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 ofWhen a Bride Meets a Groomfrom 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.
Chapter Eight
Emery arrived at The Turned Page earlier than strictly necessary, clutching a bag of still-warm croissants from the bakery by her flat. She'd been working at the bookshop for a week now, and she was starting to understand its rhythms, the quiet mornings when Abe would shuffle in for his tea, the mid-afternoon rush of students seeking reference materials, and the peaceful evenings when she and Eveline would close up together. She’d worked every day, though she didn’t strictly have to, only rushing home at night to start work on her manuscript.
She breathed in the familiar scent of books and polish as she let herself in with the spare key Eveline had grudgingly provided ‘for emergencies only.’ This wasn't exactly an emergency, but Emery did want to get a head start on organizing the new shipment of poetry collections that had arrived yesterday.
The shop was peaceful in the early morning light. Emery moved quietly toward the back room, where she'd left the inventory list. She'd just reached for the light switch when a voice from the darkness nearly scared her out of her skin.
“What are you doing here so early?”
Emery yelped, jumping backward and sending the bag of croissants flying through the air. They landed with a soft thud on top of a stack of boxes.
“Eveline! God, you scared me half to death.” Emery clutched her chest. “Do you always lurk in dark corners, waiting to terrify your employees?”
Eveline emerged from the shadows, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual knot, though a few rebellious strands had already escaped to frame her face. Even at this ungodly hour, she looked unreasonably put-together in a blouse and pencil skirt.
“I wasn't lurking,” she said with a sniff. “I was inventorying.”
“In the dark?”
“Alright, I was thinking.” Eveline's gaze fell on the paper bag that had landed on top of the boxes. “What's that?”
“Breakfast,” Emery said, retrieving the bag. “I thought I'd come in early to sort out those poetry collections, and I then I thought it might be hungry work.” She pulled out a slightly squashed croissant and offered it out. “They were a bit more impressive before their flight across the storeroom.”
To Emery's surprise, Eveline's lips twitched into something close to a smile. “I suppose they'll taste the same,” she said, accepting the offer. “Thank you.”
They sat on boxes in silence, munching on croissants and sipping coffee as the morning light gradually brightened the shop. Emery couldn't help sneaking glances at Eveline, noticing how the sunlight caught in her dark hair, giving it almost auburn highlights.
“You're staring,” Eveline said without looking up from the inventory list she was reviewing.
Emery felt her cheeks flush. “Sorry. I was just… thinking.”
