Chapter Twenty-Six
“Could you spend the rest of your days in Portneath?” asked Ross when he and Petra were chatting about the evening in bed later.
“Could you?”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Ross sleepily. “I feel like I’ve been everywhere, moving around to stay invisible . . . Now I’m starting
to feel like I want to be found. I want to—I dunno—belong somewhere . . .”
“Hmm . . .” said Petra, snuggling in to go to sleep. “I think maybe I do too. I’d need to talk to Alistair, though. He’s expecting
me back soon.”
Petra grabbed her chance to phone Alistair just before opening the shop, hoping to catch him before his secretary arrived
and started intercepting his calls.
“You should accept,” he said immediately, when Petra filled him in on Jules and Roman’s offer.
“You don’t want me back?” said Petra, feeling rejected.
“Of course I do,” Alistair replied. “But you don’t have to be physically here. You don’t have to be in London at all. This is the WFH
revolution, remember? And—even if you do relocate to London—you don’t necessarily have to take all your clients back.”
Ah, there it was.
“They don’t want me back, do they?” said Petra, lifting her chin and refusing to be downcast. “They’ve gotten used to having
you instead. Any sensible client would want the agent with the most experience.”
“You know how we work,” Alistair reminded her. “Our client agreements make it quite clear that they sign with the agency just
as much as the individual.”
“Have they all walked?”
“Not at all!” Alistair replied quickly, and then he paused. “I mean, one or two . . .”
She didn’t need him to spell it out to her. “So, yeah, I think I’d like to stay on here,” she said, letting him off the hook.
“Jules and Roman have kindly said I can remain in the flat as long as I like too, so . . .” So even if she and Ross didn’t
last the course, she wouldn’t be homeless, Petra thought. She had to be realistic. It would be unwise to hope for too much in life. And she had told herself how lovely
the life seemed to be here in Portneath, hadn’t she? She could retreat. Run a bookshop. Have a quiet life. Not everyone had
to conquer the world.
“I’ll tell you what, though,” Alistair went on. “Even if you let a couple of your smaller clients go, you’re not getting out
of selling Ross McCloud’s manuscript. Where did you get to on the submission package?” he asked. “Do you want to float the
email copy by me? I’ll ping you over the list I suggest you submit it to?”
“Sure,” said Petra crisply, echoing Alistair’s businesslike manner. She could do that for Ross. It was the least he deserved.
“There you go,” Ross said later as they ate supper together at the cottage. “That Alistair sounds like a top bloke. Run the
bookshop for Jules and Roman for a few months and represent me. Simples.”
“And the literary festival, don’t forget,” Petra said, ashamed of the slight whine she could hear in her voice. “So much for escaping
to the seaside for a less stressful life,” she went on, trying to make it sound like a joke. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I am on your side. And don’t forget supporting me to actually write my book, in your list of amazing achievements. I’m your biggest
fan, remember? I just want to know when you’re going to stop underestimating yourself,” Ross said gently.
Uncompromising words maybe, but when Petra met his gaze, his green eyes were ablaze with love.
Petra asked anxiously, “I mean, supporting you to write your book, critiquing it and whatnot . . . You don’t think I’m like
Henrietta do you?”
At this, Ross guffawed. “God no,” he exclaimed. “Apart from all the other stuff she did . . . You? Tell a lie? You couldn’t if your life depended on it.”
“Listen, telling the truth isn’t always the best strategy either, remember,” admitted Petra, recollecting the many, many times
her big mouth had got her into trouble.
“You tell it like it is, and you couldn’t be less like Henrietta if you tried,” said Ross firmly. “Thank goodness.”
“Gosh, clever me then,” she deadpanned. “By the time we get to September I’ll either be in sole charge of the known universe or expired from stress and exhaustion.”
Flo told Petra there was no time in living memory—and that included hers, which amounted to a very long time—that Capelthorne’s was closed on a Saturday. Everyone agreed, though, that for Jules and Roman’s post-wedding party,
closure was essential. Petra had offered to cover the shop so Flo could go, but Jules was having none of it. “You’re part
of the Capelthorne’s family now,” she told Petra. “You have to be there.”
Petra and Ross agreed that she would stay in the flat the night before, just so she could work late and make sure all the
admin was completely up to date. That way, if she didn’t do much on Monday, she wouldn’t fall too far behind. With Jules and
Roman trusting her to keep their precious business running smoothly, the last thing she wanted to do is be seen taking her
eye off the ball so soon after their return.
