Page 20 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

Then he draws close to her and whispers, ‘“Elspeth shivered, as he planted a gentle kiss on her belly button, then another just below it, and another, and another, until his mouth reached the lacy top of her thong. ‘May I?’ he asked. She nodded, unable to speak, and he—”’

Louise deftly removes the paperback from him. ‘It’s okay. I know what happens next.’

‘But I don’t,’ he protests.

‘I’m sure you can imagine.’

Her cheeks burning, she turns away from him and distracts herself by casting her expert eye over the table of ‘Hot New Releases’. All the books she’d expect are there, with the exception of one.

A Deadly Scent, Sheila Penhaligon’s latest novel, the one that caused all the furore, is missing.

Of course it is.

Who in their right mind would allocate shelf space, let alone prime space on a table, to a book that was doomed from the outset?

The fun of a few moments ago has evaporated now.

Like a driver on the motorway whose eyes are drawn with morbid fascination to a car crash on the opposite carriageway, Louise finds herself pulled towards the crime section, which she has, until now, been avoiding. It spans two whole bookcases, and authors whose names begin with P are near the bottom of the first one. There are just two Sheila Penhaligon books, old titles from three or four years ago.

You’d normally expect Sheila’s books to have much more prominence in a popular independent bookshop like this, and as that thought flashes through her mind, Louise is reminded that she has not only ended her own career as an editor, but potentially Sheila’s as a writer too.

What was she thinking?

‘You okay?’ Jack puts a hand on her arm, seeming to sense that the mood has changed.

‘I was just…’ Louise bites her lip. She can’t burst into tears on this man for a second time in less than two hours.

She glances at Sheila’s two titles, sitting amidst a load of other books by authors whose editors haven’t put the kibosh on their career, then turns back to Jack.

‘I was just looking for a book to recommend to you,’ she says, her tone sounding falsely bright, even to her own ears.

He looks at the shelves. ‘Crime? I was rather hoping for a romance.’

Louise’s heart quickens. He means a romance book, she tells herself. Not an actual romance with you, Louise.

She knows from all the data they gathered at Austen and Green that most men don’t read romance. Perhaps Italian men are different. Must be that Latin blood.

‘I could suggest something,’ she says, then adds quickly, ‘A book, I mean.’

‘Please,’ he smiles.

She casts her expert eyes down the shelves, wondering what he’d like. And then she spots it.

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.

‘How about this?’ she says, grabbing it from the shelf and handing it to him. ‘It’s not a romance, but it’s very romantic. And it’s about an Italian man who’s far from home, so perfect for you.’

Jack stares at the cover but says nothing. Louise isn’t quite sure what to make of his response – or rather lack of it.

‘You don’t have to buy it,’ she says.

He turns it over in his hands, as if he’s about to read the blurb, then turns it back again almost immediately.

‘Il mandolino del Capitano Corelli,’ he says. ‘My late mother’s favourite book.’

There’s such sadness in those brown eyes of his that Louise wants to throw her arms around him and hug him. But she holds back, unsure of herself.

‘Oh my gosh, Jack,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.’