Woman Reading Book Novels & Stories

Well, not anymore, I guess. A woman with short dark hair and heavy makeup is sitting behind the counter reading a book that I can’t see from the raised side of the counter. She’s pretty and young, but probably older than me. It’s hard to tell with the makeup. Her lips move silently as she focuses on pronouncing the words to herself. She turns the page and giggles, holding her hand over her mouth, then continues reading with a huge grin on her face.

Someone snaps and I jump, pressing a hand to keep my heart in my chest. I spin around to see a woman glide down the row in heels and push a book into the shelf. She is fully covered in a red dress which molds to her generous curves and she raises a brow when she sees me gawking. “These pages are old and delicate. You should be careful of how you handle them. What’s your name?” I stare at her, a little startled at her bold beauty. There is not much of that in Lyria, this unapologetic sexuality.

They might have an idea of who collects Renae's notes. There's only one woman in here today. Anna. A middle aged woman with a constant sneer on her face, and said sneer is currently directed at me. I don't bother with her, going straight for the shelf. I feign searching for one of my favoured romance tomes. I take out one, set it on the table and begin my search for the next. I turn back once and when I'm certain the woman isn't staring, I take out Renae's book and flip the pages. It's...empty.

She sat close to the window, which her back against the door, she sat near the light, trying to improver her vision on the contents of the book. The name of the book was unknown to Richard, but all he saw was a lady who seemingly enjoyed every bit of the book, she got lost in it, she couldn't hear when the door opened, neither did she hear the footsteps in the room. Was she using the book to ease herself of Richard's absence? Was her mind too filled with thoughts of the danger of Richard and his men, and was Currently using the book to fill her mind with other thoughts? From what he still to observes, it seemed it did work. But before he could observe any further, he watched as she flipped t

Dangerous in a way that wasn’t loud but quiet, careful, and packed with hidden truths. She walked slowly past fiction, biographies, self-help. Then stopped. In the poetry section, a woman stood with her back to her. Curly auburn hair, longer than in the photo. A trench coat. Fingers thumbing through a worn copy of Milk and Honey like it wasn’t just a book but a memory. “Elena?” Ava said. The woman turned slowly. Her face was older. Not in years though there were fine lines around her eyes but in the way grief and silence age a person.

What on earth? Pulling her attention back to the situation, she focused on the woman sitting at the table with a stack of her books, smiling and chatting and signing for the people who had come to see her. Lia studied her, memorizing each detail. She was pretty in a soft, warm way. Long, sun-streaked brown hair swept her shoulders, and a tinge of blush highlighted her creamy complexion. The red turtleneck sweater and the matching dangling earrings gave her an electric vibrancy. Lia didn't think she was a shifter - she did not pick up any connections from her - but sometimes it was hard to tell. Lia hoped against hope the resource Jamie Volka had referred to turned out to be the book. Not the

The atmosphere was so comfortable that it made people sleepy. The young lady was reading a book with great concentration in front of the French window. Wearing a white dress, she looked like a white butterfly that was about to spread its wings and fly away under the setting sun. Her soft, jet black hair was as fluffy as the clouds, and it was so long that it touched the polished floor. After reading the book for a while, she closed it. Staring blankly at her reflection in the French window, she pondered over a question. Who am I?

The library was a third illustrious and recognizable library in Wicklow for encompassing historical quixotic and idealistic fictions. They pushed the heavy doors open and entered into the reception area inhaling the smell of old books. "Hello, Ms Kate!" Louisa and Sheila greeted a middle-aged woman, sitting behind her desk reading a book. Ms Kate Long was a frumpy woman, and she was fanatical about books, and had always said; 'There's no-one like her who adored books like a possessive demon.' She was divorced without having children, and she thought of books as her family.

When the left hand of the man touched the thick book, the man noted that the book was also very heavy. He took one last strong pull at the wine and began reading what was written inside. It was of the woman's own handwriting as she portrayed and poured all her veiled feelings within the book. Although she lived a long life, the woman did not spend it in vain as she had worked very hard for the benefit of the people especially the children.

I had the urge to touch it, so I reached forward for it. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you," I jerked at the gruff voice and turned around. It was an old woman with grey asymmetric Bob hair and beautiful brown skin. She held a walking stick with a snake's head and red eyes. She wasn't green, blue, or decapitated like the others, she looked like a real woman. "That book might be titled 'NAMES', but it is not a good book. Those five letters stand for something, terrible things. Open that book and you won't love what you will see,"