Paris Book Review Novels & Stories

Paris asked, slightly offended. “Yes, you look like a kid,” Merch said, laughing. “Let us go, pretty boy,” Matori said, laughing. Matori left Paris outside the Library, “it is a 24-hour library.” Paris picked up Soraya’s scent, thinking, ‘will she remember me? Has her mind been wiped?’ Paris entered the library and followed the scent that was all over the place but he focused on her human scent and then he saw her, her nose in an ancient-looking book, ‘one would think she has read all the books there are to read by now.’

Professionals have places to be, preparations to make, identities to construct. Outside, the Paris night is cold and smells like rain — that particular Parisian rain that seems to carry the weight of centuries, that feels less like weather and more like atmosphere. I walk three blocks before I allow myself to open the envelope, stepping under a streetlamp that casts a pool of yellow light onto the wet cobblestones. The photograph of Celeste Laurent is on top again — a second copy, slightly different angle, same expression of utterly unreadable composure.

“We got nothing. We’re honestly not leaning one way or the other. They both seem great. That’s why we called you in.” “I see,” Laura said, nodding. “Well I did some research of my own, and I have to say, I’m leaning heavily towards Paris for a variety of reasons.” Then, to our utter shock, Laura whipped out her laptop where she’d prepared an entire power point presentation. She took us through slide after slide of market analysis, the pros of Paris from a financial standpoint, and even some possible locations with detailed demographics and specs on foot traffic. We both watched the presentation, amazed. Laura had thought of things we hadn’t even thought of. Like proximation to public transit

Even in these fleeting snapshots, Paris had an undeniable romance to it. Our hotel—Le Grand Paris—was a magnificent historic building in what Scarlett informed me was "the absolute best part of the 8th arrondissement, darling, literally steps from everything important." The ornate façade was illuminated by tasteful lighting, highlighting the belle époque architecture and intricate stonework.

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.

Even though I know it's not my business I still couldn't help it. Thankfully it had no passcode on! My eyes widened as I read Paris' message. What is she even talking about?

We laughed, took pictures, and for the first time in a long time, I felt alive. Paris was everything people said it was. A city of romance, of lights, of memories. The air was always soft and cold, filled with laughter from strangers who looked like they had no pain in their world. And somehow, I wanted to feel that too—just for a little while. But even paradise had ghosts.

"You made it." "Yeah. Traffic was brutal." I step closer, the wood warm under my bare feet. My sundress feels suddenly thin, the breeze brushing my legs. He smells like smoke and something clean, soap maybe. I hate how aware I am of it. He flips a steak, the sizzle filling the quiet between us. "Richard said you were in Paris. How was it?" "Overrated." I lean against the railing, watching the lake instead of him. "Too many tourists pretending they get the art."

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.

He told me, “Do you know there's a place called the A****n Rainforest? It’s fascinating; home to hundreds of species of plants and animals. It has colorful birds, massive trees, and swirling rivers. I'd love to take you there someday.” I smiled at him. "Paris." William continued. “It’s a beautiful city. It's known for its art, architecture, and culture. The Eiffel Tower, it's found there; one of the largest towers in the world. Then, no one who'd been to Paris would have missed out on visiting the Louvre museum. It has hundreds of magnificent artworks. And I can't begin to tell you about French cuisine. By far, the baguette bread sticks are my top favorite!”