Chapter Eighteen
Emery woke up on the morning of the Romance Book Club's tenth anniversary meeting with a flutter of nervous excitement in her stomach.
She'd spent half the night writing and the other half tossing and turning, thinking about Eveline. At this point, she was so sleep-deprived she wasn’t sure she could remember what sleep felt like.
Today felt important, though she couldn't quite articulate why. Perhaps it was because the bookshop had become more than just a job. Perhaps it was because Eveline had become more than just… well, more than just anything she could define.
She arrived at The Turned Page an hour early to find Maya and Zara already there, transforming the shop with fairy lights, flowers, and a rather impressive display of romance novels arranged in a heart shape.
“Bit much?” Emery asked, pointing at the heart.
“Absolutely not,” Maya said firmly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Ten years of romance deserves a proper celebration.”
“Besides,” Zara added, balancing precariously on a ladder as she hung fairy lights from the ceiling, “we're expecting at least twice the usual crowd. My social media campaign has been wildly successful.”
Emery's stomach tightened. “Twice the usual crowd?”
“At least. The anniversary post has been shared over five hundred times. Mrs. Hampton is thrilled. She's bringing a special cake.”
“Speaking of cakes,” Maya said, “I've made thematic pastries for the occasion. Rose-flavored eclairs.”
“Of course you have,” Emery muttered, grinning to herself. “Need any help?”
She busied herself with arranging chairs in a wider circle than usual, trying to ignore the growing knot of anxiety in her chest. More people meant more chances of being recognized.
“You look like you're plotting a bank heist, not setting up for a book club,” came Eveline's voice, startling Emery out of her thoughts.
She turned to find Eveline watching her with an amused expression, looking unfairly gorgeous in a deep burgundy dress that hugged her curves in a way that made Emery temporarily forget how to speak.
“Just… um, concentrating,” Emery said. “Lot of chairs to arrange.”
“Mmm,” Eveline said, clearly unconvinced. Her eyes drifted to the heart-shaped display, and she sighed. “Maya's work, I presume?”
“Who else?”
Eveline shook her head but didn't demand its removal, which Emery noted as yet another sign of how much the bookshop owner had softened toward romance novels, or at least toward the people who loved them.
“I brought something for the celebration,” Eveline said, producing a bottle of champagne from behind her back. “Mrs. Hampton mentioned the club started in her living room with just three members and a bottle of cheap prosecco. I thought we might upgrade the tradition.”
Emery blinked in surprise. “That's really thoughtful of you.”
“Don't sound so shocked,” Eveline said, but there was a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I'm capable of being civil, even about things I don't particularly care for.”
“I know that,” Emery said quickly. “I just didn't expect… never mind. It's perfect.”
Their eyes met for a moment, and Emery felt that now-familiar flutter in her chest, the one that made her want to step closer and run away simultaneously.
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, the shop was packed. Mrs. Hampton held court in the center, resplendent in a dress patterned with book covers, while Zara flitted about taking photos “for the archive” (and Instagram, Emery suspected).
Maya's rose eclairs were a hit, and even Abe had made an appearance, settled comfortably in his usual chair with a glass of champagne and a twinkle in his eye.
Emery moved through the crowd, refilling glasses and making introductions, acutely aware of Eveline doing the same on the other side of the room. Every so often, their eyes would meet across the sea of people, and Emery would feel a jolt of something.
Mrs. Hampton tapped her glass for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the tenth anniversary of our beloved Romance Book Club!” A cheer went up from the crowd.
“When we started in my living room a decade ago, I never imagined we'd grow to this.
But love stories have a way of bringing people together, don't they?”
Emery smiled, caught up in the genuine enthusiasm of the group.
For all her complicated feelings about her secret identity, moments like these reminded her why she wrote romance in the first place.
Because love stories mattered to people.
Because sometimes, in a world that could be cruel and cold, hope was the most radical act of all.
“And now,” Mrs. Hampton continued, “since we're celebrating with Emerald Pearl's work, I'd like to open the floor for discussion. What is it about her novels that speaks to you?”
For the next half hour, Emery listened in a state of stunned pleasure as people shared what her books had meant to them.
A woman in her seventies talked about rediscovering joy after her husband's death.
A shy teenager admitted Pearl's novels had helped her understand her own feelings.
Even Zara chimed in with a passionate analysis of feminist themes that made Emery want to hug her.
Then a voice cut through the warm atmosphere like a knife.
“I don't understand what all the fuss is about,” said a man in his thirties, leaning against the poetry section with a look of smug condescension. “They're just unrealistic fantasies for desperate people, aren't they? Cotton candy for the brain.”
