Poetry Collection Books Novels & Stories

"There's one in Capitol Hill open until eleven. We could just browse. No agenda." "Okay. Pick me up in twenty." The bookstore is quiet. Soft lighting. The smell of coffee and paper. We split up. An unspoken agreement to explore separately. I find him thirty minutes later in the poetry section, reading with complete focus. "Find anything?" I ask. He shows me a collection by Mary Oliver. "I didn't know I liked poetry. But this is—it's beautiful." "Buy it." "I will." We leave with five books between us. None of them self-help or business strategy. Just novels and poetry and a cookbook.

The Keeley I used to be was gone, and I needed to find out who I was now. Because sweet and innocent didn’t cover it anymore. **** Gio A club in the harsh light of day was a strange entity. Sterile and heartless. It was only when the lights dimmed and the music started that it came alive. It was more than just the people who filled it. Clubs were creatures that only came alive when the sun went down, when the music started pumping and the lights flashed. And it was no different there. The Penthouse was one of my newer acquisitions. And it lived up to its name even in the harsh light of day. The Family was expanding, and this upscale gentlemen's club was just one of many we had bought around

“What do you read when you’re not being paid to alphabetize it?” “Receipts,” I deadpanned. “And warning labels.” He laughed. Not loud. Real. It landed in the center of me and spread warmth in all the places hunger liked to live. “Poetry,” I admitted after a beat. “The kind that cuts and then kisses the wound. Histories written by the losers. Field guides for plants that are trying to kill you.” “Useful,” he said. “Necessary,” I corrected.

I was watching him drape a warm wool blanket over the chair, I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s our plan here?” “Just trust me,” he replied with that enigmatic subtle smile of his. He motioned for me to take a seat beside him, right next to the window where the sunlight streamed in. I tilted my head, curious, while he retrieved something hidden beneath his arm. It was a book. He opened it gently. “What’s that?” “A collection of human poems,” he explained. I lifted an eyebrow. “Where did you manage to get those?”

This was what contentment felt like. This was what having your entire world contained in your arms felt like. “What are you reading?” I asked, noting the way she relaxed completely against me, trusting me to hold her, to keep her safe. “Poetry. Some old collection I found in the back corner.” “Any good?” “Some of it. Though most of it is very dramatic. Lots of tortured souls and unrequited love.” “Sounds depressing.” “A little. But some of the love poems are beautiful. Listen to this one.” She opened the book and began to read in that soft, musical voice that never failed to capture my complete attention.

are all of those boxes full of your course books? Wow! Looks like you’re really into making the most of this opportunity. But it’s great... in today’s world, it’s... huh, wait a minute... is this... this can’t be your course material. It’s... a... sex manual... um... more like a masturbation guide... holy shhh... really? Oh no, no. Don’t look so alarmed. I wasn’t really expecting this... but I don’t mind at all. In fact, I encourage it.

When Wendy Chance's father, Josiah, was rendered speechless, I was the only one he wanted to go to speech therapy with. Every time Wendy and I wanted to go out, Josiah would clutch the corner of my shirt. Once again, Wendy would stuff an unused train ticket in my hand and pat my shoulder apologetically. "Treat my dad well, and I'll make it up to you on another trip. Evan can accompany me on this business trip instead. Don’t overthink this." Evan Striker was the secretary she claimed knew his place. I had collected 27 unused tickets over the past three years. They were from unrealized trips to the mountains, historical towns, and the beach. Every ticket turned into a post on Evan's social

“Someone who actually reads. Who’s been broken before and didn’t turn careful forever. Someone who… sees me. Not the version I put on dating apps. The real one. Messy and scared and all of it.” The words hung there. Vulnerable. Too much. Callum went very still. His hand moved to his jacket pocket. He pulled out the wrapped book and set it on the table between them. Sloane stared at it. Her throat felt tight. “Who was it for?” she asked, voice small. He rubbed the back of his neck. “My date. She mentioned Zaha Hadid once. I spent three days hunting this down. Essays on beauty in architecture. Stupid, right?”

The alternative was worse, my family ruined, me thrown to the streets. Pushing through the heavy doors, I entered a world of shadows and silk. Velvet curtains draped the walls, muffling the low hum of voices and the occasional moan echoing from hidden rooms. A woman in a sheer gown approached, her eyes appraising me like merchandise. "Mirelle Kane? Follow me. Your collector awaits." My stomach twisted. The collector. Rafe Draven. I had seen his name on the letter, a man whose reputation preceded him like a storm cloud.

“Quiet doesn’t mean unbothered. Just good at hiding it.” We fell into silence. The only sound was distant thunder rumbling above ground. I wondered how long we’d be down here. Minutes stretched. My mind wandered to how close he was. How alone we were. “Tell me something,” I said finally. “Why’d you become a librarian? You don’t seem like the type who likes being stuck behind a desk all day.” Mr. Kane exhaled softly. “Books don’t talk back. They don’t expect small talk. I like the order. And the stories. What about you? History major with a focus on obscure trade? That’s not common.”