Chapter Four #3
alternatives—locally grown organic vegetables and a huge selection of cheeses—it would be no hardship. Petra didn’t feel she
needed to eat anything with a face ever again.
That said, a life without bacon was no life at all . . .
Dreamily browsing a stall selling local honey in jars and chunky squares of honeycomb, Petra suddenly became aware she had left poor Flo on her own for ages.
She had been drifting around the photogenic marketplace like the heroine in a rom-com montage, squeezing a perfectly ripe peach here, sharing a joke with a stallholder there.
But this was real life, and she had a bookshop to run.
She spun around to hurry back, accidentally knocking into a tall, dark man in a green army jacket with her basket.
“Oops, sorry,” she blurted. “Oh wow,” she breathed—hopefully not out loud—as he turned, and she looked up, her eyes locking
with his. Never mind real life, she decided, if this was her rom-com meet-cute, then Petra was all in. This man was ridiculously beautiful, with his broad shoulders and sleek dark hair, brushed back, but with a heavy lock falling across his forehead as
if designed to emphasize his sea-green eyes and chiseled, dark-stubbled jaw.
A bubble of nervous laughter escaped her. She made to break eye contact and found that she couldn’t.
“Hello,” she said inadequately. What was the correct response in these situations? Would it be rude to just go in for a full-on
snog? Would a handshake be more appropriate? I mean, he’d seen the movies, right? He too must realize this was a moment full
of huge portent. A moment dividing “then” and “now” as decisively as the big bang would have done.
“Do I know you?” she heard herself say, perplexed.
She felt like she had definitely seen this ludicrously handsome face before, and yet that was nonsense because, if she had, she would hardly have forgotten.
Only somehow—in her memory—she was seeing this same face artfully lit, jaw even more pronounced, eyes even more brooding .
. . Oh God, she suddenly realized, it must be because he was an actual actor, someone who was probably used to playing the rom-com hero, and now there she was like a clucking superfan, simpering and claiming familiarity.
He must be so bored with all that from practically every woman he encountered.
And yet . . . “Have we actually met, in real life?” she asked, unable to stop herself.
“Or are you a famous actor?” Or is this just me recognizing
my life partner . . . soulmate . . . the man I am going to marry? she thought and managed not to say, but only by physically
placing her fingers over her lips.
“Er, no,” he was insisting. “That is ‘no, I’m not an actor’ and ‘yes, we’ve met,’ first time when you were face down on a railway
station platform.” A thought occurred to him. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Ha! Pirate man!” she exclaimed. And then, scraping what remained of her brain for further information, “You’re Russ,” she
proclaimed proudly.
“Actually, it’s Ross,” he reminded her, emphasizing the “o” with a mouth so beautifully kissable, Petra realized she was staring
at it with hers hanging open.
“Yeah, Russ,” murmured Petra, giving herself a metaphorical pat on the back. “Short for Russell, I assume?” she went on, hoping
the witless inanity might pass for conversation.
“No, because it’s Ross, not Russ,” he told her patiently.
“Short for Rossell?” she asked, puzzled.
“No, just Ross—not short for anything,”
“Oh, come on, it must be short for something,” Petra’s mouth went on doggedly as her brain continued to refuse to engage.
“Rossie, maybe?”
An indefinable expression washed across his face. Anger? Pain?
“Well—no—because ‘Rossie’ isn’t actually a name, is it?” he said, in a tone of superhuman patience. “Also, not even my mother calls me Rossie,” he told her firmly. “Thank God.”
Apparently, unable to stop herself from talking crap, Petra decided all she could gracefully do was apologize and explain:
“It’s just that you suddenly look . . .” She gestured to his face, unable to summon further words.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’d been kind of . . . letting things slide.”
“Okay—well—now you look, erm . . . great,” Petra observed inadequately, certain he could feel the heat from her now flaming
face. But that pirate-fetish motormouth had not yet done with her it seemed. “Ooh, I’ve just remembered a really funny joke,”
she heard herself announce. “To ‘err’ is human, to ‘arr’ is pirate. Geddit?”
Silence fell. This was weird! Surely the man was not impervious to the best pirate joke in the whole world? Sheesh. Tough
crowd.
“Anyhow,” Ross continued briskly, “I’m glad we’ve bumped into each other.”
Petra couldn’t imagine how this was true, but it was nice of him to say so.
“I was thinking about dropping in to the bookshop,” he went on, “to buy the Milton, but you’re here . . .” He raised a perfectly
formed eyebrow. The effect was devastating.
“Okay! So . . . I am going right back there, right now,” gabbled Petra. “See you in a minute?” she called over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.