Chapter Seven
Emery arrived early for her first official day at The Turned Page, clutching a travel mug of coffee like a lifeline.
She'd spent half the night tossing and turning, wondering if she'd completely lost her mind.
The other half had been consumed by frantically scribbling notes for her overdue manuscript, inspired by a certain French bookshop owner.
She'd woken up at dawn, tried three different outfits before settling on a t-shirt and jeans. She'd even attempted to tame her unruly curls, though they'd promptly revolted against her efforts, springing back into their natural state the moment she stepped out the door.
Her phone had buzzed with a text from Domi as she was leaving: Remember whose name is paying your bills. I need pages! She'd ignored it, silencing her phone and shoving it deep into her bag.
Now, standing outside the quaint bookshop, Emery felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach. What was she doing? Was this the worst idea she'd ever had? Or possibly the best?
She took a deep breath before pushing open the door, the familiar jingle of the bell announcing her arrival.
The shop was quiet, golden morning light filtering through the windows and illuminating dust motes that danced in the air.
The scent of old books and fresh coffee created a heady mix that instantly calmed her racing thoughts.
For a moment, she thought she might be alone, until she noticed a young woman arranging books near the front display. She was slim, with straight dark hair and an air of efficiency.
“Hi there,” the woman said, looking up with a friendly smile. "Can I help you find something?"
“Um, I'm Emery,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the counter where she'd worked the day before. “I'm supposed to start working here today?”
The woman grinned. “Emery! Eveline said you’d be coming in.” She held out her hand. “I'm Zara. I work here part-time while I’m finishing my thesis. I’m more of an intern, to tell the truth. But I think that might just be an excuse to pay me less.”
Emery shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. What's your thesis on?” Nosiness was a writer’s right.
“Feminist themes in modern romance novels,” Zara said enthusiastically. “Specifically focusing on the works of Emerald Pearl. Have you read any of her books?”
Emery nearly choked on her coffee, sputtering and coughing while trying not to spill her drink down her front. Of all the thesis topics in all the world…
“Um, I'm familiar with them,” she managed, trying to keep her voice steady while dabbing at drops of coffee on her blouse.
The bell above the door jingled, saving Emery from what promised to be an excruciating analysis of her own work. Abe shuffled in, his cane tapping a familiar rhythm on the wooden floor.
“Morning, ladies,” he called cheerfully. “I see you've met our resident scholar, Emery.”
“We were just discussing Emerald Pearl,” Zara said, straightening a stack of books.
Abe chuckled, his face crinkling with amusement. “Best not let Eveline hear you. She's ordered the books, but she's not happy about it. Grumbled something about 'literary standards' when she placed the order.”
“Where is Eveline?” Emery asked, glancing around the shop, hoping her relief at changing the subject wasn't too obvious.
“Upstairs,” Zara said, gesturing toward the ceiling.
“She had a call with a supplier about some first editions she's been tracking down. She should be down soon.” She lowered her voice.
“She's a bit grumpy this morning. The plumber came again last night, made a bigger mess than before, and charged her double.”
“That explains the extra buckets,” Emery said, noticing several new additions to the leak-catching collection.
Abe shuffled over to his usual chair by the window, easing himself down with a contented sigh. “So, Emery, settling in already?” he said, eyes twinkling. “Not too overwhelmed by our little literary haven?”
“Trying to,” she said, hanging her jacket on a hook behind the counter, only to have it slide off immediately onto the floor. She scooped it up with a sigh, trying again and making sure it stayed put this time.
“You'll do just fine,” Abe assured her. “Eveline wouldn't have asked you to stay if she didn't think so. She's got a good eye for people, even if she pretends not to care. Never seen her warm up to someone so quickly, actually.” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully.
Emery felt her cheeks warm. “I'm sure she just needed the help,” she said, busying herself straightening a display of new arrivals. She arranged and rearranged the same three books, unable to resist asking, “So, um, how long has she owned this place?”
“A few years,” Abe replied, settling back in his chair. “Came over from France with barely more than the clothes on her back, from what I gather. Running away from something.” He hesitated. “Um, not my story to tell, though.”
“Abe,” Zara scolded gently from where she was unpacking a box of bookplates. “You know how Eveline feels about gossip.”
“It's not gossip if it's concern,” Abe said, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Besides, Emery's part of the team now. She should know who she's working for.” He leaned forward slightly. “And between you and me, a friendly face around here might be just what our Eveline needs.”
Emery felt her face grow even warmer. “I'm just here to shelve books,” she insisted, though she couldn't quite meet his knowing gaze.
“Mmmm,” was all Abe said.
Before Emery could respond, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Eveline appeared.
