Mrs. Weatherford gave a dreamy smile that told Grace the reason was a good one. “Mr. Evans and his wife, God rest her soul, met on Primrose Hill. They propped their backs against the same tree and discovered the other reading the very same book. Can you imagine?” She took a tea cake from the tray and held it pinched between her fingers. “When they opened the shop, they said it was the perfect name for a bookshop they shared. Quite romantic, isn’t it?”

It was almost impossible to imagine the stodgy old shop owner as a young man in love, but the shop name was indeed charming. As was the story. Perhaps working at the store would not be so terrible.

And anyway, it would only be for six months.

THREE

Grace arrived at Primrose Hill Books at ten minutes to eight the next morning with perfect curls and jangling nerves. Viv had helped set her hair the night before and rose early to wish her luck despite her own interview with Harrods not being until that afternoon.

Grace would need all the luck she could get.

Mr. Evans was behind the cluttered counter when Grace entered. He wore a tweed jacket with a collared shirt underneath and didn’t bother to look up at the ding of the bell. “Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said in a bored drawl.

Grace smiled at him, determined for a fresh start with her best foot forward. Or her other cheek turned, depending on how one looked at it. “Good morning, Mr. Evans. I truly appreciate you giving me the opportunity to work in your shop.”

He lifted his head and regarded her through the thick glass of his spectacles. His wispy white hair and overgrown eyebrows appeared as tamed down as they might ever be. “I don’t need help, but that woman wouldn’t let me be until I finally agreed.” He wagged a stubby finger at her. “And don’t you be locking your heart into this task, Miss Bennett. It’s only for six months.”

Grace’s shoulders relaxed somewhat with her relief. At least he wouldn’t expect her to be at the shop for the rest of her life.

“I won’t become attached,” she answered truthfully. How could she possibly with a place so dusty and desolate?

She scanned the shop and was struck anew with how cramped the space seemed. Shelves were crowded against one another like big teeth in a small mouth amid errant piles of scattered books. All without any sense of rhyme or reason.

At least when Grace had begun at her uncle’s shop, there had been some semblance of order. What was she do with this haphazard chaos?

A sense of hopelessness crept in. After all, where was she even to start? Did Mr. Evans already have expectations he wanted her to meet?