“And soon”—I pulled back to glance down at her stomach—“I will be an aunt and little Baby Bishop will be the love of my life too.”

Gratitude filled her expression. “Really?”

That she would think any different made me feel a ton of remorse for my selfishness. “I’m in a weird place right now, but never think for a second that I don’t want you to have the things that bring you joy. If that’s Andre and Baby Bishop, I’ll rest easy knowing you’re where you want to be.”

“I want the same for you.” She gave me a sad smile. “I just really hope you find it here and not four thousand miles away.”

I chuckled. “I’ll be back in four weeks. I promise.”

“Don’t.” Greer took my hand and squeezed it. “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

Her genuine anxiety that I might choose to stay in England seemed ridiculous to me. Of course I was coming home. Yet I couldn’t persuade Greer of this, so all I could do was hug her close and leave her standing on that sidewalk. She’d cheer up when I returned. For now, I would enjoy my four weeks in northern England.

After I slept. I’d caught up on edits for one of my loyal indie author clients, so I hadn’t slept on the plane.

Jet lag was a bitch.

Reluctantly turning from the spectacular view, I took hold of my suitcase and crossed the road toward the terraced houses. Built of stone, like the cottages around the bend in the road, these were a story taller. Most had a front door and two sash and case wooden windows, one downstairs and one upstairs. Nearly all had been extended into the attic with a dormer window jutting out of the gray slate-tiled roofline.

One house was painted a pale blue, the one next to it was unpainted, showing off the beautiful original stonework. The one next to that was painted white, and so on.

On the end of the terraced row was a detached building—stone built but newer, bigger. Instead of two small windows, there were two large windows, one up, one down. Above the downstairs window was a sign that read:

Much Ado About Books

I smiled, and my suitcase and I trundled down the narrow sidewalk past the other houses until I stopped at the shop door. Unlike the solid wooden doors of its neighboring houses, this one had a large glass pane on the top half, and hanging inside was a notice that read closed.

I knocked loudly.

A second or two later I saw a woman with dark hair appear behind the pane of glass. She smiled, and I heard the movement of the lock before the door swung open. “Evangeline?”

“Evie.” I grinned through my exhaustion.