Page 74 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

Petra wasn’t. How could she be?

“He has to be allowed to choose for himself,” she told Alistair firmly. She knew already there would be plenty of contenders. “Plus, I just think it’s important to go to all the players equally,” she told Alistair. “It’s been a long gap, you know how it is . . .”

“I do,” said Alistair, “but—don’t forget—it’s your job to advise him on where you feel his best option lies, when the proposals are in, so I hope you won’t shy away from recommending his previous team, if they represent the best deal.”

“I’ll tell it like it is,” Petra promised her mentor. And she would. She wanted the best for Ross, whatever that looked like.

Over the next couple of days, she and Jess were frantically busy racing around Portneath. Not to say it was just them, though; they were directing their brilliant team of volunteers, who consisted of most of the Beach Reads Book Club and Write Club. There were several venues, each with their own logistical challenges. The main stage, which was where Ross’s Q & A was happening, was in the beautiful town hall, a stunning Regency building with a colonnaded front. This, Flo had told Petra, was where Freya and Finn had had their wedding breakfast.

Used to the venue being hired out for functions, the events organizer there was not remotely fazed by Petra wanting a raised stage area, microphones, a decent sound system, whiteboard, and projector. Petra was terribly nervous that something fundamental would go wrong, and the event would go down in bookish history as the worst festival ever. Not that she was going to be doing any more of them. Jules’s baby would be born, and her maternity leave would be over before autumn next year. If she tanked the Portneath Literary Festival at its first outing, at least she would not be here to explain its absence the following year.

She would be long gone by then.

Whether it was late-onset nerves or something deeper and more mysterious, Petra and Ross were unnaturally polite to each other as they moved around the kitchen in the cottage making supper, apologizing if they bumped, and having ridiculous “you first, no you first” interchanges over everything.

Later, sitting in front of the fire with bowls on their knees, Petra could barely swallow her vegetable chili. It was usually her favorite, and Ross had even taken the trouble to make fresh guacamole, which was even better than the stuff from Finn’s deli.

“Is it okay?” Ross asked her anxiously, as she put down her bowl only half eaten.

“Great, thanks,” said Petra, making the effort to smile. “The guac’s amazing. I’m just not that hungry tonight.”

Ross sighed. “Me either,” he said, picking up Petra’s bowl and getting up to take them both into the kitchen.

Listening to him loading the dishwasher, hearing the regular domestic chores that she usually found so comforting, Petra found herself biting back tears. What on earth was the matter with her? The submission concept had gone to editors, and she had invited them to express interest. Tomorrow, the full submission package would go out to those who had requested it, and they would have a further couple of days to prepare their bids. She was poised to launch into the most spectacular submission round of her entire career. The man she adored was about to achieve a deal on a stunning new novel, and she was going to help him do it. She had work in Portneath for at least the next few months, with time off for the Frankfurt Book Fair already agreed upon. She ought to be happier than she had ever been in her life! Sure, she thought, the next few days were going to be stressful, but in a hugely exciting and productive way. This depression she was feeling? It was a projection. From Ross.

“You have to tell me,” she demanded when he sat back down after handing her a mug of tea she hadn’t asked for. She hadn’t needed to, he knew her so well.

“Don’t know what you mean,” he tried unconvincingly.

“Yes. You do,” she insisted. “What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t told me whether any of the other imprints on the submission list contacted you today,” he said, apparently changing the subject.

“Yes, I have,” she insisted firmly. “I sent you the spreadsheet, with all the up-to-date notes. And you opened it. I got a read receipt.”

“So you did,” he said quietly. “So you did,” he said again, more loudly. “And it was good, right?”

“It was great!” Petra said. “And the festival is going to go great too. Right? Right,” she answered herself. She waited for him to respond, but there was nothing.

“Now, let’s go to bed,” she said. “We need to be wide awake and on it tomorrow.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Every time Petra had a spare minute while she raced around Portneath, she would pop into Capelthorne’s.

As soon as the wedding party was over, Roman and Jules had taken over the reins in the shop so that Petra could focus on the festival, but she felt compelled to check in, terrified that—by now—Roman would have spotted some terrible blunder that would cause them to belatedly regret ever getting her involved.

It was mainly Roman she was dealing with, but Jules had also insisted on rolling up her sleeves. She was unable to hide that her early pregnancy was leaving her hopelessly exhausted and queasy. Consequently, Roman was usually in the shop, with Jules resting upstairs in the flat, padding down in her socks every five minutes to see if Roman needed another pair of hands at the front desk, or if he wanted her to make him a cup of tea.

This morning, though, it was Jules she encountered. On seeing Petra, she immediately jumped up and insisted Petra sit down for a coffee and one of the cinnamon buns Roman had fetched from Finn’s shop earlier.

“Love the Beach Reads Book Club,” Jules told Petra, as they sat down with their coffee, which—for Jules—was actually peppermint tea. “Eating helps with the nausea,” she explained cheerfully through a large mouthful of cinnamon bun. “So I understand it’s a spin-off from the Portneath Book Club, right? That must have been an exciting coup to watch. Who started it?”

“Diana,” admitted Petra, causing Jules to burst into laughter.

“Why am I not surprised.” She giggled. “That woman could start a fight in an empty house.”

“I was terrified it was going to be war,” admitted Petra.