Petra had a late night working in the office, but then—despite no longer being used to sleeping alone—she slept soundly and
woke late. With little to do until it was time for the party, she lay in bed enjoying the sunshine as it burned away an early
mist, heralding another hot August day.
She had a bath and then ate toast and marmalade in her dressing gown—not trusting herself not to spill food or coffee on the
precious silk dress.
Being a klutz, she put on the dress carefully and then—for extra security—tucked tissues into the neckline before she dared to put on her makeup.
She wished, just that morning, that she had spent longer on YouTube and TikTok learning fancy makeup techniques.
Her usual mascara with a slick of sheer red lipstick would have to do.
The green sandals she had bought were perfect, neat and pretty, making even Petra’s big feet look dainty, she thought, checking
out her reflection. All she could do with her jet black hair was scoop it up into a messy knot, fixing it with so many pins
she hoped it would stay up all day and make her look a little more elegant and feminine than usual. The overall effect was
so much less teen goth now that she had a light tan too.
Waiting nervously in the shop for Ross to appear, Petra felt bad seeing would-be customers reacting to the “closed” sign on
the door. To be fair, they unanimously looked understanding on reading the reason why. Even the vacationers—who couldn’t be
expected to care what the locals were doing when they weren’t providing a service—seemed to approve.
Weddings made people smile though, didn’t they? The whole “happily ever after” thing . . . ? Even if it ended in divorce,
years down the line, people still hoped for the best at the beginning. Failing to be optimistic that a couple might have a
happy future felt like casting yourself as the bad fairy at the feast, cursing and condemning the happy couple to disaster.
It was a bad omen. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Petra did not want to be the bad fairy today, she decided, plastering on a grin and practicing making elegant, inconsequential small talk
with whatever strangers she was going to encounter.
Just then, Ross knocked sharply on the glass door, making her jump and then scurry to let him in, closing the door rapidly for fear a determined customer should take the opportunity to sidle in behind him.
“Why were you standing there grinning and talking to yourself?” he enquired.
“I—er—just acting out a scene,” she burbled. “From The Tempest. I was curious whether I could still remember the lines.”
“You never told me you acted in The Tempest,” he said.
“No? Well, I haven’t told you absolutely everything about my life before we met,” she replied. “It would take too long, for
one thing . . . plus, quite a lot of it is fairly boring.”
“Yes, but The Tempest,” he persevered. “Who did you play? Were you Miranda?”
“Actually, no,” Petra admitted. “I was Caliban.”
Ross put back his head and laughed.
“Why are you only telling me this now?” he asked, giving another incredulous laugh.
“Ooh, I don’t know, maybe it’s because I thought you might laugh?” she snarked, scowling at his mirth.
“How did it even happen?” he asked, still chuckling. “Hardly typecasting.”
“What can I say!?” she told him defensively. “It was an all-girl’s school, and I was five foot nine at fourteen.”
“So you’re pretty well qualified for critiquing this novel of mine. You are a fount of intrigue, woman, no wonder I love you
so much. And I especially love you in this dress,” he drawled, pulling her toward him and leaning down for a kiss.
“You do?” said Petra, smiling for real now and melting into him for a long, slow, gentle kiss that set up a wholly disconcerting
ache of longing in her core.
“I do,” he said, his lips pressed against hers, his words buzzing against her mouth.
“Well,” she said, leaning back at last to study him, “I think you’re looking pretty good yourself. In your skirt . . .” she added
teasingly.
“Not a skirt,” he reprimanded, the corner of his mouth quirking up despite his efforts to repress a smile.
Ross was wearing a fitted black jacket with polished silver buttons and—the big shock—a green-and-black kilt, complete with
sporran. He didn’t even look a complete idiot, she was pleased to see. In fact, he wore it very well indeed, she decided,
looking him up and down. The kilt beautifully showcased his narrow hips and muscular legs, and the severe black jacket over
a white shirt complemented his chiseled jaw and flopping forelock of hair.
“I like . . .” Petra murmured.
“Seemed a shame not to give the McCloud tartan an outing,” he told her, sounding self-conscious. “Why don’t we take a moment,
or maybe longer, for a private appreciation of each other’s attributes and—if you’re lucky—I might even show you what a Scotsman
wears under his kilt,” he proposed, with an eyebrow raise. “We can always join the party later. Will they even miss us?”