Younger Man Book Novels & Stories

Mira My mouth fell open, and I couldn’t even hide my surprise. This man was gorgeous. I had seen good looking men before, but he was on an entirely different level. “Mira, meet my dad,” Anna repeated, snapping me out of my completely inappropriate thoughts about all the ways I could gladly devour this man. Anna and I met at a bookstore last month. We clicked instantly and became close fast. Since then, she had been begging me to come over to her house, and now here I was, standing in front of the most breathtaking man I had ever laid eyes on.

Then would he assume that I am uncomfortable with him? Her thought process on 'How to react?' came to a halt when Ian had asked something, which Hana obviously did hear. "What?" was the only reaction she could give after the whole stupid analysis. "What kind of books do you read? Novels, Study-related, Comics, Friction, History, Politics, Young Adult, Romance or biographies." Hana and Nabi were stunned by the list he read, and before they could respond, he urged, "Don't say Vampires or werewolves or aliens Please!"

We needed all the evidence we could get against Mr Ranault even if it means coming to see a stranger alone in a library. The library had another floor for history and science while the bottom floor was for kids books and pretty much basic stuff. I searched around the ground floor of the library but there was only two teenagers,some women and two nerdy collage guys. There is no way any of these people had that manly voice I heard on the phone last night. Just as I was about to go upstairs,I saw a man seating in one of the chairs with a book in his hands titled: A little life. The man had brown skin like dark chocolate. He pulled the book down a little to be able to peep his eyes out and look

I really should ask mommy for longer skirt, even with the high knee socks keeping me warm, I still was at risk of diaper flashing. "Here let me help you" a guy says next to me, he was taller than me but not by much, definitely not as tall as daddy. He got me the book and handed over to me, his eyes did a quick travel on my clothes, hair style before smiling at me. "Here you go little one" he said making me blush, I think he just saw my diaper! How embarrassing can this day be.

He returned to the younger prince, offering him the book. "Go look through these." He instructed. The younger prince nodded his head, accepting the offered book and turning his attention to the first page. His eyes scanned the words before coming to a halt on a picture of two men standing side by side. He looked at the man on the right. "Is that you?" He asked curiously. The man nodded his head. "Yeah." He confirmed.

No matter how much time I spent with him, I would never get used to that side of his world. Slowly, I moved through the room, taking in the details. My fingers lightly brushed over the books as I passed the shelf. Business strategies. War history. Stoicism. Dark psychology. Art. Exactly the kind of books a man like Zane would read. As I walked to his desk, my eyes caught a small picture frame resting near the edge. I picked it up, bringing it closer to get a better look. It was an old photograph —worn at the edges but carefully preserved. A little boy, no older than four, held a tiny baby in his arms, his smile wide and filled with pure joy.

Approaching the man gathering the last books from the floor, each book seeming to carry a piece of the library’s soul, I notice that he is elderly, his presence radiating impressive calmness as if he is in no hurry to pick up the books. The man must be nearly seventy-five years old, with short, already white hair, only a few rebellious strands still wanting to remain gray. Despite his advanced age, his hair is full, a testament to his vitality. The man’s face bears the marks of time, wrinkles around his eyes, and lines of expression on his forehead, each line likely telling a story of laughter and worries lived. His eyes are a deep violet that enchants me in a way that seems to penetrate my

“I want to tell you what kind of book it is. Not what the back cover says you’ve read that. What I think it actually is.” I looked at the room. “It’s a book about a man,” I said. “Specifically, a particular man his hands, his voice, the strong black tea he drank every morning for thirty years, the way he cried at my school graduation and didn’t pretend he hadn’t. The way he cooked on Saturday afternoons and believed, without sentimentality, that paying full attention to the small things was the substance of a life.” I paused. “It’s also a book about what happened to him. What was constructed and deployed against him by people who found him threatening and found it convenient to remove him. W

— I ask at once, unable to contain my anxiety. The old man laughs some more, showing several empty spaces in his mouth where there should be teeth. — Of course, of course. Look. He takes some kind of book out of his thick coat and puts it on the sand for me to pick up, then steps back. — Girls from the continent like it a lot — he says. I reach down and pick it up. The cover is hard and there is a painting of colorful flowers.

She pointed with her finger and ran it down these books looking for a particular cover. “I have been saving this story for the right moment.” She directed her son to sit in the chair and when he sat down, she gave him the book. It looked ordinary to him, but it was obviously special to her. “This is the story of a young man who found a friend while on a journey. It is called ‘The Tale of Meru’.” He looked surprised because he was half expecting another history lesson. “Are you sure you have the right book?” “Yes, Yvayn, I am. I am not as boring as you would like to think I am.”