The Little Paris Bookshop Novels & Stories

"You can take a walk around the beautiful areas of the hotel and go to one of their many restaurants here, you don't have to worry about the bill just let them know to put it on my bill, Greyson Blythe. She nodded. They again kissed. Greyson said her goodbyes and went off. Paris watched him as he did. Paris didn't feel like leaving her room. She stayed, and ordered chocolate pastries until it was time for her to visit her sister. It was time for her to leave, the bellboy knocked on her door and informed her that her driver was waiting for her downstairs. "Is there a nearby gift store?" Paris asked not wanting to see her sister empty-handed. "The hotel as one Miss," retorted the bellboy. Pari

Micheal’s POV: The first time I saw her book on a shelf in one of the Parisian bookstores, I had to stop myself from grinning like a fool. There it was, Stacey’s story, wrapped in glossy perfection, wedged between names that had shaped literature for decades. And it wasn’t just sitting there; it was selling. Everywhere I turned, people were talking about it. Colleagues mentioned it at work. Friends sent me texts with photos of their copies. Even Tessa had started proudly telling her classmates that her mommy had written “the book everyone was reading.”

The streets were lined with flower beds in full bloom, local shops with hand-painted signs and people who nodded as they passed, faces a little older, a little wiser, but kind nonetheless. Cassie wandered slowly, hands in her pockets, letting her steps take her where they pleased. Her first stop was the bookstore, Willow Pages, a two-story shop that still smelled of pinewood shelves and well-loved novels. She didn’t stay long but bought a worn paperback she had once read in high school, more for the nostalgia than the plot.

Little does he know that it wasn’t a secret to me. I laughed wickedly, stepping on the gas as I drove to the tiny house farther from town. Better be in here, Lorenzo, and I might just spare your life. I parked my car, stepping out of the vehicle. I scanned my environment, my eyes darkened as it fell on a figure. Weren’t the heavens working in my favor? Lorenzo was seated right outside the hut with his head thrown back. A smile crept on my lips, reaching for my gun from the back.

I have a list of patisseries that Scarlett insists are 'life-changing. "She's not wrong," Nate chuckled. "The French take their pastry very seriously." "Have you spent much time there?" "A few months during my residency," he nodded. "I did a rotation at Hôpital Necker, their children's hospital." "Any recommendations for places I shouldn't miss?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Besides the obvious tourist spots, I mean." "Absolutely." He pulled out his phone, typing quickly. "I'm sending you a list right now. There's this little bookstore near Saint-Germain-des-Prés that has an amazing architecture section. And a cafe in Montmartre with the best hot chocolate you'll ever taste."

I set out early, the morning air crisp and filled with the promise of adventure. The city had a certain magic to it, a charm that was impossible to resist. As I walked through the bustling streets, I found myself marvelling at the beautiful architecture, the quaint cafés, and the street artists capturing the essence of Paris on their canvases. I was regretting not doing this earlier. I found myself captivated by the effortless elegance of the Parisians. I stumbled upon a small bookshop and spent an hour browsing through old volumes, the scent of aged paper and ink enveloping me in a warm embrace.

She rolled her eyes, tossing her ponytail as she spotted him through the café’s glass door, his slumped figure trudging toward Lily’s. I yanked my baseball cap lower, adjusting my oversized sunglasses, and spun my chair so my back was to the entrance. The bookshop was cozy, all warm wood tables and shelves stuffed with colorful spines, the air thick with coffee and that musty smell of old books. A couple of customers flipped through novels nearby, and the espresso machine hissed in the background. I grabbed my cappuccino, the foam tickling my lip as I took a quick sip. “Not happening, babe,” I shot back, keeping my voice low.

"Let us go meet her." Chicago was a five hour drive. Liam drove. Anna sat in the back. I navigated. The rain followed us the whole way. Grey skies. Grey roads. Grey everything. The bookstore was called "Pages." It sat on a corner between a coffee shop and a flower store. The windows were full of bestsellers. A sign on the door said "Open." We walked in. Bells jingled. The smell of paper and old wood wrapped around me. Shelves stretched to the ceiling. A cat slept on a pile of romance novels.

“What mai—” The words died as I followed her gaze. A plain brown envelope lay beside her boot. My brows snapped together. “Who the hell dropped this?” I muttered, crouching to snatch it up. We never got mail. Not bills, not flyers, nothing. Wrong house, I almost decided until I flipped it over and saw the two words scrawled in precise black ink across the front: To Little Thief. My heart did a sickening flip. Little Thief. Only one person had ever called me that.