Page 7 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“No,” he interrupted. “I meant, when I was at school. English essays. We had quite a good English teacher. It was like something out of Dead Poets Society, but then I grew up, so . . .”

His manner invited no further questions on the matter, and this time even Petra could take the hint. Plus, she had put her foot in her mouth once too often with the poor man, the last thing she wanted was to subject him to any further insults.

“I should be going,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “You’ll be wanting to lock up.”

“Ah yes,” she said, realizing, “I already have. I’ll come and let you out.” It occurred to her that she was alone with him, and the shop door was now locked, but—despite her initial mistaken impressions—she felt entirely safe in his company.

“So, whenever you want to just come back to hang out and—I dunno—find your land legs, you’re more than welcome,” she told him as she held open the door.

“Not a pirate, remember?”

“Ah yes,” said Petra again, clapping her hands to her cheeks in confusion. “In that case, do just come back and spend a squillion pounds on books,” she joked. “I’m on commission”—she wasn’t—“so that would be very nice.”

“You’re right, I should buy something,” he said. “How much do you want for the Milton?”

“Eleventy-billion pounds, please,” said Petra solemnly, holding out her hand. The register was all shut down now, and she was pretty sure he didn’t mean it.

Instead, he shook her outstretched hand. His own hand was strong, warm, and dry. “Ross,” he said. “How do you do?”

Actually, maybe he was incredibly rich, she thought, as she climbed the stairs to the flat a minute later. So, basically, she had just insulted him. Again. Didn’t eccentric rich aristocrats sometimes dress weirdly because it amused them? But then, replaying their interactions, she thought it through. Discerning the mood of the “mind’s own place” hiding behind those sea-green eyes, this was not—she felt sure—a man who considered himself amused, or in heaven.

In fact, he looked more like a man who was in hell.

Chapter Four

Ross shook his head as he walked up the hill, smiling despite himself. That woman had an even worse foot-in-mouth problem than he did. Hilarious! And it was kind of nice to meet someone who knew their Milton too. He had missed that bit of his old life—hanging out with other people who loved good writing. They were his people.

He had so nearly given himself away to her, though, biting her head off because she said she recognized him. And then letting slip that he was writer . . . She must think him very odd. Or—worse—just rude. Not that it mattered what she thought of him, of course. That aspect of his new life had been quite freeing, the “not caring what people thought.” It was that, versus the oppression of people’s expectations, constantly trying to second-guess what his readers wanted so he could give it to them, like a particularly people-pleasing dog. It had been exhausting.

Although, as the antithesis of keeping a low profile, he had gone and unnecessarily given her his name. Just knowing his first name wouldn’t get her far, though, he reassured himself. Somehow, he had just wanted her to know. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard someone say his name out loud.

Which was weird because he had always found it so intrusive—the discombobulation of realizing that people he had never met clearly thought, somehow, that they knew him? Hearing strangers say his name. Shouting it in the street, even. He had hated that. When you pour out your innermost thoughts into your work, it doesn’t feel like you are announcing them to the world. You don’t imagine your words will be read by all those strangers, who then think that—in owning your book—they somehow own a piece of your soul.

It was a strange, Faustian pact he had entered into then. He felt so obligated—so grateful—to his readers that even their most ridiculous expectations had seemed eminently reasonable.

Until they didn’t.

Yes, cutting himself off from the world had been a relief at first. No, actually, it had been terrifying at first. Then it had been a relief. Then . . . ?

Then, it had become lonely.

But there was nothing to be done about that, because the only legitimate way back to the world—to his world, and his life—had been to write another book.

And that hadn’t happened, had it?

Ross sighed. It was all just too big a problem. It had been five years—five years!—and he had not lighted upon a solution to it, not yet. But—he smiled as he strode—even being in a bookshop had been surprisingly nice. For a long time, being surrounded by other writers’ words when he had none of his own—nothing worth saying—had been a torment. Today, though, it had begun to feel like something else. A comfort. A fragile trail of white breadcrumbs in a dark forest . . . Leading him home? Leading him somewhere, anyhow . . .

Smiling to herself, Petra checked all the doors and windows again before going upstairs in search of food. She really must find out where the nearest supermarket was tomorrow, but just for tonight she was hoping to scavenge whatever she could find in the kitchen.

Settling for a can of someone else’s oxtail soup and making a note on her phone to replace it when she went food shopping, Petra stood stirring the saucepan in one hand and doing Wordle on her phone with the other. She was perplexed. It took longer than usual, which was ironic, she realized, as inspiration struck.

“Novel.”

Ha.

Still, at least she got it in three tries. Not bad.

While shoveling in soup and a thick slice of bread and butter, Petra made a list of all the things she needed to ask Flo the next day. The shop had better not be too busy. It was a long list.