Chapter Twenty
Emery stood beside Eveline as she locked the shop door, the little bell giving one last jingle as it swung shut.
The day had been pleasantly busy, with a steady stream of customers drawn in by the newly prominent romance section.
Several times, Emery had caught Eveline smiling to herself as she rang up copies of books she'd once dismissed as “mindless drivel.” The transformation was subtle, but undeniable. Emery couldn’t help but think that she had something to do with all this.
“Good day,” Emery said, watching Eveline pocket the keys.
“Very good,” Eveline said, her dark eyes meeting Emery's. “Maybe we should celebrate.”
Emery's heart did a little skip. “Celebrate?”
“A glass of wine, maybe?” Eveline suggested, her voice casual, but maybe a little too casual. “We could discuss the upcoming author events upstairs. If you're not busy, that is?”
“Upstairs,” Emery repeated dumbly. “In your flat?” Was this what she thought it was?
Eveline laughed. “Unless you'd prefer to drink wine standing on the pavement?”
“No, no, upstairs is good,” Emery said quickly, mentally kicking herself for sounding so awkward. “I'm not busy. At all. Completely free. Nothing else to do at all.”
Was it her imagination, or did relief flicker across Eveline's face? “Excellent,” was all Eveline said, gesturing toward the side door that led to her flat. “After you.”
Emery had been in the shop dozens of times, but it was her first time in Eveline's private space.
The narrow staircase opened into a surprisingly spacious living area, all clean lines and minimalist décor.
A comfortable-looking sofa faced large windows that overlooked the street, and bookshelves lined the walls, no surprise there.
“It's lovely,” Emery said, meaning it. The space felt both elegant and comfortable, home-like rather than designed.
“It's home,” Eveline said. She moved to the small kitchen area, retrieving a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Emery settled on the sofa, trying not to look as nervous as she felt. This wasn't a date, she reminded herself. They were discussing work. Author events. Completely professional. Not at all what she’d been thinking at first. Which was fine. Appropriate.
But why was her heart beating double-time?
“Here we are,” Eveline said, joining her on the sofa and pouring two generous glasses. The cushion dipped slightly under her weight, bringing them closer together than Emery had anticipated. “To a successful day,” she said, raising her glass.
“To, um, unexpected changes,” said Emery, clinking her glass against Eveline's.
They sipped in silence for a moment, something indefinable but not uncomfortable in the air.
“So,” Emery finally said, desperate to fill the silence before she did something ridiculous like blurt out her feelings, “author events?”
“Actually,” Eveline said, “that, um, might have been a pretext.”
“Oh?” Emery's pulse quickened. Now she was just confused. And, to be honest, slightly turned on.
“I wanted to continue our conversation. The one that keeps getting interrupted.” Eveline turned slightly to face her better. “Unless you'd rather talk about book ordering schedules?”
Emery laughed, relaxing a little. “Surprisingly, I think I can wait on those.”
The conversation flowed more easily after that.
Eveline talked about her childhood in Provence, summers spent reading under olive trees and learning to make lavender honey with her grandmother.
Emery shared edited versions of her own past, her writing career carefully omitted, focusing instead on her love of books and the tiny flat she could barely afford when she first moved to London.
“I had a roommate who collected ceramic frogs,” she recalled, gesturing with her wine glass. “Hundreds of them, all staring at me while I slept. Terrifying, really.”
Eveline laughed, the sound warming Emery from within better than any wine. “And yet you survived to tell the tale.”
“Barely,” Emery said with mock seriousness. “I still can't look at lily pads without flinching.”
As they talked, they had gradually shifted closer on the sofa. What had begun as a respectable distance had shrunk to mere inches, their knees almost touching. Eveline's perfume, that vanilla scent again, enveloped Emery, making it very difficult to focus on anything but the woman next to her.
“You’ve, um, got a leaf in your hair,” Eveline said suddenly, reaching out. “From those new plants by the shop door, I think.”
Her fingers brushed Emery's cheek as she reached for the imaginary leaf, because surely there was no leaf, this was just an excuse to touch her, wasn't it, and lingered there, warm against Emery's skin.
Time stopped. Emery's breath caught in her throat as Eveline's eyes met hers, a question in them. Emery answered by leaning forward, closing the final distance between them.
Their lips met in a tentative, questioning kiss. Soft, barely there, a whisper of contact that sent electricity pulsing through Emery's veins. She pulled back slightly, heart pounding, searching Eveline's face for confirmation that this wasn't a terrible mistake.
What she saw made her breath catch. Eveline's eyes had darkened, her lips parted in a silent invitation that Emery couldn't resist. She leaned in again, and this time there was nothing tentative about it.
The kiss deepened, Eveline's hand sliding into Emery's curls, holding her close as though afraid she might pull away.
Emery had no such intention. She had written countless kisses in her novels, scenes of passion that had made readers' hearts race, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of Eveline's mouth on hers, warm and sweet with the lingering taste of wine.
When they finally parted, both slightly breathless, Eveline rested her forehead against Emery's. “I've been wanting to do that for weeks,” she confessed, her accent thicker.
