Chapter Ten
Emery arrived at the bookshop early, hoping to prepare for the day before Eveline appeared.
She was still a little shaken about the whole book club ordeal.
But it hadn’t been like she could say no.
Still, she was almost certainly digging her own grave.
On the bright side, her manuscript was finally taking shape, and she'd been up half the night typing furiously, afraid the words might abandon her again.
Her protagonist, a guarded bookshop owner with a mysterious past, was developing wonderfully, and if she bore certain similarities to a real-life French bookseller, well, that was purely for authenticity's sake. Right?
She was shelving new arrivals when the phone rang. Seeing no sign of Eveline yet, she picked it up.
“The Turned Page, how may I help you?”
“So it's true. You do actually work at a bookshop now.”
Emery nearly dropped the phone. “Domi! How did you—”
“Please, darling. I'm your agent. Finding wayward authors is my specialty.” Domi's tone was dangerously silky. “Though I'll admit, when Jax finally told me where you've been hiding, I thought she was joking.”
“I'm not hiding,” Emery said, lowering her voice and glancing toward the door to ensure Eveline wasn't about to walk in. “And I'm not neglecting my writing. I wrote five thousand words last night.”
“Five thousand words of what, exactly? Ways I've Destroyed My Career by Playing Shopgirl?”
“It's good, Domi. Really good. The book is working now.”
“Mmm.” The skepticism in Domi's voice was palpable. “Send me pages. Today.”
“I will, I promise.” Emery tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she continued arranging books. “The writing is flowing again. This job is helping, believe it or not.”
“What would help more is if you'd show up to the events I arrange for you. Do you have any idea how much damage control I had to do after you missed that signing?”
Emery winced. “I know, I'm sorry. It was…”
“A disaster,” Domi finished for her. “But what's done is done. Now I need to know you're taking this seriously, Emery. Your publisher isn't exactly thrilled with the delays, and they're expecting something spectacular to make up for it.”
“They'll get it,” Emery said with more confidence than she felt. “I just need a little more time.”
“Time, I can give you. What worries me is this… distraction.” Domi sighed audibly. “Tell me honestly. Is this about the woman? The bookshop owner?”
Emery fumbled a hardcover, which landed with a thud on her foot. “Ow! What? No! I mean… how did you…”
“Jax talks when she drinks,” Domi said dryly. “Something about a 'gorgeous French bookshop owner' who 'hates romance novels' and you being 'completely smitten.' Her words, not mine.”
“I am not smitten,” Emery hissed into the phone, her cheeks burning. “I'm conducting research.”
“Is that what they're calling it these days?” Domi's laugh was sharp. “Darling, I don't care if you want to play out some bizarre romantic comedy fantasy. Just make sure it doesn't interfere with your actual career, you know, the one that pays both our mortgages.”
“It's not interfering,” Emery said. “If anything, it's helping. She's inspiring.”
“She hates romance novels,” Domi reminded her. “Your romance novels, specifically.”
“She… doesn't know they're mine,” Emery said, then immediately regretted it.
The silence on the other end of the line was terrifying.
“Let me get this straight,” Domi finally said. “You're working for a woman who despises romance novels, while actively hiding the fact that you're one of the bestselling romance novelists in the country?”
“Um… yes?”
“Emery Parker, you have officially lost your mind.” Domi's voice had moved beyond anger into pure disbelief.
“Do you have any idea what a disaster this will be when she finds out? And she will find out, by the way. Secrets like this always come to light, usually in the most spectacularly messy way possible.”
“I know, I know,” Emery groaned, dropping her forehead against a shelf. “But I can't quit now. I've found my muse, Domi. This is the best writing I've done in years.”
“Your muse is a woman who would hate everything you stand for if she knew who you really were.” Domi paused. “God, that actually would make a decent plot for one of your books.”
Emery sighed. “I'm kind of already writing it.”
“Of course you are.” Domi's voice held a hint of reluctant amusement. “Fine. Keep playing your little game, but remember, I need pages. Real pages, not just promises. And when this all blows up in your face, don't expect me to help with the damage control.”
“It won't blow up,” Emery said, not at all sure she was telling the truth.
“Right. And I'm secretly the Queen of England.”
“I'll be careful,” Emery said.
“Good. Send me those pages by tonight.”
The line went dead just as the connecting door from upstairs opened. Emery hastily replaced the phone and whirled around, nearly colliding with a display of bookmarks.
Eveline stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised. “Everything alright?”
“Fine! Totally fine,” Emery said, her voice an octave too high. “Just… a call from my age— um… my aunt. My aunt who is very… agent-like. In her… aunt-ing.”
Eveline's dark eyes narrowed slightly. “You seem flustered this morning.”
“Me? No. Just excited about books. So many books to arrange. I love arranging books. Don't you love arranging books? I could arrange books all day.”
“Mmm.” Eveline slid behind the counter. “Well, when you're done professing your love for arranging books, there's a new shipment in the back that needs processing.”
“Right. Yes. On it.” Emery scurried toward the storeroom, grateful for the escape.
What was wrong with her? She'd never been good at lying, but around Eveline, she was spectacularly bad at it. Every half-truth felt like it was written across her forehead in flashing neon letters.
This couldn't end well. Domi was right about that. But as Emery sorted through boxes of new arrivals, she couldn't bring herself to care about the inevitable fallout. Not when every interaction with Eveline gave her another piece of the puzzle, another layer to explore in her writing.
