“I’m serious,” said Jax. “Your books are all about passion and romance, but when was the last time you actually experienced either?”
“I write fiction, Jax. It’s not an autobiography.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” Jax leaned forward, blue eyes serious despite her teasing tone. “You’re writing about things that you’re not letting yourself experience. How many times have your heroines fallen madly in love at first sight?”
“That’s different,” Emery protested weakly.
“Is it? Because the Emery Parker I know can’t even order a coffee from that sexy new barista across the road without turning into a human disaster, let alone sweep someone off their feet.”
Emery threw a cushion at her. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, I’m your best friend. If I don’t give you tough love, then who will?” Jax said, dodging the cushion effortlessly. “Besides, I didn’t just come here to harass you about your non-existent love life. I actually came to remind you about your book signing tomorrow, which is why Domi has been blowing your phone up, by the way.”
Emery blinked. “What signing?”
“Jesus, did you really forget?” Jax looked genuinely alarmed now. “The one at that bookshop in Notting Hill? The one that Domi’s been reminding you about for weeks.”
A vague memory surfaced in Emery’s writer’s-block-hazed brain. “That’s tomorrow?”
“Yes, Einstein. It’s at ten thirty. Please tell me you were actually planning on showing up?”
Emery winced. “Obviously, I was.”
Jax didn’t look particularly convinced. “Should I give you a wake up call?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” said Emery. “I’ve got this. It’ll be fine. Just a signing, that’s all.”
Her phone buzzed again, and this time she made the mistake of glancing at it. Domi’s text was a string of question marks and exclamation points, followed by: PICK YOUR PHONE UP OR I’M COMING OVER!
“I should probably call her back,” Emery sighed.
“Probably,” Jax agreed, gathering up empty food containers. “And while you’re at it, maybe give what I said a bit of thought. You can’t keep living vicariously through your characters, Em. At some point, you’re going to have to be the protagonist in your very own love story.”
Emery watched as Jax headed into the kitchen, wondering not for the first time how she could be so confident, so comfortable in her own skin. It was easy for her to say all this, she wasn’t the one who had to pretend to be someone else half the time.
The truth was that Emery Parker wasn’t the sophisticated and sensual Emerald Pearl that her readers imagined. She was just a clumsy, slightly awkward, mostly normal, kind of woman who happened to be quite good at writing about the sort of passion that she’d never actually experienced herself.
Her phone buzzed yet again.
I mean it, Emery. Call me or I’m sending out a search party. And by a search party, I mean ME.
She couldn’t help smiling. For all her dramatic threats, she knew that Domi cared. Jax too, for that matter. They wanted her to succeed, to be happy. They just didn’t understand that Emery didn’t know how to be the sort of woman who swept into rooms and turned heads. That was Emerald Pearl’s territory, not hers.
She looked at her coffee-soaked laptop and sighed. The small one-bedroom flat around her was chaotic. Books were stacked precariously on every surface, research notes were scattered on the floor, and there were at least three half-empty coffee mugs on her desk. She could afford a cleaning lady. She could afford a bigger flat.
She wandered over to the window, peering out at the bustling London street below. People hurried past, couples holding hands and friends laughing together, people living the kind of stories that she only wrote about. She pressed her head against the cool glass, her breath fogging the pane.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? Jax was right. Emerald Pearl wrote about women who commanded rooms, who spoke their minds and followed their desires. Women full of confidence and grace. Emery Parker couldn’t command a goldfish.
In her books, heroines swept into ballrooms in flowing gowns, uttering witty remarks that made everyone fall instantly in love with them. The only word in that sentence that could apply to Emery Parker was fall. And her hair always stuck out at odd angles.
She traced an idle pattern in the steam her breath had left on the glass. Tomorrow she’d pretend to be Emerald. She’d brush her hair properly, put makeup on. She’d smile and chat and be as confident as her readers expected. She’d sign books with a flourish and answer questions with authority. Almost as if shehadn’t spent her last three Friday nights in a row eating ice cream on her couch instead of actually dating.
And maybe by tomorrow afternoon her laptop would be dry enough that it would consent to being switched on. That way, she could try to go back to writing about love, rather than actually having to find it.
Chapter Two
Eveline Auclair unlocked the connecting door to The Turned Page with a practiced flick of her wrist, the familiar jingle of her shop keys providing the only cheerful note to her morning so far. Her normal shower had been cool and distinctly lacking in pressure, a far from perfect start to her day.