“Why didn't you?” Emery asked, her own voice husky.
Eveline smiled. “You seemed to enjoy knocking things over whenever I came near. I was afraid you might bring the whole shop down if I kissed you.”
Emery laughed, the sound turning into a sigh as Eveline's lips found her neck. “That's still a distinct possibility,” she managed to say, her head falling back to grant better access.
Eveline's mouth traced a path along her throat, each press of her lips igniting new heat beneath Emery's skin. “It may be worth the risk,” she murmured against Emery's collarbone.
Emery reached for her, needing to feel more of her, to be closer. Her hands met the silky fabric of Eveline's blouse, hesitating at the top button. “Is this okay?” she whispered.
Eveline's answer was to guide Emery's fingers to the button, helping her undo it before capturing her mouth in another kiss.
Emery worked the remaining buttons free, her hands trembling slightly with anticipation and a hint of nerves.
She was no virgin, but this felt momentous in a way it never had with anyone else.
The blouse fell open to reveal a simple black bra against olive skin, the sight sending a fresh wave of desire through Emery. She traced the edge of the lace with her fingers, watching as Eveline's breath quickened in response.
“You're beautiful,” Emery said, meaning it more than any words she'd ever spoken or written.
Eveline laughed again, her teeth white and straight. “So are you, chérie,” she said, reaching for the hem of Emery's shirt. “May I?”
Emery nodded, lifting her arms to help as Eveline pulled the shirt over her head. Cool air brushed against her skin, until it was replaced by the warmth of Eveline's hands, gentle as they traced patterns on her torso.
“I've imagined this,” Eveline said, her voice low. “Ever since you walked into my shop and destroyed my classic literature display.”
Emery laughed, the sound turning into a gasp as Eveline's thumb brushed across her breast. “That was an accident.”
“This isn't,” Eveline said, repeating the caress with deliberate intent.
It seemed to take hours, clothing falling away piece by piece, every inch of skin kissed and stroked. Hours until Emery could almost stand it no more. And then Eveline stood, pulling Emery up with her. “Come, the bedroom is this way.”
They migrated from sofa to bedroom, a stumbling journey punctuated by kisses and laughter when Emery nearly knocked over a lamp. “See?” Eveline said. “Destruction follows you.”
“Only around you,” Emery said, almost serious. “You make me clumsy because I can't think straight when you're near.”
Eveline looked at her for a moment, then pulled Emery to her bed, laying her down. And Emery almost lost her breath.
She had written many passionate scenes, had imagined countless intimate moments between fictional lovers, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of Eveline's hands and mouth on her body.
The soft brush of dark hair against her skin, the weight of Eveline's breast in her palm, the catch in Eveline's breath when Emery found a particularly sensitive spot.
It was all both exactly as she'd imagined and utterly, wonderfully different.
Eveline's fingers traced a path down her stomach, and Emery's hips rose in instinctive invitation. Eveline paused, looking up to meet Emery's eyes, seeking permission. Emery nodded, she didn’t think she could speak, and then Eveline was touching her, finding her wetness with gentle certainty.
The feeling was overwhelming. Emery clutched at Eveline's shoulders, her body arching as an explosion built within her. Eveline watched her face carefully, learning from each gasp and reaction, adjusting her touch.
“Eveline,” Emery breathed, unable to say more, barely able to remember who she was and where she was.
“I'm here,” Eveline said. “Let go.”
And Emery did, release washing over her and leaving her trembling. Eveline held her, murmuring endearments in a mix of English and French that Emery was too lost to translate.
When she could breathe again, Emery rolled them over. “Not bad,” she said.
“Not bad,” said Eveline. “Ah, I see, your traditional English understatement.”
“Do we understate things?” asked Emery, tracing a fingertip over the curve of Eveline’s breast.
“Yes,” gasped Eveline. “Yes,” this time more urgent as Emery was teasing her nipple. “Yes.”
Emery drew her hands down, parted Eveline’s legs, felt the warmth and wetness between them and couldn’t have held back if she’d wanted to. She slid down, her cheeks against the softness of Eveline’s thighs, and then began to lap.
It was Eveline's turn to gasp and tremble. Emery pushed against her, feeling pressure building up as Eveline thrust her hips upwards to meet her. She slid one, then two fingers inside Eveline, and was greeted by gasps of pleasure. And then Eveline was shuddering, calling out Emery’s name in a voice far rougher than Emery had ever heard it.
And then they lay tangled together, skin cooling in the night air, breath gradually slowing.
“That was…” Eveline began, then seemed to run out of words.
“Yeah,” Emery said, unable to find adequate words herself. “It really was.”
Eveline shifted to look at her, dark eyes serious. “This isn't just…”
“No,” Emery said quickly, knowing what she was asking. “Not for me.”
Eveline's breathed out. “Good,” she said, pulling Emery closer. “Because I don't think I could bear it if it were.”
Emery rested her head on Eveline's chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. The secret she carried felt heavier now. But as Eveline's fingers traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder, Emery couldn't bring herself to shatter this moment with confessions.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, she would find the courage to tell Eveline everything. Why was it always tomorrow?