Book In Paris Novels & Stories

The ladies all giggle and Julie stands, handing a new bookmark to each of us. "Yes. We figured we'd get you ones that suited you a little better." she says. The new one is dark blue with gold lettering that says 'Real men read dirty books'. I smile and look over at Ev who's showing Harper his excitedly. "These are great. Thank you." I say just as Bri nudges me. "Oh! Tell them your joke, love!" Harper says excitedly. Ev rolls his eyes before addressing the group.

Toward whatever came next. The soft hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery echoed through the Paris café. I hovered near the glass pastry counter, pretending to debate between a lemon tart and something drenched in chocolate. In truth, I was just killing time, getting used to being no one in a city that didn’t care. My heels clicked softly on the tile as I shifted my weight, scanning the space. There was a couple kissing. A waitress flirting with a group of guys, who looked like they were on a vacation and a family bickering in French.

And definitely not a romance. Wedging the book back between its friends, she stood. Stopped. Rose on tiptoe and reached, bringing down a larger book. This one bound in creased red leather. Beneath the dust the title was French. The words—and, with zero illustrations, it was nothing but words—all French. Her French sucked. She skimmed the story about a woman in a city—Paris?—trusting a man, a kind stranger. Following him? Elle le suivit. She—elle—followed—suivit—him—le.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” “No, it’s not that.” He says quickly. “I was just admiring.” “Oh.” My cheeks redden. “So what exactly are we doing in Paris?” “I figured we could see the Eiffel Tower, anything you want to do.” He tells me. “Alright.” I smile, as I eagerly wait to arrive in Paris. I pluck out a book from my backpack, it’s a cheesy romance novel that Emily sneaked in while I wasn’t looking, though she did promise I was going to love it even though I am not a fan of romance.

In Paris, he got similar flowers and wine which I haven't taken and I wonder what it is this time. I drop the box and the flowers on the other couch to check out the package first. I open it to see a bag filled with romance novels. I bring them out one after the other and they are the newly published New York times best sellers' books. I arrange the books one after the other so I can count them and I counted up to 10. Ten romance books should last me for the rest of the month. I haven't had time to get new books since I arrived in America and I am still making do with the ones I purchased in Paris.

The day after the day after, the atmosphere had settled into a new kind of quiet, a working quiet that was more unsettling than the tension that had preceded it. I was in the library, a room of dark wood and leather-bound books that smelled of dust and time. I was dusting the shelves, my movements efficient and precise, but my mind was not on the task. It was on a map, a map of a city I had never seen but was suddenly, irrevocably bound to. Paris. The word itself was a collection of images from books and films, a romanticized idea of a city I never thought I would see. And now I was going, not as a tourist, not as a free woman, but as a possession in a gilded cage. That changed everything.

As I passed by a small bookstore, the title of a book in the window caught my eye. I stepped inside, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the heat outside. The scent of old books and incense wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. The owner, a friendly woman with a knowing smile, asked if I needed help. I pointed to the book in the window. "Ah, the magik calls to you?" she said, her accent thick and comforting. "Come, let me show you where that one is." The book was about the history of the French Quarter, filled with tales of love, loss, and the supernatural.

I couldn't stop thinking about the book, there was something about a book that could make you feel joy and sadness in the ending at the very same time, it was that lounging feeling like I was wasting my breath on life in general. And as I tried to concentrate on the book in front of me, it was a novel I had stored in my bookshelf and I had never gotten around to reading it, I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't focus, knowing the best thing I had ever read was upstairs sitting in my drawer. And as I was looking back at the house, I saw Dallas come down the stairs, and it seemed he was determined to do something. His phone was in a plastic baggy, as he approached Paris.

Chloe exhaled softly, pressing the diary against her chest for a second before shaking her head at herself. “God… women really are dangerous when we start associating intensity with desire,” she muttered under her breath. Then, after another lingering pause, she opened the diary again, turning the page carefully to read the next confession. ______ Episode 63 – The Frenchman’s Flat The City of Light was a symphony of late-summer dusk, the sky a bruised violet over slate rooftops as Claire’s taxi navigated the narrow, cobbled streets of the 7th arrondissement. Jet-lagged and pleasantly adrift, she watched the Parisian world blur past, elegant women with baguettes tucked under their arms, the w

I asked curiously as Jax took out his book and started to write on it, completely ignoring me. "On a school trip." He answered, not sparing me a glance. "What does that mean?" I asked curiously, coming to sit beside him. "You're so dumb. It's kinda like an outing organized by the school for the students." Jax answered. "We went to see the Eiffel tower in Paris." Jax said and I nodded, feeling stupid to ask him where Paris was. So instead I stayed quiet as I let Jax do his homework while I went through his backpack. I found a book with black pages, unlike the usual books he had with lines where he wrote in.