A hush fell over the room. Emery recognized him as one of the newcomers Zara had mentioned, a literary critic who'd come “out of professional curiosity.”
Mrs. Hampton drew herself up, ready to defend her beloved genre, but before she could speak, Eveline stepped forward.
“You think so?” she asked, her French accent gliding over the words. “And what exactly makes them 'unrealistic'? The emotion? The connection? The hope?”
The man smirked. “The ridiculous notion that love conquers all. That two people can overcome any obstacle just because they have feelings for each other. Real life isn't that simple.”
“No, it isn't,” Eveline agreed. “Real life is complicated and often painful. Which is precisely why these books matter.”
She moved to the heart-shaped display, running her fingers along the spines of the novels. “They remind us that vulnerability requires courage. That connection is worth the risk of heartbreak. That hope… hope is not foolish, but necessary.”
Emery stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest.
“These books don't promise that love is easy,” Eveline said. “They promise that love is possible. Even for the guarded, the damaged, the afraid.” Her eyes briefly met Emery's across the room. “Even for those who've been hurt before.”
The critic opened his mouth to argue, but Eveline wasn't finished.
“You call them fantasies for desperate people? I call them blueprints for brave ones.” She lifted one of Emery's books, When a Bride Meets a Groom, and held it up.
“The characters in this novel don't fall in love despite their flaws and fears.
They fall in love with their whole imperfect selves.
And isn't that the most realistic fantasy of all? To be truly seen and loved anyway?”
Silence hung in the air for a heartbeat before Mrs. Hampton started clapping. Others joined in until the whole shop was filled with applause.
Emery couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Eveline's words had pierced straight through her, leaving her raw and exposed. Because she'd heard more than a defense of romance novels. She'd heard a woman who'd been hurt learning to believe in love again.
THE REST OF the evening passed in a blur. There were toasts and cake and discussions, but Emery moved through it all in a daze, Eveline's words echoing in her mind. Then the last guest finally departed, leaving them alone in the shop.
“That was quite an event,” she said, gathering empty glasses.
“Indeed,” Eveline said, moving beside her to collect scattered napkins. “I think Mrs. Hampton was pleased.”
“She wasn't the only one,” Emery said, setting down the glasses and turning to face Eveline.
The shop was dimly lit now, most of the lights turned off except for a few fairy lights that cast a soft, golden glow. Eveline looked almost mystical in the gentle light, her expression unguarded in a way Emery rarely saw.
“Perhaps I've been too quick to judge what I don't understand,” Eveline said softly.
She stepped closer, close enough that Emery could smell her perfume, a subtle hint of vanilla. With gentle fingers, Eveline reached up and let her hand linger against Emery's cheek.
The touch was electric, sending shivers down Emery's spine. Their eyes locked, and Emery saw her own desire mirrored in Eveline's dark gaze. The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken possibility.
“Eveline, I—” Emery began.
Then her phone rang, shrill and insistent in her pocket.
“Sorry, I should…” Emery gestured helplessly at the phone.
Eveline stepped back, the moment broken. “Of course. Take your call.”
Emery moved away reluctantly. “Hello?”
“Where are my pages?” Domi demanded, not bothering with pleasantries. “The deadline was yesterday, Emery. Your publisher is breathing down my neck.”
“I know, I'm sorry,” Emery said, watching as Eveline busied herself straightening books, her back turned but tension visible in her shoulders. “I'll send them tonight, I promise.”
“You'd better,” Domi warned. “This isn't just about missing a deadline. It's about your career. Your future. You need to decide what you really want, Emery. And stop messing about in that damn bookshop.”
Decide what she really wanted.
“I'll send them,” Emery said, then ended the call.
She turned back to find Eveline watching her, something unreadable in her expression.
“Everything alright?” Eveline asked.
“Yes, just… family stuff,” Emery lied, hating herself for it. “I should probably go.”
Eveline nodded, the warmth of moments ago replaced by polite distance. “Of course. It's late.”
They finished cleaning up in uncomfortable silence, the magic of earlier evaporated. As Emery gathered her things to leave, she felt the weight of regret. The moment had been perfect, and she'd ruined it with her lies.
“Goodnight, Emery,” Eveline said as she locked the shop door behind her.
“Goodnight,” Emery whispered.
She walked away. She made it halfway down the block before stopping in a quiet side street, overwhelmed.
She had to decide what she wanted. She grinned. She already knew. She was in love with Eveline. Completely, hopelessly in love. And she couldn't keep lying to her.
“I love Eveline,” she whispered to the empty street, testing the words in the cool night air. They felt right. She looked back at the darkened bookshop in the distance, the faint glow of light visible from the upstairs window. “I love Eveline.”