Feeling my stomach lurch, I staggered toward the nearest bench and slumped down onto it.

I loved my mom.

But this was shitty news on top of a shitty day.

I couldn’t take any more disappointment from my mother.

“Phil, I can’t talk about this right now. I need to go.” I hung up, feeling bad about it because Phil was great. However, I couldn’t concentrate on the guilt.

Instead, all I could think about was the need to escape.

I thought of the money sitting in several savings accounts. Life insurance money left to me when my dad died. I’d used a bit for tuition, but with interest my savings were substantial. I’d been holding on to the money to buy a house, for that day when I finally met Prince Fucking Charming and settled down.

Since that seemed like a dream that would never come true, I pulled up the search engine on my phone and typed in “vacation escapes in England.” It was moronic considering I no longer had a full-time job and should probably be concentrating on finding another in Chicago. Besides, I doubted Patrick would give me a reference, so that was going to be a much harder feat than usual.

However, in that moment, nothing else mattered but getting away from my life.

As a fan of all things classic literature—Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charlotte Brontë—England was on the top of my bucket list.

I scrolled somewhat frantically through the vacation listings until my eyes caught on a link.

MUCH ADO ABOUT BOOKS—A BOOKSHOP HOLIDAY!

The nod to Shakespeare made me click on the link.

The advertising copy made my hands shake with excitement.

Much Ado About Books was a small bookshop in the quaint fishing village of Alnster in Northumberland. I googled it and that was northern England, near the border with Scotland. At Much Ado About Books, not only did you rent the apartment above the bookstore, but the owner let you run her bookshop.

It was a booklover’s dream vacation getaway.

I could do that.

I could totally run away from my life and manage a bookstore in a little village in England, where none of my troubles or worries could get to me. And come on, someone named the bookstore after a Shakespearean play. It was fate.

It had to be.

No more men who made me doubt myself.

No more job that made me feel like a failure.

In fact, no more entire life circumstances that made me feel like a failure.

And I wasn’t just going to England for a two-week break either.

No way.

Hands shaking, I dialed the number on the ad after checking the country code for the UK. It rang five times before a woman with a wonderful English accent answered.

“Much Ado About Books, how can I help?”