when he said it was so wistful, and so forlorn, Petra didn’t dare to ask him what he meant.

The shop was busy that weekend. Being Saturday, it was market day and also changeover day for most of the tourists. Flo and Petra were busy from the moment they opened, selling to the crowd who were leaving—mainly last-minute children’s books to help distract on the journey home—and also to the crowd who were arriving, blissed out at the thought of long days ahead to read and daydream on the beach.

The weather was expected to be fair for the whole week, although today there was a brisk wind coming in from the sea. Flo, usually a paragon of efficiency, was distracted. She was, Petra discovered, fixated about her sweet peas.

“I planted two enormous lots from seed,” she told Petra. “Way back at Christmastime—they were all over the kitchen windowsills—but they’ve all made the transition from the greenhouse to the garden now. The trouble is, the second lot might have gotten put out a bit late. I’m worried they won’t be in full bloom in time for the wedding, although this lovely sunshine will help.”

“Sweet peas don’t last long, once they’re picked, do they?” said Petra, realizing just as the words came out of her mouth that she had inadvertently made Flo’s anxiety even worse.

“Absolutely right,” she fretted. “They have to be picked on the day, and we need tons for the tent with tables. Roman’s mother is calling it a small wedding—I’d love to see what she thinks is a large one—but it’s still ten round tables for ten, so that’s ten big glass jarfuls for the centerpieces. And then there are going to be these silver ice buckets on stands at the entrance with loads more, plus a few of my roses too, if a rainstorm hasn’t wiped them out just before.”

Petra made a sympathetic face at Flo, but she also faced her own anxiety about the party. She loved those regular pub evening drinks with the Portneath crowd—they had been so welcoming to her, and now to Ross—but this event of Jules and Roman’s was daunting. A hundred people they mostly didn’t know, but who knew each other really well? It seemed a nerve-wracking prospect. It shouldn’t be, though, she told herself sternly. She had routinely attended all those professional receptions in the London publishing scene, book launches and industry shindigs. Of course, that was before her massive faux pas . . . She was becoming insular.

“We must get your dress sorted,” said Flo suddenly, in a brief lull. “It’s only a couple of weeks away now.”

“Gosh, so it is,” said Petra, with a wave of sadness. Jules and Roman were returning in just a few days, making her departure significantly more imminent. She had to find another job, but leaving Portneath—and all her new friends—potentially leaving Ross, felt like the most dispiriting thing in the world now.

Responding to Flo’s comments with an effort, Petra allowed Flo to arrange for her to come and rummage in Flo’s wardrobe one evening that week.