know that inside you're all 'He's taking me on a date and we’ll eat nice food and he looks dreamy', Em. Because he is, and he does."
Emmy stuck her tongue out at her and Josh, who snickered in the background, and busied herself tidying some of the books Oswell looked at, even though they didn't need it. She wasn't going to dignify Natalie with an answer — especially since what her friend was saying was alarmingly close to the truth.
Chapter Two
The rest of the day staggered past in a fragmented mess, which Emmy attributed to shock. Moments of great lucidity — a half-hour conversation with a literary agent about some upcoming releases, a fierce exchange of banter with Natalie in the aftermath of Oswell's departure — were followed by long vague periods, interspersed with obsessive rehashing of the morning's events. She knew she'd managed to do some inventory, pass a few orders, even pen a few lines of reviews of recent reads for the tables at the front of the store. She just couldn't remember a thing.
Oswell had already done a number on her, and they'd barely met. This didn't bode well for their date, as Natalie insisted on calling it.
The wind was a little chillier when she left at seven, and she pulled up the cowl of her dress for the walk home. The staccato rhythm of her heels on the sidewalk looped in her brain, as she kept reliving the half-hour spent in Oswell's company. She couldn't make up her mind — had it been a moment of successful guerrilla marketing on her part, or had she just fallen for the dark side?
By the time Friday evening rolled around Emmy still hadn't figured it out. She'd been rehearsing arguments in her head all the way through her subway ride to 66th Street, practicing snappy retorts for the dinner conversation. All she'd managed to achieve was occasional stares from other passengers as she muttered under her breath, her palms compulsively smoothing the black, just-above-the-knee length skirt that she'd changed into before leaving work. As she stepped out of the subway car, a middle-aged guy with a paunch and Brylcreemed gray hair straight out of 1955 called out a "Don't you worry, sweetheart — he's the lucky guy!", which made her cringe and laugh at the same time.
Litter swirled around her ankles, and she was almost tripped up by the Times' real estate section which wrapped itself around her left foot as she came up the stairs onto the plaza, opposite the restaurant, a glittering jewelry box showcasing the diners. Across the square, facing east, she could just see the great bright arches of the Met, and she was torn between feeling like a million dollars, and a total fraud.
On balance, probably the latter, she thought, but she'd be damned if she was going to be anything but up to the occasion with Oswell. She could see him as she skirted the glass walls of the restaurant, leaning on the bar, sipping a drink already, even though she was precisely on time. He was wearing another perfectly cut suit, no tie, and a white button-down shirt. Even from a distance, he was the epitome of charm — and he was here to meet her.
The maitre d' greeted her with the requisite warm welcome, and ushered her to the bar the minute she mentioned Oswell's name, whisking her coat away as he did, revealing her in all her cautiously understated chic — black skirt, red heels, black silk and gauze shirt, the top few buttons undone, just enough to give a hint of cleavage. She hated herself for this, a little, but it worked, as she caught him lingering on it before he looked her in the face.
"Good evening, Miss... Emmy," he said, drawing her name out on purpose, his eyes twinkling. There was more than a hint of mischief there, and some appreciation, too.
She smiled.
"Good evening, Mister... Eric," she mimicked — but it did feel strange to be calling Oswell by his first name.
"Drink?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, as if it wasn't a no brainer. She needed to calm the butterflies, and he was drinking champagne, or probably prosecco, considering where they were, which looked very tempting.
"I'll have what you're having, if that's all right."
He nodded at the bartender and another long-stemmed glass appeared, swiftly filled with golden bubbles. The first sip was heaven, but it took a couple more before she started relaxing, by which time they were