The Book Worthy Novels & Stories

"You know, Ethan, there are people in this room who have spent twenty years studying business and still wouldn't have caught what you caught." I looked toward Sophia but she wasn't looking at me at the moment. "I don't want trouble." Victor followed my gaze. "Interesting." "What?" "You didn't say you don't want credit." I looked at him. "I don't." That seemed to interest him even more, but before he could respond, Richard approached. His expression was strained "Mr. Lang." Victor turned. "Richard." "I hope everything is satisfactory." Victor smiled politely. "Your daughter is impressive."

Marissa felt a surge of gratitude, knowing that these gifts were not just material items but symbols of the love and support that surrounded her. Among the gifts, one particularly caught her attention—a beautifully bound book filled with handwritten recipes from the village's oldest residents. This was a treasure she had always wanted, as cooking had been a cherished pastime shared with her mother. The book was a collection of family recipes, each page telling a story of love, tradition, and the joy of gathering around the table. As Marissa flipped through the pages, she could almost hear the laughter of her family and friends echoing through the years.

I stood in the doorway, hands on my belly, making sure everything was perfect. The gift section looked beautiful, with piles of boxes wrapped in gold and silver paper, and a Harry Potter themed trunk made just for the cash envelopes and gift cards. We’d even painted their initials, M & K, on the front. The treat table was straight out of a sugar dream just as described as The Three Broomsticks Inn in the HP books. From personalized cupcakes, cake pops, Rice Krispie treats, cookies, and candy jars, all lined up next to the faux butter beer drink station. Sandwich boxes were stacked neatly on another table for those who couldn’t stay long. Everything shimmered with gold and black accents... si

“He believed that the things worth doing were worth doing at full price. No negotiation. No discount.” She looked at the handwriting. Worth it. Two words in blue ink from a man she’d never meet who had apparently believed in paying full price for things that mattered. She closed the book gently. Held it in both hands. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Don’t lose it.” “I won’t.” They sat in the amber light for a moment. Neither moving. The bench between them gone, they were close enough now that she was deeply aware of the exact point where the air between them ended and he began.

he asked, shaking his head and walked away. “Why did you book me before me? Even that girl did the same.” Lakshmi asked grumbling, but I shook my head walking away. “Where is she?” I asked, entering the house and saw Mom sitting on the chair frowning to herself. “I don’t know, but what is Queen B of a college, Yash?” She asked frowning at me. “It is not a right word, Aunt. She scolded you and said a bad word.” Lakshmi explained making Mom gasp.

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Perhaps. Was it worth it? Yes. With a chuckle, I stood slowly, and the room quieted without command. Even the TV seemed to hush. From my jacket pocket, I pulled a leather-bound book, aged in the way you can’t fake, with corners worn and scent of cedar. I handed it to her without flourish. “What is this?” she asked, eyes scanning me, soft but curious. “Open it.” She flipped the cover. On the first page, hand-written in gold ink, were the words: Three Wishes.

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"So basically, she's the life in exchange for a money?" "Yes." "A life you are done with?" "Yes." "That isn't worthy enough. She's useless to you, so I doubt she will be of any use to me too." "Trust me. You'll want her when you see her." "Quite the convincer, but I don't like sharing."

His book collection catches my eye. “Do you like to read?” An obvious question. “Does the pope shit in the woods?” I walk to his bookshelf. Some of these first editions are remarkable. I bet they aren’t even his. The acoustic must be his. “May I?” He nods. I pick up the guitar and lean on the side of his desk. “Do you play?” With my back turned to him, I strum a few chords. “I used to.” He clears his throat.