Page 22 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

She hopes not. She wasn’t exactly dressed for a date. Jeans as usual, albeit one of her smarter pairs. A turquoise jumper with a jaunty scarf.

She turns her head and studies him. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but smiles a little, seeming to sense he has her attention.

He’s smiley, but not flirty, she thinks. No, this wasn’t a date. They are simply two people of a similar age who happen to have landed in the same small Yorkshire village at the same time. They both need company, that’s all. Most of her old friends have moved away. He probably doesn’t know many people in Applethwaite – why would he, being Italian?

She pulls her eyes away from him, and looks out of the side window as they drive over a low bridge across a canal. The landscape is a patchwork of fields, most of which are grazed by sheep. One of her romance authors would describe them as cotton-wool sheep, Louise remembers, but, in reality, they’re a dirty grey colour. Real life never quite lives up to fiction somehow. Sheep aren’t as white. Sunsets aren’t as pink. And as for romance… well, she definitely prefers the fictional variety – there might be heartache and ups and downs, but you know a happy ever after is waiting at the end. With a real-life romance, you get more downs than ups. In Louise’s experience anyway.

And yet, she feels drawn to turn her head again, to gaze at Jack. He changes gear, slowing a little as he steers around a sharp bend, and she watches his hand move from the gear stick to the steering wheel. She likes his hands. Wonders what they’d feel like if they were holding hers.

If this were a romance novel, something would happen now. They’d encounter an injured deer lying by the side of the road and Jack would step into hero mode, revealing himself to be an animal lover. There’s something irresistible about a man who is good with animals. Or there’d be an old lady with a flat tyre and he’d stop and change her wheel, proving himself to be both kind and practical. Or there’d be—

Jack brakes suddenly as they crest a hill, coming to a halt just inches from the back of the car in front.

A traffic jam.

In romance novels, no one ever gets stuck in a traffic jam. Yet another example of how real life doesn’t measure up.

They are on a wider road now, which snakes into the valley, the cars bumper-to-bumper as far as the eye can see. This might take ages.

‘Must be serious.’ Jack is watching something in the rear-view mirror.

An ambulance whizzes past, its blue lights flashing.

‘I hope not. For whoever needs that ambulance. And for our sakes too. We could be stuck here for hours.’

Still, forced proximity. One of her favourite tropes.

Perhaps they’ll tell each other their life stories, get to know each other at a deeper level, begin to fall for each other.

‘I spy with my little eye,’ Jack says suddenly, ‘something beginning with P.’

Or perhaps they’ll just play a childhood game.

‘Peugeot,’ Louise says, looking at the car in front of them.

‘Nope.’

‘Pylon?’

‘Nope.’

She looks out of the window, searching for more things beginning with P, but failing to see anything. ‘Is it inside the car?’

‘It’s too early for a clue.’ Jack’s tone is playful, teasing.

Louise tuts, running her eyes over the dashboard. Steering wheel. Gearstick. Radio. USB socket. In the space in front of the gearstick, there’s a set of house keys, a tape measure, and a stubby pencil.

‘Got it! It’s pencil.’

Jack glances down at the pencil, then looks back at the road. ‘No, not pencil.’

‘In that case, I give up,’ she says.

‘What, already?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Pub.’