Bookworm Style Novels & Stories

Julian Blackwood. Today, he didn't send his driver. Didn't ride in the car. He came into her serene world of poetry and fantasy like a living oxymoron—charcoal cut coat, dark gray trousers, shiny shoes that didn't so much click as *announce* with every step. His presence didn't belong here, not quite. He was all clean lines and brutal beauty in a room of soft curves and weathered wooden shelves. His eyes scanned the bookstore with subdued calculation, not with wonder but with purpose, as if he were inspecting a house for sale. And yet. there was something in his stance—his stillness—that hinted at doubt. Maybe even hesitation.

I feel my whole body relax like it only does when she's close. "You don't need to be embarrassed about reading dirty books. I've been doing it for years." she says and my head pops up and I stare at her to determine how serious she is. But I don't sense even hint of joking. How interesting. "Really? What kind of books do you like?" I ask and watch with fascination as an adorable blush creeps up her face. "Um... mostly small town romance. Single dad, friends to lovers, next door neighbors, things like that." she says a little shyly making me chuckle.

I looked at Wyatt, who was appraising me with narrowed eyes. “What? She forgets I can smell her all over the books and I know what ones are naughty, because well ya know,” I leaned over and tossed him a book from the pile. I had started reading the backs of things so I purposely incorporated a little spice in her life. He looked at the title, then skimmed the back of the book, it was some mafia romance. His brows raised, I shrugged.

At least he knows how to treat her. Arsella looked at Axel who glanced at her book. Axel was more interested in the book she was reading than her face. Arsella stared at her book and raised her eyebrows. Just like Axel, she was also trying to guess the thoughts of the person across from her. "Do you like reading?" asked Arsella suddenly, while closing her book after putting down the bookmark, which meant she was more interested in chatting now. "I used to be called a bookworm," Axel replied while chuckling softly.

Low and restrained, not harsh, not passionate — the voice of a man who had learned to weigh words in the balance. Leya opened the door. Samuel Ithis Blackwood crouched under a fire-charred titanic walnut desk. The bookshelves loomed above him, rank after rank of books that scented the air with power and dust. The lantern cast but a dim spear into the room, and the golden amber shadows danced on his face. The one held a glass of brandy in it. The second was placed on a sheet of paper, as if the ink of the paper was too much to lie on something alive, yet claimous.

“What’s there to doubt?” He leaned back, studying me like he was peeling me apart layer by layer. “That little facade you wear. The good girl kind. A bookworm. The type who spends her nights in her room with a blanket, reading, knitting, home early from work, asleep before midnight. Is that really all there is to you?” I froze as I felt my throat tightening. A bookworm? Knitting? What was wrong with that? Still, the way he said it, like the words made me feel small.

Her aunt gives her a small smile and nods, Celine finds the bookmark and opens to the page. The woven bookmark has a faded blue tassel and was made of woven threads depicting wolves running in a forest, at the bottom of the bookmark was an old wolf’s tooth with a hole drilled through to be able to tie it onto the bookmark. She puts it to one side to look at the page it had been marking. It looked much like many of the others she had seen flipping through. But its words had her feeling like her world was slipping through her fingers and she was unable to do anything to stop it.

There was even a fireplace and a dark wine colored chaise lounge in front of the tiny fire. Kallen let my hand go as I started to explore on my own. From Bronte to Dickens to Maas, and even Rowling - there were authors of every time and every genre scattered about. I opened a few books, noticing how a few had pages bookmarked or a note in the front of the book in Kallen’s handwriting, saying how the book impacted his thoughts or where he bought the book. Each one seems so unique to his heart. “Find anything good?” He chuckled from the chaise lounge, hands behind his head, and watched me with a smile. I smiled back and put away the book I had before walking to him and straddling his lap.

The intentional neglect of this corner was a deliberate choice, a testament to the charm of the untouched and the allure of secrets waiting to be unraveled. Settling into a plush chair, Joseph cradled the book in his hands. The worn cover spoke of countless hands that had sought its wisdom, and the yellowed pages whispered tales of eras long past. As he opened the book, the fragrance of aged parchment wafted through the air, creating an olfactory tapestry that intertwined with the silent narratives within.

"From 2019. Have you read it?" "Twice," I said. "The chapter on laminated dough is the best thing written on the subject." He put it back. Pulled out another. We were standing side by side in the food writing aisle of the Court Street bookstore, two people who had been going to this particular store for years doing the Saturday morning thing, and it was unremarkable in all the ways that mattered and entirely remarkable in the ones that didn't. "What have you been reading?" I said. "Novels mostly," he said. "I went through a long period of only reading work-adjacent things and I'm trying to correct it."