Page 1 of The Bookshop By the Loch

Chapter One

Just ten minutes to go.

Ten minutes and there would be the announcement that I, Lexie Dunbar, was to become the new senior commissioning editor for romance and popular fiction, here at Literati Publishing.

My heart skittered against my ribs.

New tailored navy suit. Tick.

Lilac pussy-bow blouse. Tick.

I even had my long, straight, toffee-coloured hair blow-dried and tonged into a cloud of tumbling curls first thing this morning, thanks to the magical capabilities of my amazing hairdresser, Fabia. Tick.

I drummed my fingers against the edge of my maple office desk, before remembering I had treated myself to a professional manicure yesterday. I drew my shiny cranberry nails to an abrupt halt.

Around me, my colleagues were sliding knowing looks and encouraging smiles in my direction. The clock trudged closer to eleven o’clock.

This was agonising!

I had worked here at Literati Publishing in Glasgow for five years as a junior editor and boy, had I paid my dues!

Ridiculous hours; taking minimal holiday entitlement; working through my lunch break or devouring a sandwich while up to my elbows checking edits; chasing up manuscripts; taking work home evenings and weekends; massaging the rampant author egos of the likes of Dame Alicia Kilroy and Sir Stephen Todd; tackling an inbox which bred emails every ten minutes.

But despite the incessant pressure, working in publishing had been all I had ever wanted to do, since I was little and able to hold a book.

I grew up in Bracken Way, a small Highland tourist town with a crumbling castle ruin and a beautiful loch, but moved through to Glasgow at eighteen to study English Literature at Glasgow University for four years and have lived here ever since.

Once I obtained my degree, I worked for the Scottish Civil Service for three years on one of their in-house newspapers, before hearing about the job of junior editor at Literati.

I knew I had to apply.

I ended up working under the auspices of senior commissioning editor Tabitha McGregor and learnt so much from her. When she retired recently, I knew her shoes would be considerable ones to fill, but it was what I wanted and had been working towards.

I turned my attention back to the office clock on the far wall.

Five minutes to go until our Executive Publisher, Grant Mullen, materialised to make the announcement about Tabitha’s successor.

I shot out of my chair and paced backwards and forwards across the champagne carpet in my pearly heels. Well, when I say paced, it was more of a hobble. My toes were screeching out in protest but no other shoes matched my suit as well as they did.

Outside the panoramic office windows, Glasgow was a sea of stippled roofs, towering spires and winking glass in the Monday morning April light. The sun was pushing through the clouds.

Our offices were modern with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, situated in the trendy Byres Road area of the city. Surrounded by media types, students and struggling actors, Literati overlooked the emerald spread of the Botanic Gardens and their meringue-shaped glasshouses.

I returned to my desk and sat down again for what seemed like the twentieth time in the last couple of minutes.

I smoothed down my skirt. My light grey eyes shone back out at me, wide and expectant, from my laptop screen.

“How are you feeling?” hissed a familiar voice as she hurried past.

It was Rhiannon, my best friend and head of marketing here at Literati.

“Like I’m about to throw up.”

Rhiannon flashed me a white grin. She was all peroxide-blonde bob, had just hit the age of thirty – the same as me – but seemed to possess far more confidence. “You’re going to be a brilliant successor to Tabitha. Everybody knows it. Oh, stand by your beds, folks.”

From the left, the doors swished open and Grant Mullen strode in, like an older, Scottish version of Pedro Pascal.

At once, chairs were squeaked back and bodies rose upwards, gravitating towards him.