Novels Set In Paris Novels & Stories

Warm sunlight spilling across the city. People crowded the pavements. Tourists filled cafés. The perfect Paris afternoon. Jessica stopped at a small bookshop she'd grown to love. Spent twenty minutes browsing. Bought a novel. Then continued walking. Everything felt normal. Until she reached her apartment building. There, resting against the entrance door, sat a single white rose. No card. No note. Nothing. Just a rose. Waiting. Jessica froze. Every sound seemed to disappear. The city faded into the background.

Over the past two weeks, Jane had found herself thinking of Lucie Manette as Grace Anderson, and every once in a while she was Darnay, but mostly she was Sydney Carton. "This is an excellent book," Jane finished reading. "It teaches you about the French Revolution, which took place in the seventeen-nineties in the country of France. It is a good book if you like history or violence or exciting suspense. It is a love story, too. All in all, it is an excellent book."

We go for a walk along the Seine, go rowing in Bois de Vincennes, climb the Sacré-Cœur and finish the day watching the sunset from the Arc De Triomphe. It was a wonderful day, not because of all the things we got to do, but because we did them together. That night when Paige and I have sex, it feels different. More intimate. We make love. Ever since we left New York, I’ve noticed that Paige has gotten a little more affectionate. I guess it’s the Paris effect. I can’t say I’m complaining. The next morning it’s Paige’s 30th birthday. She wakes up to me serving her breakfast in bed.

Lana's Point of view The first raindrops fell as soon as we stepped out onto the patio. They appeared uncertain because they were slender and icy. They rapped on the glass and stone, a silent warning that Paris was about to be hit by a storm. The city lights appeared hazy, like little lights in the dark, due to the rain. I shuddered, my hair wet and plastered to my forehead. Not entirely due to the cold. due of the tension. from him.Adrian, who was silent and composed, approached me beside me. We stood at the Seine's brink, his dark, sharp coat brushing against me. The taste of rain and the scent of moist dirt were carried by the wind as it passed past us. Everything in me told me to stay ev

Cipher's POV The mansion of D'Amato stood out like a gem in the Parisian night and every arch-window gleamed back the gold against the closely-tended lawns. The air outside, themed to a Parisian gala was already pregnant with the sounds of camera shutters and the flash of paparazzi lights. Black limos crept up the drive like mutes of prey sending off dignitaries in designer suits and glittering gowns.

Charles and Fiona later strolled about the vibrant streets of Paris, the neon lights painting the cobblestone roads a colorful glow. The city had been turned into a shiny, romantic labyrinth, and there was an air of possibility of new experiences. They had been relishing the coziness of their quiet night, but now things had to be livened up.

Suzanne’s pov: Paris at night was like a dream. A dangerous, beautiful dream I wasn’t sure I wanted to wake up from. After dinner, Dominic led me through more winding streets, past street performers, artists, and charming little shops. The cool night air carried the scent of fresh bread and coffee, mingling with the distant hum of music. It was enchanting and intoxicating, and against my better judgment, I let myself enjoy it. We stopped at a riverside bookstall, where I ran my fingers over the spines of old French novels, their pages yellowed with time. Dominic picked one up, flipping through it before handing it to me.

Damien buys sme a copy of Pride and Prejudice in French. We walk everywhere, because Damien says it’s the Parisian way. This surprises me, since I’m used to him having us chauffeured everywhere. My feet ache by day three, but I don’t complain. I don’t want to miss a thing. He buys me pain au chocolat in the mornings and wine in the afternoons, and at night we sit on the balcony of my apartment and listen to the city hum. “I get it now,” I whisper one night, watching the rooftops turn blue in the twilight.

It doesn’t seem fair. The manicured squares (les Places) have vibrantly colored flowers and lush green grass. Fountains. Cafés where, yes, bistro sets line the sidewalks with Parisians and tourists alike sipping espresso with la macarons and pain au chocolate from nearby patisseries, or wine with their tuna niçoise and charcuterie. Every scene in a French movie is depicted here. And it’s all real.

She was now reclining on the rich green leather sofa, pointing the remote control at the widest television screen Clare had ever seen, which brooded in the opposite corner. ‘They’ve got a great porn channel here,’ Francesca commented. ‘Just in case we can’t think of anything better to do . . .’ A bottle of chilled champagne was waiting in a silver bucket on a glass-topped table. Clare popped the bottle open and poured two glasses. ‘Vive la France,’ Francesca sighed happily, raising her glass to the view. ‘I love these big windows, don’t you?’ She had leapt up from the sofa and was now drawing back the raw silk curtains and looking down on the street below. ‘And Paris is the perfect place for