Emery's heart did a small flip at the sight of her, dressed in a simple green dress that somehow managed to look impossibly elegant.
She looked effortlessly beautiful in a way that made Emery very aware of her own coffee-stained t-shirt and unruly hair.
“Good morning,” Eveline said, her accent slightly more pronounced than it had been yesterday. Her gaze lingered briefly on Emery, a flicker of something, relief or maybe just recognition, crossing her features.
The shop bell rang. A young man with a clipboard appeared at the delivery entrance, pushing a dolly piled with boxes.
“Morning delivery for The Turned Page,” he announced, grinning broadly. His dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that suggested he'd just got out of bed, and his eyes were bright green.
“Just in time, Ollie,” Eveline said, moving to sign his clipboard.
Ollie lifted the first box. “Three shipments today. New releases, special orders, and…” he lowered his voice dramatically, "…romance novels." He emphasized the last words with a playful grimace.
He spotted Emery, and his expression brightened with curiosity. “New face?” he asked. “Did Clare finally escape to Lisbon?”
“Emery,” she said, waving awkwardly and narrowly avoiding knocking over a stack of bookmarks. “Just started yesterday, actually.”
“Oliver Rodriguez,” he replied, “but everyone calls me Ollie. I bring the books and occasionally wisdom. Sometimes I even deliver them in the right order.” He winked.
“Wisdom is debatable,” Eveline muttered, but there was a hint of affection in her voice as she checked the delivery against her order sheet. “Emery, could you help bring these boxes in? Zara needs to open the register for the day.”
Together, they carried the delivery inside, stacking the boxes near the counter.
Emery couldn't help but notice one labeled ‘Emerald Pearl: 20 copies’ and felt a strange mix of pride and panic.
Her own books, here, in this shop, about to be handled by the woman who apparently despised everything they represented.
It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, terrifying, but somehow impossible to look away from.
“You'll like it here,” Ollie told her as he prepared to leave, gathering his clipboard and empty dolly.
“Despite the grumpy facade, this is the best shop on my route. Good books, good people.” He glanced meaningfully at Eveline, who was cutting open boxes with a small silver letter opener.
“And despite what some might say, there's a heart of gold under all that French frost.”
“I heard that,” Eveline called without looking up.
Ollie grinned, not the least bit embarrassed at being caught. “See you tomorrow, ladies. And Abe,” he added with a respectful nod to the old man, who raised his teacup in salute.
After he left, Emery found herself assigned to unpacking the new arrivals, including, to her horror and amusement, a stack of her own novels.
Her hands shook as she lifted the first copy of When a Bride Meets a Groom from the box, the glossy cover featuring an embracing couple in silhouette against a sunset skyline.
Twenty copies. Twenty opportunities for someone to recognize her name, her photo on the back flap, to expose her charade before it had barely begun.
She glanced over at Zara, who was busy helping a customer find a specific edition of Wuthering Heights, then at Eveline, whose attention was focused on a leather-bound collection of poetry she was examining with reverent hands.
She flicked the book open and stared at herself.
To be fair, she’d had professionals working on her.
Her hair was smooth, her face made-up, and she was at an angle to the camera.
It would, she decided, be rather hard to connect the glamorous author picture to the chaotic bookshop assistant. Or she hoped it would be.
With a silent prayer to whatever literary gods might be listening, she carefully arranged her books on the shelf designated for new releases in the romance section, which she noted with a touch of irritation had indeed been relegated to the very back corner of the shop.
She ran her finger along the spine of the top copy, the gold-embossed letters of Emerald Pearl catching the light.
This whole situation was absurd. The sensible part of her brain, the part that paid bills and remembered to water plants, was screaming at her to end this farce now.
But then there was the other part, the part that created stories, that lived for the unexpected twist, the surprising connections.
That part was thoroughly enjoying itself.
She sighed. Maybe she should just quit now, before things got any more complicated. She probably should.
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. A middle-aged woman stood nearby. “Do you have the latest Emerald Pearl? My book club is reading it.”
“It's right—” Emery began, but Eveline appeared beside her.
“Here,” Eveline said, reaching for one of the books Emery had just shelved. Their hands brushed briefly, and Emery felt a jolt of warmth at the contact.
Eveline handed the book to the customer. “I don't understand why people read this rubbish,” she muttered, just loudly enough for Emery to hear.
Emery froze.
She closed her eyes, but she suddenly knew exactly what she hoped to achieve by staying. It wasn't just about research or inspiration.
It was about the woman who was currently ringing up a romance novel with an expression of exaggerated suffering, whose dark eyes kept finding Emery's across the shop, whose accidental touch had sent electricity coursing through her veins.
She was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.