Not when she'd started looking forward to coming to work each day in a way that had nothing to do with research and everything to do with the woman who was currently arranging flowers by the front window, sunlight catching in her dark hair.
???
Eveline arranged a bouquet of autumn flowers in the window display, conscious of Emery moving about in the stockroom.
The younger woman had been acting strangely all morning, stranger than usual, which was saying something.
That phone call had clearly unsettled her, though Eveline couldn't imagine why a conversation with one's aunt would provoke such obvious nervousness.
Unless, of course, it hadn't been her aunt at all.
Emery Parker was hiding something. This wasn't a new realization, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
The way she occasionally dropped industry terms that casual readers wouldn't know, the way she sometimes spoke about authors with a familiarity that suggested personal acquaintance, the mysterious “emergencies” that seemed to crop up with suspicious regularity and required her to answer the phone, or even leave a little early.
Eveline should probably care more about these inconsistencies. She should probably be concerned about having an employee who was clearly not being entirely truthful. And yet, somehow, her curiosity about Emery outweighed her suspicion.
She glanced toward the stockroom, catching a glimpse of Emery's curly hair as she moved between shelves.
There was something endearing about her clumsiness, about the enthusiasm she brought to even the most mundane tasks.
Something genuine that shone through despite whatever secrets she might be keeping.
It was… troubling.
Eveline had built her life in London carefully, deliberately, after running away from Paris. She knew that she’d built walls around herself, and that was just fine by her.
And yet, she kept finding reasons to work alongside Emery, to linger near her as she helped customers, to watch the way her face lit up when she discovered a book she loved on the shelves.
“Nice flowers.”
Eveline startled at the sound of Maya's voice. She hadn't heard the bell, too lost in her thoughts. “Don't you have a bakery to run?”
Maya grinned, setting a box on the counter. “Morning lull. Thought I'd bring over some of those almond croissants you pretend not to love.”
“How thoughtful,” Eveline said dryly, but she was already reaching for one.
Maya leaned on the counter. “Where's your charming assistant today?”
“Unpacking shipments.” Eveline took a bite of croissant. “And she's not 'my' anything.”
“No?” Maya's eyes twinkled. “Could have fooled me, the way you watch her when you think no one's looking.”
Eveline choked slightly on her pastry. “I don't… that's absurd…”
“It's not absurd to be interested in someone, Eveline,” Maya said gently. “It's human.”
“I'm her employer,” Eveline said. “Nothing more.”
“Mmm.” Maya clearly wasn't convinced. “If you say so, dear. Though I could swear I saw her watching you just as intently yesterday when you were helping that young boy find poetry for his mother's birthday.”
Eveline felt her cheeks warm. “You're imagining things.”
“Am I?” Maya smiled innocently. “My mistake, then. A bit odd how you’re developing an interest in romance books, though. Like with the book club and all…”
“Market research,” Eveline said primly. “Know your enemy.”
Maya laughed, and before Eveline could say another word, Emery emerged from the stockroom. She brightened at the sight of Maya.
“Maya! I thought I smelled something delicious.”
“Fresh from the oven,” Maya confirmed, pushing the box toward her. “Help yourself, dear. You look like you could use the energy.”
Emery set down her stack of books and reached for a pastry, nearly knocking over a small display of bookmarks in the process. Eveline caught them before they fell, her fingers brushing against Emery's.
The contact was brief, electric. Emery's eyes widened slightly, meeting Eveline's for a moment before she looked away, cheeks flushing.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Clumsy as always.”
“It's fine,” Eveline said, her voice sounding strange.
Maya looked between them, amusement in her eyes. “Well, I should get back before the afternoon rush. Enjoy the croissants, ladies.”
After Maya left, an awkward silence fell between them. Emery busied herself arranging the books she'd brought out, while Eveline pretended to be deeply interested in the shop's ledger.
“So,” Emery finally said, “I noticed you've been looking through the romance section lately.”
Eveline glanced up, caught off-guard. “Just familiarizing myself with the inventory.”
“Hmm.” Emery sniffed. “And, um, what did you think? About the Emerald Pearl book? You know, for book club.”
“It’s…” Eveline searched for a suitably dismissive term, but found herself hesitating. The truth was, she'd found herself unexpectedly drawn into the story. “It wasn’t entirely without merit,” she admitted reluctantly.
Emery's face lit up with such genuine pleasure that Eveline felt momentarily disarmed.
“Really? I thought you hated romance novels?”
“I do,” Eveline said quickly. “They're unrealistic and formulaic. No one falls in love that quickly, or that completely. It's all a fantasy.”
“What's wrong with fantasy?” Emery challenged.
Eveline sighed. “These books make people believe in a kind of love that simply doesn't exist.”
“You sound like you're speaking from experience,” Emery said.
The observation hit too close to home. Eveline turned away, busying herself with straightening books that were already perfectly aligned.
“My point is,” she said, more sharply than she'd intended, “romance novels are nothing but silly fantasies. They have nothing to do with real life or real love.” She could feel Emery watching her.
“Maybe sometimes we need fantasy,” Emery said, her voice soft. “Reality can be hard enough.”
Eveline looked up, surprised by the hint of sadness in Emery's tone. For a moment, they simply gazed at each other.
Then the shop bell jingled as a customer entered, breaking the spell.