Six weeks to finish an overdue love story, and a grumpy bookseller living downstairs.
You've written seven bestselling love stories and you can't finish the eighth. So you flee the city for
Porthlenna, a rain-soaked fishing town at the end of the line, with six weeks, a blinking cursor, and an editor who
calls every day just to breathe meaningfully.
Your rented flat is upstairs from a crooked secondhand bookshop, and the only way in is past its owner — a rumpled,
bookish grump who thinks romance novels rot the brain. He has no idea who you are. You'd like to keep it that way.
