Novels Set In Paris Novels & Stories

Clara had accustomed herself with the life as a Parisian, she was no longer acting like a country girl, her manner was more sophisticated and she no longer felt out of place, because in Paris, there were people from all parts of the world, which was the reason why people liked to separate French people from Parisian. They were holding each other's hand the entire time, acting like two newly dating teenagers, but no one was really paying attention to that, people were mostly looking because the two were looking like model couple made in heaven. But the two were equally distracting on their own, each had their own charm which appealed to men and women By this point Clara had learned to not pay

She missed the Cote d'Azur and the south of France with its wonderful flora, a unique blend of herbal, lavender, oleander, and citrus aromas. For the past few months, she had dreamt of "un café noir un croissant" at Café de Flore or Les Deux Magots on Boulevard Saint Germain in the heart of Paris. She really loved these two places: full of magnetism and the grandeur of 19th and 20th-century history, not only literature but also painting and philosophy. She would not mind a long walk alongside Saint Germain. That was the "real heart" of the intellectual and cultural place of Parisian life. Philosophers, writers, and musicians filled the nightclubs and brasseries surrounding the boulevard.

“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.

Chapter 8 Bastien Two Years Later Paris was alive at all hours of the night, but she was the quietest at four in the morning, when even the night owls couldn’t keep their eyes open any longer. The line of SUVs pulled up outside the Louvre, close to the pyramid in the open square. Lights from the lampposts and the buildings were one of the reasons the city had been given its name, City of Light, and it was a name well earned.

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.

ELARA'S POV. I still have no idea how this happened. One moment I was complaining about the leak in my ceilings, the other moment I was walking through the street, enjoying the buzzling city of Paris. And in less than an hour I was having sex with two random French dudes.

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.

"Ah, perfect. You are on the perfect street. Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré has many beautiful boutiques. Hermès is just down the street, and there is a wonderful small bookshop called Galignani that has been here since 1520." A bookshop from 1520. Casual. "That sounds perfect. Thank you." "Shall I arrange a car?" "I'd rather walk, if that's okay." Céline looked delighted. "Mais oui, of course! Walking is the best way to see Paris. Here, I will give you a small map."

What made it hurt the most was that, I knew that Dante would never allow me to be away from him if he knew about the things that were happening. If he had his memory, Dante would never let me out of his sight, which was comfort enough for me. I knew for sure that his mind belonged to me, whenever he remembered me and our memories, he would definitely come looking for me. Paris wasn’t the city of lights and romance I’d read in books and watched in films, it was a city of stone and rain, of hurried footsteps on slick cobblestones and a language that swirled around me like a dense fog, isolating me in my own bubble of grief.

CHAPTER 90: A NIGHT OUT IN PARIS VENUS: I was excited when we stepped out of the room, casually dressed and heading off to the club. Paris glowed like a dream, its lights glimmering off the Seine and dancing across every glossy window we passed. Maxine and I stepped out of the sleek black car, our hands entwined as we stood at the entrance of a stylish lounge located just off the Champs-Élysées. The night was crisp, alive with music and movement, and everything felt like a page torn straight out of a romance novel.