Emery fumbled a hardcover, which landed with a thud on her foot. “Ow! What? No! I mean… how did you…”
“Jax talks when she drinks,” Domi said dryly. “Something about a 'gorgeous French bookshop owner' who 'hates romance novels' and you being 'completely smitten.' Her words, not mine.”
“I am not smitten,” Emery hissed into the phone, her cheeks burning. “I'm conducting research.”
“Is that what they're calling it these days?” Domi's laugh was sharp. “Darling, I don't care if you want to play out some bizarre romantic comedy fantasy. Just make sure it doesn't interfere with your actual career, you know, the one that pays both our mortgages.”
“It's not interfering,” Emery said. “If anything, it's helping. She's inspiring.”
“She hates romance novels,” Domi reminded her. “Your romance novels, specifically.”
“She… doesn't know they're mine,” Emery said, then immediately regretted it.
The silence on the other end of the line was terrifying.
“Let me get this straight,” Domi finally said. “You're working for a woman who despises romance novels, while actively hiding the fact that you're one of the bestselling romance novelists in the country?”
“Um… yes?”
“Emery Parker, you have officially lost your mind.” Domi's voice had moved beyond anger into pure disbelief. “Do you have any idea what a disaster this will be when she finds out? And she will find out, by the way. Secrets like this always come to light, usually in the most spectacularly messy way possible.”
“I know, I know,” Emery groaned, dropping her forehead against a shelf. “But I can't quit now. I've found my muse, Domi. This is the best writing I've done in years.”
“Your muse is a woman who would hate everything you stand for if she knew who you really were.” Domi paused. “God, that actually would make a decent plot for one of your books.”
Emery sighed. “I'm kind of already writing it.”
“Of course you are.” Domi's voice held a hint of reluctant amusement. “Fine. Keep playing your little game, but remember, I need pages. Real pages, not just promises. Andwhen this all blows up in your face, don't expect me to help with the damage control.”
“It won't blow up,” Emery said, not at all sure she was telling the truth.
“Right. And I'm secretly the Queen of England.”
“I'll be careful,” Emery said.
“Good. Send me those pages by tonight.”
The line went dead just as the connecting door from upstairs opened. Emery hastily replaced the phone and whirled around, nearly colliding with a display of bookmarks.
Eveline stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised. “Everything alright?”
“Fine! Totally fine,” Emery said, her voice an octave too high. “Just… a call from my age— um… my aunt. My aunt who is very… agent-like. In her… aunt-ing.”
Eveline's dark eyes narrowed slightly. “You seem flustered this morning.”
“Me? No. Just excited about books. So many books to arrange. I love arranging books. Don't you love arranging books? I could arrange books all day.”
“Mmm.” Eveline slid behind the counter. “Well, when you're done professing your love for arranging books, there's a new shipment in the back that needs processing.”
“Right. Yes. On it.” Emery scurried toward the storeroom, grateful for the escape.
What was wrong with her? She'd never been good at lying, but around Eveline, she was spectacularly bad at it. Every half-truth felt like it was written across her forehead in flashing neon letters.
This couldn't end well. Domi was right about that. But as Emery sorted through boxes of new arrivals, she couldn't bring herself to care about the inevitable fallout. Not when everyinteraction with Eveline gave her another piece of the puzzle, another layer to explore in her writing.
Not when she'd started looking forward to coming to work each day in a way that had nothing to do with research and everything to do with the woman who was currently arranging flowers by the front window, sunlight catching in her dark hair.
???
