Page 76 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“I’m fine,” protested Petra.

But he was already taking off his moss green cashmere sweater, light and soft as gossamer. “Just have it around your shoulders,” he cajoled, tying it around her neck for her as if she were a toddler.

Petra had learned, to her amusement, that although Ross could look like a scruff, in truth all his clothes were the quiet, unbranded luxury only truly affluent people wear. It wasn’t surprising. That first novel had made serious money in translation sales alone. His second novel would be considered a failure if it did less well than the first, even if it was one of the fastest-selling books that year. Such was the curse of the second novel for anyone who had hit the jackpot first time around.

“It’ll be fine,” Ross said, seeing the anxiety on her face.

“I’m supposed to be settling your nerves,” Petra said apologetically.

“Drink at the bar before dinner?” he asked.

A large reception area with low, comfortable sofas grouped companionably also incorporated a long, backlit bar with smoky mirrored glass reflecting what had to be the most comprehensive gin selection anywhere in Portneath. Or possibly the whole of Devon.

The room was humming gently with the chatter of people enjoying predinner drinks.

“Actually yes,” Petra told Ross. “Good idea. Jess is nervous about her guests. We can lurk and see how things are going as they walk through.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Ross. “As long as we don’t have to eat with them. I want you all to myself. Dirty martini?”

Ross settled Petra on a deep, squashy velvet sofa with a view of the sunset, which was painting the bay every shade of pink, red, and orange.

Gazing at the view, Petra nearly forgot she was supposed to be spying on Jess and her guests, but then she saw her leading three people up the esplanade to the hotel. Thankfully, Petra noted, Aiden had been persuaded to provide support after all. It looked like he was behaving at his most charming too, with a tall, skinny woman on his arm who had huge dark glasses obscuring most of her face. Petra observed her curiously. She looked forbiddingly perfect, with her endless legs, a clearly expensive black-and-white-striped trouser suit worn with a cropped leather jacket, and a slash of perfectly applied scarlet lipstick. Against the background of breezy, informal Portneath, she looked predatory and sophisticated, with her short dark hair swept back to reveal impressively jutting cheekbones.

Jess had mentioned managing to line up a powerful editorial director, plus a literary agent—who Petra knew vaguely—for their panel discussion with Ross tomorrow. The idea was that they—an author, an agent, and a publisher—would talk about the state of the publishing industry.

The agent, who Petra recognized walking alongside Jess, was a kind, serious man in his sixties, longtime friends with Alistair, Petra knew. The woman must therefore be the editor, Petra thought, chastising herself that she should really know the woman’s name. She had been so distracted by all the other arrangements . . . the whole opening session of the festival had been firmly on Jess’s “to do” list, not Petra’s.

No matter, Jess would introduce them all soon enough. Clearly Jess was doing a fine job, Petra thought, as she and her party came into reception, chatting happily.

Reassured that all was going well, Petra ducked her head down and turned away. Perhaps she and Ross could just pop over to Jess’s table for coffee after everyone had eaten, she decided. That would be friendly and supportive without having to give up her quiet, intimate dinner, which was something she thought they both needed.

Jess and Aiden ushered their two guests straight into the restaurant as Petra watched. They had disappeared by the time Ross walked back to her with a dirty martini in each hand, but Petra briefed him on her coffee after dinner plan.

Ross nodded. “We could do that,” he agreed. “I suppose we mustn’t have too much fun.”

“Busy, busy,” admitted Petra. “Once the festival’s done, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“Good,” said Ross, holding up his glass in salute. “To us!” he declared.

“And to the book,” added Petra. “God bless her, and all who sail in her.”

By the time they were ushered through to the restaurant, Petra was feeling liquid limbed with the deep relaxation brought on by sun, sea air, and a decent slug of neat vodka. Wine with dinner was going to totally tip her over the edge, she thought, as the waitress led them to their table. Ross pulled out her chair and, as she sat, Petra caught Jess’s eye across the room and smiled, giving her a discreet thumbs-up. She was just turning away to find her napkin, when there was a cry, cutting through the polite chatter and clinking cutlery. There was a surge of movement from Jess’s table, catching Petra’s eye.

“Rossie!” hailed the scary woman with the scarlet lipstick, as she reared to her full height.

Oh God, thought Petra, she was coming over. Damn it! So much for her quiet dinner with Ross. And another thing, why the hell was this woman—this stranger—calling him “Rossie”? Hadn’t Ross told her that nobody called him that?

Petra glanced up toward the still-standing Ross, but her hoped-for explanation would not be forthcoming. Instead, her heart froze in her chest to see his face had gone pale beneath his tan and was entirely without expression except for a tiny muscle beating in his jaw.

By now, scarlet lips had reached them and was performatively kissing Ross squarely on the mouth, before running her finger suggestively down his chest.

Ross reached up, still dead-eyed, and wiped a smear of scarlet lipstick off his face. “Hello, Henrietta,” he said quietly.

“Seriously? Hello?” Henrietta pouted, wagging her finger at him coquettishly. “You disappear off the face the earth, you don’t answer my messages, and—after all that—you just say Hello?” she chided. And then she put her head on one side, like a raptor regarding its prey. “You know what, Rossie?” she said. “I’m not even angry with you. You’re a creative. You’re special. I’ll forgive you everything, because now we’re both here together again, and that’s all that matters . . .”

“What do you want, Henrietta?” said Ross, seemingly calm, although Petra thought she could discern a tiny tremble in the hand nearest her face as she sat beside him. Something stopped her from reaching up and grasping it. Instead, she glanced across at Jess, who was still sitting at the table with Aiden and the literary agent, all three of them staring over at the scene with curiosity but no apparent alarm.

“What do I want?” Henrietta cooed, echoing Ross’s question. “Well, a little bird told me you would be here, and so I just thought you and I should—perhaps—have a little catch-up, shall we say?”