“It’s here! It’s here!”

Penelope looked up from the papers spread over her desk. Colin was standing in the doorway of her small office, jumping from foot to foot like a schoolboy.

“Your book!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet as quickly as her rather ungainly body would allow. “Oh, Colin, let me see. Let me see. I can’t wait!”

He couldn’t contain his grin as he handed her his book.

“Ohhhh,” she said reverently, holding the slim, leather-bound volume in her hands. “Oh, my.” She held the book up to her face and inhaled deeply. “Don’t you just love the smell of new books?”

“Look at this, look at this,” he said impatiently, pointing to his name on the front cover.

Penelope beamed. “Look at that. And so elegant, too.” She ran her finger over the words as she read, “An Englishman in Italy, by Colin Bridgerton.”

He looked ready to burst with pride. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”

“It looks better than good, it looks perfect! When will An Englishman in Cyprus be available?”

“The publisher says every six months. They want to release An Englishman in Scotland after that.”

“Oh, Colin, I’m so proud of you.”

He drew her into his arms, letting his chin rest on top of her head. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could,” she replied loyally.

“Just be quiet and accept the praise.”

“Very well,” she said, grinning even though he couldn’t see her face, “you couldn’t. Clearly, you could never have been published without such a talented editor.”

“You won’t hear any disagreement from me,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head before he let her go. “Sit down,” he added. “You shouldn’t be on your feet for so long.”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, but she sat down, anyway. Colin had been overly protective since the first moment she’d told him she was pregnant; now that she was only a month from her due date, he was insufferable.

“What are these papers?” he asked, glancing down at her scribblings.

“This? Oh, it’s nothing.” She started to gather them into piles. “Just a little project I was working on.”

“Really?” He sat down across from her. “What is it?”

“It’s…well…actually…”

“What is it, Penelope?” he asked, looking exceedingly amused by her stammers.

“I’ve been at loose ends since I finished editing your journals,” she explained, “and I found I rather missed writing.”

He was smiling as he leaned forward. “What are you working on?”

She blushed; she wasn’t sure why. “A novel.”

“A novel? Why, that’s brilliant, Penelope!”

“You think so?”

“Of course I think so. What is it called?”

“Well, I’ve only written a few dozen pages,” she said, “and there’s much work to be done, but I think, if I don’t decide to change it overmuch, that I will call it The Wallflower.”

His eyes grew warm, almost misty. “Really?”

“It’s a little bit autobiographical,” she admitted.

“Just a little bit?” he returned.

“Just a little.”

“But it has a happy ending?”

“Oh, yes,” she said fervently. “It has to.”

“It has to?”

She reached her hand across the table and rested it atop his. “Happy endings are all I can do,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t know how to write anything else.”