Page 78 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

It was nearly midnight when she was finally able to escape and walk alone to the flat above the shop, because to go to the cottage was unthinkable. Out of habit rather than desire, Petra made tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, staring unseeing out of the little kitchen window over the rooftops of Portneath, she shivered—as much from shock and fatigue as from the chill of the solitary walk home.

She tried hard not to picture Ross and Henrietta alone in her hotel room talking about—and doing—God knows what.

There was no message from him. She had sent a carefully worded text, just checking in—as a professional agent would when their client is talking to a top editorial director without their agent. She had her phone permanently in her hand, longing for the vibration of a response. Petra was trying hard to deny the observation that if a writer was meeting with an editor without their agent, then it was presumably to engage in an activity that the agent was not required to take part in, an activity that wasn’t business . . . What else was she to assume?

Reflexively, Petra clapped her hand over her eyes and groaned aloud.

It was a shame Ross didn’t think to check whether his heart and mind were truly free of Henrietta’s malign influence before he allowed—even encouraged—Petra to fall in love with him, she thought, impatiently wiping away a tear. She tried to feel angry instead of devastated but lacked the energy.

And still there was no reply. She stared at her phone screen, watching the gray checkmarks for the moment they would turn blue, but there was nothing.

Why would she think she could offer professional support to a writer of Ross’s standing? This Henrietta, although tonight was the first time Petra had met her, was one of the most powerful editors in the London publishing houses. She was the maker—and breaker—of careers. If she wanted a book, she would get it. If she publicly declined a book, then that manuscript would be forever tarnished in the eyes of the market. And a writer’s reputation might never recover from being dropped by their publishing house. Ross’s reputation might never recover.

Petra just wanted him to be happy and fulfilled, she realized bleakly.

Because she loved him.

And, unfortunately, his apparent rekindling of a relationship he had declared over didn’t change that.

But she still had her professional duty to him, she told herself, straightening and pulling her shoulders back. As his agent, she had to advise him to tread with extreme caution. He may have no current contractual obligation, but a previous publishing imprint casts a long shadow, especially when the book has been a success. Even after five years, his second book could be argued to be a de facto Hamilton House book, or people would want to know the reason why not. There was nothing like a book being wanted by one publisher to make other publishers pay attention. And the reverse. Which was ironic, Petra reminded herself, as she waited for the kettle to boil. Readers would barely notice who had published a book. Why should they care?

It was a long night. At three in the morning, the checkmarks on her message to Ross turned blue.

At five in the morning came his reply.

I’m sorry.

Petra stared at it, adrenaline pumping so hard that the hand holding her phone jerked in time to her heartbeat.

She was relieved when the sun rose.

“Do you know how many of our list requested to see it?” Alistair asked, when Petra—giving up on sleep—called him at eight o’clock that morning. “Would you like to know?”

“No,” said Petra dully. “I mean, no, I don’t know, and yes, I would like to know.”

“All of them,” he declared. “I don’t think we’ve ever had that happen. Not with a list as extensive as this.”

“When are you sending it out?” asked Petra, wondering when her phone was going to start ringing. Wondering when she was going to have to start pretending to be a competent literary agent. She imagined she wouldn’t have long before Ross told her he was switching to Henry Atherstone. She wanted to make the most of it while it lasted.

“Already gone,” said Alistair. “Being read as we speak, I reckon. Stand by.”

Petra told Alistair about Henrietta’s claim and her fear she would not be representing Ross long enough to get the deal done.

“He won’t go for Henry Atherstone,” Alistair told her. “They’re chalk and cheese. Also, Henry hasn’t taken on a new client for years. Erase it from your mind.”

“He took Isabella May from me just a few months ago,” Petra reminded him, wincing at the memory of that appalling day.

“Apart from that,” admitted Alistair. “And—let’s face it—no great loss. Isabella was a nightmare.”

“Talking of nightmares, what about this Henrietta woman who’s got her claws into Ross again now?” asked Petra, unable to keep herself from prodding the open wound.

“That Henrietta’s a piece of work,” Alistair agreed, which didn’t make Petra feel any better. “I could tell you some stories . . . And, the rumor is, she and Henry Atherstone are very close . . . if you get my meaning.”

“You know you’re not helping, don’t you?” Petra told him dully.

“Good grief,” said Jess, when Petra arrived at the Town Hall. “Did you sleep at all?”

Petra shook her head silently. She had even bothered with makeup, getting ready in the silent flat that morning, but no amount of mascara and blusher could disguise her pallor, or her squinty, puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. All the crying hadn’t helped either.