“Just a minor arrhythmia,” he said. “I've adjusted his medication. He needs rest, but he'll be fine. He won’t come into hospital for a night, but to be honest, I don’t think there’s a need, he’s on the mend now.”
Relief washed over both women. After making sure Abe was settled comfortably with a book and a promise that he’d ring if he felt any worse, they reluctantly took their leave.
The walk back to the shop was quiet, both lost in their own thoughts. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, and therewas a biting chill in the air that hadn't been there earlier, winter wasn’t that far away now.
As they turned down a narrow side street, their hands brushed accidentally. Neither pulled away. After a moment, Emery felt Eveline's pinky finger tentatively hook around her own. Not quite holding hands, but not quite not. Her breath caught in her throat.
They walked like that, connected by the barest touch, until they reached the busier street where the shop was located. Eveline slowly pulled her hand away, but when Emery glanced at her, there was a soft smile on her face that hadn't been there before.
That night, long after she'd left the bookshop, Emery sat at her laptop, words pouring out of her in a torrent. The scene she wrote was simple, two women walking home at dusk, fingers barely linked, hearts beating in a wild rhythm neither was ready to acknowledge. Yet somehow it felt more intimate, more passionate than any love scene she'd ever written.
She wrote until her eyes burned and her fingers cramped, until the sky outside her window began to lighten with dawn. When she finally fell into bed, exhausted but exhilarated, she knew with absolute certainty that this was the most honest thing she'd ever written.
Because for all her books about love, about passion and desire and happily-ever-afters, she'd never truly understood what it felt like to fall in love. Until now.
Chapter Sixteen
“Oh my god, have you seen this?” Zara's voice carried across the quiet bookshop, making Emery nearly drop the stack of literary biographies she was shelving.
“Seen what?” Emery asked, sliding the last book into place before turning around.
Zara was practically vibrating with excitement, her phone clutched in her hand. “Emerald Pearl is writing a new book set in a bookshop! It's all over BookBuzz.”
Emery's stomach plummeted. “What?” she squeaked, hurrying over to look at Zara's phone with mounting horror.
“Look,” Zara thrust the phone into Emery's hands. “Someone leaked that her next novel features a bookshop owner as the main character. The forums are going wild.”
Emery stared at the screen, her palms suddenly sweaty. There it was in black and white: “EXCLUSIVE: Bestselling romance author Emerald Pearl's next book to feature bookshop setting, sources confirm.”
Further down the article: “Insiders suggest the novel draws inspiration from Pearl's own experiences and will feature hermost complex, emotionally nuanced heroine yet, a guarded bookshop owner with a mysterious past.”
“That's… unusually specific for a rumor,” Emery managed to say, her voice strained.
“I know, right?” Zara said.
Emery felt her heart racing. This was bad. Very bad. Someone must have leaked details about her manuscript, the manuscript that was very clearly inspired by Eveline. The manuscript she'd started writing while working at The Turned Page. How else could this have happened?
“Where's Eveline?” she asked, desperately needing to change the subject.
“Stockroom. Organizing the new shipment.” Zara reclaimed her phone, still scrolling excitedly. “Can you imagine working in a bookshop and just having Emerald Pearl walk in one day to do some research?”
“Yeah, amazing,” Emery said weakly. “I'm just going to… um, check on something.”
She retreated toward the back of the shop, mind racing. How had this happened? The manuscript wasn't even finished yet. She'd only sent three chapters to Domi. Who else had seen it?
She was so lost in her spiraling thoughts that she didn't notice the puddle of water until she stepped right into it, her shoe making an audible squelch.
“What on earth?” she muttered, looking down at the growing pool spreading out from under the bathroom door.
“Eveline?” she called out, pushing open the stockroom door. “I think we have a problem.”
Eveline appeared between two tall shelves, a stack of poetry collections in her arms. “What kind of problem?”
“The wet kind,” Emery said, pointing toward the hallway. “I think another pipe might have burst.”
Eveline's eyes widened. “Putain,” she said, hastily setting down the books and rushing past Emery.
When they reached the hallway, the situation had already deteriorated. Water was flowing steadily from beneath the bathroom door, spreading across the floor toward several boxes of books stacked against the wall.
