Page 71 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

Petra groaned. God, it was tempting. But they couldn’t. It would be so rude. “They might notice,” she said regretfully. “Actually, it’s a sit-down lunch, so they will definitely notice. Come on, I can see the taxi waiting.”

Sweeping around the circular gravel drive to the front of the house—a mansion, really, thought Petra—she wished they were traveling in a vehicle more salubrious and appropriate to the setting than Terry and his taxi from the railway station.

Women were wearing hats, Petra realized in horror—sweeping, swooping, feathered concoctions in a riot of colors and shapes. She suddenly felt her head was as shockingly underdressed as she would be if she had forgotten to put her knickers on.

“Hats!” she rasped to Ross. “Why were we not told about hats?”

“They look ridiculous,” observed Ross, giving Petra a comforting squeeze. “You’re fine. I just hope I can have a pint and that they don’t just want us all to drink champagne,” he muttered, as multiple neat-uniformed staff shepherded guests not toward the house’s grand front door, but to a gate that led to the rear of the house.

Here, Ross and Petra found themselves in a slow-moving queue of people who all seemed to know each other, if the calls of “over here!” and “hello there!” were anything to go by. The focus of the queue, Petra could see by bending to look down the line, was a huddle of six people, first Jules and Roman themselves, then an older couple who Petra assumed were Roman’s parents. The woman, a neat, spry, elegant brunette in an immaculately cut dress and coat of ice blue, was greeting guests charmingly with lots of air-kissing. Roman’s father, a bluff, red-faced man with plentiful swept-back hair, largely gray, was booming welcomes so loudly Petra could hear every word. Craning even farther, she could see that Flo was bringing up the rear in a neat, flowery turquoise dress that looked like vintage sixties, which Petra suspected Flo would have owned from new. She smiled to see that Digger had taken up his usual position, lying heavily and contentedly across Flo’s feet. Finally, beyond Flo and Digger was a grumpy-looking middle-aged woman in a purple dress. Jules’s mother, Petra assumed.

“Heyyy,” exclaimed Roman, when they got to him at last. “Loving this, er . . .” He gestured at Ross’s attire.

“It’s a skirt,” Petra jumped in mischievously, before Ross had a chance to answer.

“We’ve put you guys at the same table as Freya and Jess and the crowd,” Jules confided in Petra’s ear when she leaned in for an air-kiss that turned into a hug, “but I’ll introduce you to a load more fun people when I manage to escape from this conveyor-belt hell.”

Staff in black with crisp white-cotton aprons were greeting guests with trays of drinks as they were funneled into the main garden in the back of the house. It seemed to go on for miles, thought Petra, gazing around. There was a huge central lawn, striped like a rugby sweater and studded with mature trees that provided welcome shade—the sun was fierce now. Clusters of brightly dressed women reminded Petra of parakeets, chirping and chattering, while somber gray-suited men stood by, looking bored. Gazing into the distance, Petra could see her and Ross’s hill. Despite the danger of that night, she still saw it as their place. Their happy place. She wished she was there, alone with Ross, right now.

As if she had spoken aloud, Ross turned to hand her a glass of champagne and caught her eye.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s all good, right?”

“’Course!” she replied, summoning a wide smile. “Isn’t this stunning?”

An enormous cream canvas party tent, pointed like a circus tent, had been erected to one side, partly shaded by a pair of mature oak trees. To the other side, Petra could see the ground sloping gently away to a tennis court and then to the cow-studded fields beyond. They had gravitated toward the shelter of an arbor twined with roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle. A gentle breeze wafted the scent of the sun-warmed flowers all around them and mingled it with the astringent, medicinal aroma of the rosemary bushes at their feet.

“Do you think we’ll do all this one day?” asked Ross. “Would you like that?”

“Oof, no thanks,” Petra shot back. “I’d rather elope.”

Then she closed her eyes tight. Whaaaat??? Had she seriously just assumed he meant a wedding? Like there weren’t a hundred other reasons why people might have a party.

Ross put his head back and laughed. “I think my mum would have something to say about that,” was all he said in reply, smiling down at her indulgently.

And so that was how it was first brought up, Petra thought as they stood companionably side by side and sipped their drinks. Could true love be as simple as that? Did it not have to be fraught and terrifying, and laced with drama? Petra honestly didn’t know. What she did know was her kind, gentle, comfortable—yet still passionate—relationship with Ross felt better than any romantic entanglement she had ever had before. The potential future for this love, slipping naturally into conversation as if the discussion had already been had? So easy . . . inevitable, almost.

How complacent they had been, she thought later.

Seated at the table under the tent at last, Petra surveyed the scene. The noise level was rising as the wine flowed; the light filtering through the canvas was golden; the grassy smell of the sisal mat flooring mixed with the heady, honey scent of Flo’s sweet peas. These were—in the end—an absolute triumph, despite Flo’s anxiety. Each table had fistfuls—armfuls—of sweet pea blooms in low glass vases, a riot of purples and pinks—a simple generosity and abundance that summed up everything Petra had been drawn to in Portneath.

Of course, the table where Ross and Petra were seated for lunch was easily the most riotous, thought Petra, sitting back and smiling at Jules and Roman’s friends—hers and Ross’s friends now too.

Happy just to watch, with Ross catching hold of her hand under the table, she observed their interactions fondly as they bickered and teased, all so comfortable and assured. Petra wasn’t used to being part of the cool crowd. Instead, she had always been the awkward goth child—too inclined to gloominess, the adults around her declared—always with her head in a book. Channeling that childhood obsession for stories and working hard enough to secure a toehold in publishing had felt like vindication for her sadly solitary childhood.

All the while, though, she had secretly longed for this. This group of friends made life look easy, even though she knew they worked hard and had their challenges. Really big stuff too. No, if life looked golden for this crowd, it was because they had the support of each other.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The afternoon wore on with high spirits, inconsequential chatter, and delicious food. As coffee and petit fours were dispensed by the smiling but nigh invisible serving team, all eyes were turned to the head table. It might not be Jules and Roman’s actual wedding day, but it seemed the tradition of speeches was going to be observed.

Roman’s father stood first, declaring he was going to be brief and then droning on interminably. Standing in for Jules’s father, he declared himself delighted with his new daughter-in-law and approving of his son’s choices in this, at least, although jovial comments about being in competition with his son over business matters sounded more heartfelt than Petra thought he meant them to.

Petra was pretty sure he eventually wrapped up hurriedly because his pretty brunette wife with the kind brown eyes had given him a look. She warmed to him then. He may be full of bluster and self-importance, but it was touchingly clear that—actually—his gentle, sweet wife was the boss of him.

Roman was next and—even with Ross sitting beside her so handsome in his kilt—Petra’s heart gave a little flutter at the sight of him: handsome, assured, and clearly deeply in love with Jules, who beamed up at him all the while.

And then Jules indicated that she would like to speak, and Roman helped her to her feet, holding her protectively against him. He handed her the microphone, pretending to be alarmed at what she might say, eliciting nervous giggles from the crowd.