to one of the tables — the foreign literature section — and was leafing through a couple of the books. She noted with interest that one of them was Choderlos de Laclos' Les Liaisons Dangereuses, in French.
"So do you sell much foreign literature?"
"People know they can find things like that here. We get a lot of language students. And, you know, some random shoppers. So, do you read French?" she said, nodding at the book in his hand.
"I minored in French. I read this in class and have perversely fond memories of it. Or perhaps fondly perverse, I'm not sure."
"It's that kind of book," Emmy said, trying to sound matter of fact. "So what did you major in?"
"Architecture. How about you?"
"English Lit, with French and Spanish. Actually, I wrote my thesis on the eighteenth century epistolary novel."
He looked at her then, his eyebrows raised.
"How... serendipitous. I can only assume you gave Valmont's seduction of the Présidente de Tourvel some serious thought, then."
There was an undeniable undercurrent of flirtatiousness in his voice, the way he looked at her under long lashes, the hint of a smile on his face, and Emmy realized she was starting to blush. She turned away from him, self-conscious, and busied herself tidying some pamphlets fanned out by the till, which advertised a feminist reading group on alternate Tuesdays.
"That, and Clarissa's rape by Lovelace, but also Humphry Clinker's travels through England," she added, racking her brain for dregs of the thesis that ate a semester of her life, "and the devoted love of Saint-Preux for Julie d'Etanges. It wasn't all dastardly seductions."
Apparently Oswell wasn't just an evil landlord with plans to turf her out of her beloved bookstore — he also had the capacity to get under her skin in seconds flat. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
"I could suggest a couple of others for you to take home, if you want? Unless you're looking for something more cutting edge."
"No," he interrupted. "I think I'll take this. I haven't read it since college. Is it eligible for your special offer?"
"Anything you choose," she said, making an extravagant arm gesture. "Especially if it can help you reconsider your plans."
Behind him, Natalie frowned at her from the coffee bar and Josh shook his head. Obviously they thought she was jumping the gun, and that Oswell needed further work, some cake with his cappuccino to soften him before even mentioning the reason he'd come, but Emmy wasn't very good at waiting. Besides, he was no fool and had probably been expecting the conversation to turn that way.
"Maybe we should talk over coffee," she added as a concession to her allies, and Oswell inclined his head.
"Maybe we should."
He followed her to the back, where Natalie had set their drinks on one of the mismatched tables — the one with the leather armchairs that was Emmy's favorite — and a plate of cupcakes. Oswell gazed at them for some time before making his selection, a mocha-frosted coffee cupcake that was Natalie's signature flavor, and Emmy followed suit.
"You know, Mr. Oswell, this store is actually a rare example of a thriving bookstore in the current economic climate," she said between two bites.
"Eric, please, Ms. Flanagan."
"Emmy."
"Emmy, then. And I gather, yes. I have to admit it's doing surprisingly well."
He sipped his coffee, gingerly — Natalie was serious about extra-hot drinks — and Emmy watched him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing, and followed the graceful line of his neck to the collar of his shirt, open under his loosely knotted tie, before reining herself in sharply. She couldn't quite figure why Oswell's proximity was triggering such a physical response in her, but her heart was pounding in her throat, the pulse so strong she feared it might be visible. Apparently, she was sensitive to his brand of pheromones.
"Well enough to make you think twice about shutting us down?" she ventured, and he made a half-hesitant grimace before shaking his head.
"I'm hardly likely to decide that on a whim, am I?"
"Since you decided to kick us out without looking at how we were doing, I don't see why not."
This time Oswell's grin was real, and he looked her full in the face.
"You're not kidding."
"Why should I? You sent me a letter a week ago telling me you're about to shut down the business I spent four years building up — surely you could expect some resistance."
"My dear Ms. Flanagan..."
"Emmy," she interrupted. He was beginning to irritate her with his mellifluous ways.