“A dangerous pastime.”
“Ha ha.” Emery brushed croissant flakes from her hands. “Actually, I was wondering about your system for categorizing the poetry collections. It seems… unique.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, she had been wondering. It just wasn’t the only thing she’d been wondering about.
Eveline looked up, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Emery began cautiously, “most shops organize by author or time period, but you've got this whole… emotional taxonomy thing going on.”
“It's not emotional,” Eveline said. “It's thematic.”
“You've got a section labeled 'For When Everything Feels Hopeless But Maybe It Isn't,'” Emery said. “That's pretty emotional.”
Eveline's cheeks colored. “It's practical. People don't come in asking for 'early modernist poetry'. They want something that speaks to what they're feeling.”
Emery grinned, delighted by this unexpected glimpse beneath Eveline's carefully maintained exterior. “I like it. It's personal.”
“It's efficient,” Eveline corrected, but there was no real bite to her words.
They worked side by side for the next hour, organizing the new collections according to Eveline's peculiar system. Emery was surprised at how easily they fell into a rhythm, passing books back and forth, occasionally debating the proper category for a volume.
“This one definitely belongs in 'Words to Whisper to the Moon,'” Emery said, holding up a slim volume of nature poems.
Eveline snatched it from her hands, flipping through the pages with a critical eye. “No, no. It's clearly for 'When the World Is Too Loud.'”
“How can you tell?” Emery protested. “They're both about quiet and reflection.”
“Yes, but this one,” Eveline tapped the book, “is about finding stillness within chaos. The other section is for poetry that celebrates solitude.”
Emery blinked, then sighed. “You've really thought this through.”
“Of course I have,” Eveline said with a soft snort. “It's my shop.”
As they continued working, their hands occasionally brushed, sending little jolts of electricity up Emery's arm. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but found her mind wandering to the growing list of observations she was mentally cataloging about Eveline for her novel. Or perhaps for other reasons.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating. How her French accent became stronger when she was tired or annoyed. The gentle way she handled the books, as if each one contained some precious secret.
“Emery?” Eveline's voice broke through her daydreaming.
“Hmm?” Emery looked up, realizing she'd been staring blankly at the same book for several minutes.
“I asked if you could help that customer.” Eveline nodded toward a shy-looking teenager hovering near the back of the shop.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Emery hurried over, grateful for the distraction.
The boy was lanky with acne-spattered cheeks and nervous eyes, standing in front of the LGBTQ+ fiction section, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Can I help you find something?” Emery asked with a smile.
“Um…” the boy mumbled, looking around as if afraid of being overheard. “I'm looking for a book. For a… friend.”
“What kind of book?” Emery asked.
Before the boy could answer, Eveline appeared beside them.
“Perhaps your friend would enjoy this one,” she said, pulling a book from the shelf. “It's about a young man discovering his identity. It's beautifully written, and the author has a wonderful way of capturing those first, confusing feelings of self-discovery.” Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact, without a hint of judgment.
The boy took the book, his eyes darting between the two women. “Is it… um, is it obvious? You know, what happens? What it’s about?”
“The cover is quite discreet,” Eveline said. “And we can put it in a bag, if you'd prefer.”
