The Little Paris Bookshop Novels & Stories

The vibe towards magic with every minute walked within the city shook me, and I fell in love with Paris. We walked into a small bookshop, the walls of which were completely clad with old books and prints from other centuries. Luc took me to meet the friend who owned it. She was a sweet old lady, with the name of Colette. She spoke no other language than French, so Luc had to do an interpreter's job in our conversation. Must be here, there, around the shelves of the lit. section for almost an hour, doing little but changing pleasantries back and forth ad nauseam.

The next day, Jean-Baptiste picked me up in a vintage car, looking even more handsome in casual clothes. "Ready for real Paris?" he asked. "As ready as I'll ever be." He took me to a bookshop that was part library, part café, part time capsule. Books in French and English covered every surface. Readers sprawled in chairs, sipping coffee and completely absorbed. "This place is magical," I breathed. "Yes. I come here when I need to remember why I love this city." He ordered us coffees. "So, American girl. What brings you to Paris looking so sad?"

"Come on, now." They continued walking down the street until they got to an old bookstore. It was small and rustic, and old place that was hardly standing on its own now but it was Rosie's favourite in Paris. She could spend all day scanning the shelves or sitting outside on the little outdoor dining tables with a book in hand. Rosie sat down at one of the tables while Anthony walked across the street to get them some coffee. She opened a new book that had been propped underneath her arm, falling into whatever new universe this book would consume her into.

As I passed by a small bookstore, the title of a book in the window caught my eye. I stepped inside, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the heat outside. The scent of old books and incense wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. The owner, a friendly woman with a knowing smile, asked if I needed help. I pointed to the book in the window. "Ah, the magik calls to you?" she said, her accent thick and comforting. "Come, let me show you where that one is." The book was about the history of the French Quarter, filled with tales of love, loss, and the supernatural.

"Traffic near the campus was brutal because of the graduation rehearsals. Besides, I brought gifts." "Gifts? Maverick, I'm trying to empty the apartment, not add more things to it," I said, though I couldn't stop the smile from spreading across my face. "Relax, it's not heavy," he said, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie which he had dropped onto a chair. He pulled out a small, rectangular object wrapped in simple brown paper and handed it to me. I took it from him, tearing the paper open carefully. It was a book. Specifically, a highly technical manual on advanced software architecture and data structures. There were neat, small sticky notes poking out from almost every single chapter.

Turning, I don't see what attracted my attention, but something in my head is shouting, jumping in the air and waving arms at me. What was it...? Ahhh.... Across the street is a small second-hand bookshop; the kind with tiny windows and a narrow entrance which only opens on the second Sunday of the month. The door stands open, seeming to lead no-where except dark shelf-stacks that a Victorian explorer would lose himself in. And through the entrance, just visible, a head of copper-red hair. I find myself smiling. Tossing the dregs of the soup into a bin, I follow my feet across the road and into the store.

We visited obscure bookstores, made wishes in fountains, and did wine tastings in Saint-Émilion that left us giggling by the third glass. There were no grand declarations. No big promises. Just quiet days filled with wonder and nights so peaceful, it almost hurt to fall asleep. It was the kind of happiness that felt... earned. *** Packing to leave Paris was like trying to shove magic into a suitcase. And failing. I had bought far more than I anticipated—scarves, shoes, art books, vintage perfume bottles I couldn’t resist. I stood in the middle of my room, suitcase gaping open, and stared at the mess like it might pack itself out of pity.

She glanced around, then moved silently toward a small staircase that led to the second floor. There were three doors up there. One of them was slightly open. “Huh?” she murmured, stepping closer. She peeked in and saw it was a study. A smile curled on her lips as she slipped inside. The room was lined with two tall shelves, one on each side. A desk and chair sat neatly in the center. “So he does read, huh?” she whispered with admiration as she strolled to one of the shelves and pulled out a book. Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong.

Keeps half a step behind my shoulder. We’ve been together long enough now that he doesn’t need to be told where to walk on a street. No one is following us. I check twelve times and never get a different answer. The café is small and narrow, three tables inside, two outside, a name in white paint on the window with bright flower boxes flanking it. Inside, a hipster in the back corner is reading Le Monde. A woman at the counter is slicing a quiche into sixths. The pastry case is filled with picture-perfect delicacies.

The rainy night I fled New York two years ago felt like a lifetime ago. Now, I had a new name and a new identity. I was Elena Rossi, a resident of the 7th arrondissement of Paris, and the mysterious bestselling author currently taking Europe by storm. And of course, I was little Leo's mother. "Today's a big day, Leo," I murmured as I changed his diaper. "Maman has a launch party for our book tonight." In a private gallery on the Champs-Élysées, the air was thick with perfume and the clinking of glasses.