Emery woke up on the morning of the Romance Book Club's tenth anniversary meeting with a flutter of nervous excitement in her stomach. She'd spent half the night writing and the other half tossing and turning, thinking about Eveline. At this point, she was so sleep-deprived she wasn’t sure she could remember what sleep felt like.
Today felt important, though she couldn't quite articulate why. Perhaps it was because the bookshop had become more than just a job. Perhaps it was because Eveline had become more than just… well, more than just anything she could define.
She arrived at The Turned Page an hour early to find Maya and Zara already there, transforming the shop with fairy lights, flowers, and a rather impressive display of romance novels arranged in a heart shape.
“Bit much?” Emery asked, pointing at the heart.
“Absolutely not,” Maya said firmly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Ten years of romance deserves a proper celebration.”
“Besides,” Zara added, balancing precariously on a ladder as she hung fairy lights from the ceiling, “we're expecting at least twice the usual crowd. My social media campaign has been wildly successful.”
Emery's stomach tightened. “Twice the usual crowd?”
“At least. The anniversary post has been shared over five hundred times. Mrs. Hampton is thrilled. She's bringing a special cake.”
“Speaking of cakes,” Maya said, “I've made thematic pastries for the occasion. Rose-flavored eclairs.”
“Of course you have,” Emery muttered, grinning to herself. “Need any help?”
She busied herself with arranging chairs in a wider circle than usual, trying to ignore the growing knot of anxiety in her chest. More people meant more chances of being recognized.
“You look like you're plotting a bank heist, not setting up for a book club,” came Eveline's voice, startling Emery out of her thoughts.
She turned to find Eveline watching her with an amused expression, looking unfairly gorgeous in a deep burgundy dress that hugged her curves in a way that made Emery temporarily forget how to speak.
“Just… um, concentrating,” Emery said. “Lot of chairs to arrange.”
“Mmm,” Eveline said, clearly unconvinced. Her eyes drifted to the heart-shaped display, and she sighed. “Maya's work, I presume?”
“Who else?”
Eveline shook her head but didn't demand its removal, which Emery noted as yet another sign of how much the bookshop owner had softened toward romance novels, or at least toward the people who loved them.
“I brought something for the celebration,” Eveline said, producing a bottle of champagne from behind her back. “Mrs. Hampton mentioned the club started in her living room with just three members and a bottle of cheap prosecco. I thought we might upgrade the tradition.”
Emery blinked in surprise. “That's really thoughtful of you.”
“Don't sound so shocked,” Eveline said, but there was a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I'm capable of being civil, even about things I don't particularly care for.”
“I know that,” Emery said quickly. “I just didn't expect… never mind. It's perfect.”
Their eyes met for a moment, and Emery felt that now-familiar flutter in her chest, the one that made her want to step closer and run away simultaneously.
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, the shop was packed. Mrs. Hampton held court in the center, resplendent in a dress patterned with book covers, while Zara flitted about taking photos “for the archive” (and Instagram, Emery suspected). Maya's rose eclairs were a hit, and even Abe had made an appearance, settled comfortably in his usual chair with a glass of champagne and a twinkle in his eye.
Emery moved through the crowd, refilling glasses and making introductions, acutely aware of Eveline doing the same on the other side of the room. Every so often, their eyes would meet across the sea of people, and Emery would feel a jolt of something.
Mrs. Hampton tapped her glass for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the tenth anniversary of our beloved Romance Book Club!” A cheer went up from the crowd. “When we started in my living room a decade ago, I never imagined we'd grow to this. But love stories have a way of bringing people together, don't they?”
Emery smiled, caught up in the genuine enthusiasm of the group. For all her complicated feelings about her secret identity, moments like these reminded her why she wrote romance in the first place. Because love stories mattered to people. Because sometimes, in a world that could be cruel and cold, hope was the most radical act of all.
“And now,” Mrs. Hampton continued, “since we're celebrating with Emerald Pearl's work, I'd like to open the floor for discussion. What is it about her novels that speaks to you?”
For the next half hour, Emery listened in a state of stunned pleasure as people shared what her books had meant to them. A woman in her seventies talked about rediscovering joy after her husband's death. A shy teenager admitted Pearl's novels had helped her understand her own feelings. Even Zara chimed in with a passionate analysis of feminist themes that made Emery want to hug her.
Then a voice cut through the warm atmosphere like a knife.
“I don't understand what all the fuss is about,” said a man in his thirties, leaning against the poetry section with a look of smug condescension. “They're just unrealistic fantasies for desperate people, aren't they? Cotton candy for the brain.”
