Page 72 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“Like all my favorite romances,” Jules began, “our story was a classic ‘enemies to lovers’—my favorite trope. Much has been made of our names and our families—the whole Romeo and Juliet thang . . .” She paused for a comic beat. “Hilarious.”

There was a wave of gentle laughter.

“But!” she continued more briskly, “I would like to think Roman and I took that tragic tale and turned it on its head—I mean, thank goodness, right?” she asked the crowd. “Double teen suicide versus happily ever after? It’s time to change the narrative. So? Roman isn’t my Romeo, he’s my Mr. Rochester. He’s my decent, principled, brave, sometimes grumpy storybook hero . . .” she made a face at him, “and I love him. And he loves me. So maybe Capelthorne’s is our own Thornfield Hall? You know what? There was even a fire in our story too, now that I think about it—” She scratched her chin, in a parody of thought.

“But hardly any mad wives in the attic, honest,” Roman quipped into the microphone.

“Nope, no mad ex-partners lurking,” Jules agreed, joining in the laughter, “but maybe that’s just because you don’t know me well enough—yet . . .” she quipped in sepulchral tones.

And then Jules was serious, turning back to Roman and taking his hand. “I know you, Roman Montbeau. You are a good, kind, loyal man, who I am certain Charlotte Brontë—a supremely gifted writer of romantic heroes—would approve of.” She turned to the crowd, “And this story definitely has a happy ending because,” she paused for a beat, “reader, I married him.”

The crowd good-naturedly cheered again, even though most of them had been denied the chance to see it for themselves.

“Yeah, and she definitely did the marrying bit first,” interjected Roman over the last of the cheers. “I just want to get that in, before this other thing . . .”

And then Jules, with her hand on her gently swollen belly, broke the news about the baby, sounding a little nervous, Petra thought. But the noisy cheering, applause, and outbreak of joyous chatter must have reassured her that the guests were nearly as excited as she and Roman about the wonderful things next year held in store.

How lovely, thought Petra, wiping away a tear. Seeing it, Ross handed her his napkin and squeezed her waist as she dried her eyes, laughing at herself.

Happily ever after . . . wasn’t that what everyone longed for? For the first time in her life, it even occurred to her that she might have found hers at last, here in this beautiful place, with these wonderful people.

Maybe next summer this would be her and Ross.

Maybe.

Next morning, Petra woke in the gray light of dawn with a lurch of panic. She consciously calmed herself, settling back into Ross’s arms and matching her breathing to his, slow and steady . . . Ross was nothing if not a sound sleeper. He could certainly sleep for them both, which was great because Petra’s sleep could be ruined by the tiniest thing. She had decided Ross’s propensity for near coma-level sleep—even if there was a battle raging all around him—was admirable. Impressive even.

But also, deeply annoying.

She put her hand over her racing heart, stifling a groan of frustration. She tried to tell herself it was excitement, but the fear over her return to the literary scene was unconfined now that the distraction of Jules and Roman’s party was over.

Now all that was done. And the inaugural festival was kicking off with the big “Ross reveal” in just four days.

Petra carefully disentangled herself from Ross and the bedclothes and sat up, looking down anxiously to check that she had not woken him. But, of course, she hadn’t.

It may be Sunday, and she dearly hoped Jules and Roman were having a well-deserved lie-in, but she knew that Jess would be absolutely losing it fretting about what needed to be done to put the final arrangements into place.

Petra would call her and suggest breakfast.

If nothing else, she and Jess could stress about it all together.

Ross was lying in bed awake looking tousled and extremely desirable when Petra came back out of the bathroom after a hasty shower.

“It’s the weekend,” he drawled. “Come back to bed?” He held up the covers enticingly, but Petra refused to engage.

“You stay in bed all day, sleepyhead,” she chided. “I’ve got breakfast with Jess at our café. She needs a morale-boosting bacon sandwich.”

“The festival?”

Petra nodded. “You nervous?”

“Nope,” said Ross instantly. “I would be, but I’ve got this fab agent handling everything for me.”

“So I hear,” said Petra. “Why get a dog then bark yourself?” But she was smiling when she left the cottage, promising to bring him back one of the café’s breakfast buns—essentially a full English breakfast stuffed into a brioche, a heart-stopping concoction, but with a legendary status as Portneath’s best hangover cure.

“I think I should have made that last one a decaf,” admitted Petra, setting her third mug of strong coffee back on the table with a tremor that set it reverberating onto the Formica table of the greasy spoon like a kettle drum. She was wide awake now, so at least there was that.

Jess, spearing the final bit of her eggs Benedict muffin and using it to mop up the last of her hollandaise sauce, seemed irritatingly calm by comparison, Petra thought.