Book Selfish Novels & Stories

It's my day off today so we plan our whole day for an outing and shopping and movie date. "Elsa, why are you always in books? " Ron asked irritatingly. Because for the past half an hour we all are here, in a bookshop at a shopping mall because I need to buy a book but frankly speaking the books cost thousands which are not in my budget. Why everything I wanted was costly or out of stock. Damn I need to earn more. I have more expensive hobbies than I thought. "Because books never betray you" I said to him without looking at him and engrossed in my book.

The study was dark, so I opened the blinds and took in the room. It was very... August. Brown. Black. More black. Not a single color brave enough to survive in here. There was a minibar. I wasn't surprised to find it stocked mostly with expensive whiskey. The bookshelf took up almost an entire wall. Business books. Finance books. Leadership books. Books about making money. Books about keeping money. Books about probably becoming even more unbearable than he already was. Not one novel. Not even a guilty pleasure romance. What a sad life.

I don’t have a phone I can use to reach either of them; I haven’t had a phone for days now. I flip the page of the self-help book which I’d grabbed from duty-free earlier, internally hating myself for not picking one of the other enticing fiction books I’d seen, but I thought about sleep, and the fact that I’d have to induce myself on this flight back to actually make it through, and went with it. It’s a book about the power of conversations, which I find ironic because of the situation I’m currently in, and because nothing in the past three pages I’ve read seemed helpful.

“I’ll write back.” I buy a small paperback on the way out because I want to put money into a place that gave me my breath back for an hour. The cashier gives me a free bookmark that says, You are already the story. I want to cry again. I don't. I put it in the book like a secret.

A medium-weight blanket that could survive the dryer and didn’t care about spills. On my way to the register I remembered the conversation we’d had at the diner about books and the way her eyes had lit sideways when she mentioned a mystery author. Banks once showed me how to find the public side of a wish list when a pack kid didn’t know how to ask for a birthday gift. I tried the same trick now and felt briefly like a burglar when it pulled up—H. Williams—Books—all paperbacks, nothing flashy, a handful of titles I recognized and two I didn’t. I picked three, then forced myself to stop, because generosity without brakes can feel like pressure. I paid and didn’t look at the total. Wolves coun

Does he think this is some game, walking in here like nothing happened like he didn’t shut me out and hurt me? I finally reach the row of shelves stacked with books, the bold label ‘SELF HELP’ hanging over the top. I stop there and fold my arms over my chest, not turning to look at him. He wanted a book on second chances and forgiveness? Well, here’s a whole damn section full of them. “I don’t know which one to go for. I think I need a little expert help,” his voice comes from just behind me, too close. It brushes the back of my neck and I can feel him right beside me, close enough that his scent wraps around me.

I turned around again on my bed trying to find a magic position to make me sleep and forget reality. I just couldn't rest, as I turned around my eyes landed on that one book, that one book I do not like to cslla book , I call it life. I got off my bed and walked to my drawer to pick up my bible. I had gifted one to Desiree and I had one with me. I opened it up and started reading…. One hour later…. I closed down on my bible with a heavy sigh from my lungs. My heart was now steady and normal. I looked at the bible again and just smiled, funny how much life it had and no one seems to understand the gravity it has, the amount of life it gives.

For these brothers, my body seems to be insatiable. I can’t seem to get enough. I want and I want, and I want and I want. What a selfish woman I am. A knock sounds on the door, and, with my mind in a haze, I can’t react fast enough before Steven enters and sees me holding this book.

"What came to steal from me?” "I came to get my book," I answered entredentes. The old man frowned, tipping his head slightly. "I don't have any books.” "I'm not blind, he's in your hand.” The man had the audacity to try to hide the book on his bent back. "This bible was a gift from my adoptive daughter. You can't want to steal it. There are jewels in the drawers, money under the mattress. Leave my bible alone.”

She rocked back and forth on her heels, a nervous smile twitching along her lips. I want to laugh, but I remain professional. I’m supposed to be an expert in all things seduction and sex. I can’t break my cover now. I gently spell out her name before writing my unique yet generic as all h*ll personalized message. After that’s done, I scrawl out my signature, ‘G. Blake’ and close the book once I know the message won’t smear. I slip into the first few pages, a business card, a special bookmark, and a couple of stickers before I place the book in a printed small tote bag. A final touch of an art print of the main characters, and I then finally hand the bag to the reader. Nice and quick. Only ni