“Upstairs,” Emery repeated dumbly. “In your flat?” Was this what she thought it was?
Eveline laughed. “Unless you'd prefer to drink wine standing on the pavement?”
“No, no, upstairs is good,” Emery said quickly, mentally kicking herself for sounding so awkward. “I'm not busy. At all. Completely free. Nothing else to do at all.”
Was it her imagination, or did relief flicker across Eveline's face? “Excellent,” was all Eveline said, gesturing toward the side door that led to her flat. “After you.”
Emery had been in the shop dozens of times, but it was her first time in Eveline's private space. The narrow staircase opened into a surprisingly spacious living area, all clean lines and minimalist décor. A comfortable-looking sofa faced large windows that overlooked the street, and bookshelves lined the walls, no surprise there.
“It's lovely,” Emery said, meaning it. The space felt both elegant and comfortable, home-like rather than designed.
“It's home,” Eveline said. She moved to the small kitchen area, retrieving a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Emery settled on the sofa, trying not to look as nervous as she felt. This wasn't a date, she reminded herself. They were discussing work. Author events. Completely professional. Not at all what she’d been thinking at first. Which was fine. Appropriate.
But why was her heart beating double-time?
“Here we are,” Eveline said, joining her on the sofa and pouring two generous glasses. The cushion dipped slightly under her weight, bringing them closer together than Emery had anticipated. “To a successful day,” she said, raising her glass.
“To, um, unexpected changes,” said Emery, clinking her glass against Eveline's.
They sipped in silence for a moment, something indefinable but not uncomfortable in the air.
“So,” Emery finally said, desperate to fill the silence before she did something ridiculous like blurt out her feelings, “author events?”
“Actually,” Eveline said, “that, um, might have been a pretext.”
“Oh?” Emery's pulse quickened. Now she was just confused. And, to be honest, slightly turned on.
“I wanted to continue our conversation. The one that keeps getting interrupted.” Eveline turned slightly to face her better. “Unless you'd rather talk about book ordering schedules?”
Emery laughed, relaxing a little. “Surprisingly, I think I can wait on those.”
The conversation flowed more easily after that. Eveline talked about her childhood in Provence, summers spent reading under olive trees and learning to make lavender honey with her grandmother. Emery shared edited versions of her own past, her writing career carefully omitted, focusing instead on her love of books and the tiny flat she could barely afford when she first moved to London.
“I had a roommate who collected ceramic frogs,” she recalled, gesturing with her wine glass. “Hundreds of them, all staring at me while I slept. Terrifying, really.”
Eveline laughed, the sound warming Emery from within better than any wine. “And yet you survived to tell the tale.”
“Barely,” Emery said with mock seriousness. “I still can't look at lily pads without flinching.”
As they talked, they had gradually shifted closer on the sofa. What had begun as a respectable distance had shrunk to mere inches, their knees almost touching. Eveline's perfume, that vanilla scent again, enveloped Emery, making it very difficult to focus on anything but the woman next to her.
“You’ve, um, got a leaf in your hair,” Eveline said suddenly, reaching out. “From those new plants by the shop door, I think.”
Her fingers brushed Emery's cheek as she reached for the imaginary leaf, because surely there was no leaf, this was just an excuse to touch her, wasn't it, and lingered there, warm against Emery's skin.
Time stopped. Emery's breath caught in her throat as Eveline's eyes met hers, a question in them. Emery answered by leaning forward, closing the final distance between them.
Their lips met in a tentative, questioning kiss. Soft, barely there, a whisper of contact that sent electricity pulsing through Emery's veins. She pulled back slightly, heart pounding, searching Eveline's face for confirmation that this wasn't a terrible mistake.
What she saw made her breath catch. Eveline's eyes had darkened, her lips parted in a silent invitation that Emery couldn't resist. She leaned in again, and this time there was nothing tentative about it.
The kiss deepened, Eveline's hand sliding into Emery's curls, holding her close as though afraid she might pull away. Emery had no such intention. She had written countless kisses in her novels, scenes of passion that had made readers' hearts race, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of Eveline's mouth on hers, warm and sweet with the lingering taste of wine.
When they finally parted, both slightly breathless, Eveline rested her forehead against Emery's. “I've been wanting to do that for weeks,” she confessed, her accent thicker.
“Why didn't you?” Emery asked, her own voice husky.
