Paris Novak is known for three things: her bookshop, Prose & Positivity, being a romance enthusiast, and matchmaking readers with the perfect book. Yet Paris harbors a not-so-romantic secret: she’s skeptical about finding her own happily ever after, especially in a town where everyone knows your coffee order.
Once Dax Granger, a horror fan who believes romance is eye-rollingly cheesy, joins Paris’s book club, he’s instantly smitten with the stubborn woman. And beneath a facade of swagger and book snobbery, Dax is determined to prove to Paris that he’s more than just brawn and broad bookshelves.
When Dax proposes a genre-swapping reading challenge, asserting his darker tastes over her fondness for heartwarming fiction, they embark on a unique bookish adventure.
Paris introduces Dax to the hidden depths between the schmaltzy covers of her favorite reads, while he guides her through the thrills of eerie tales. Amid literary sparring, these mismatched bibliophiles find laughter, unexpected friendship, and a slow-burn attraction that neither can deny.
Can a hardcore romantic find common ground with a macabre-loving cynic? Or will their contrasting worlds cause a not-so-happy ending?
Tropes: He Falls First, Friends-to-Lovers, Opposites Attract, Forced Proximity, Fish Out of Water, Slow Burn.
READ AN EXCEPT (unedited)
As the self-proclaimed bibliophile queen of Bluebell Bend, I wielded my weapons—barcode scanner, pastry, and matchmaking skills—with pride. My bookshop, Prose & Positivity, specialized in romance, where I got to ogle hot guys on book covers and play literary Cupid.
Sushi, my fluffy white Persian, sat atop the highest shelf like she owned the place (she did), her judgmental stare tracking my every move.
“Afternoon, Your Highness.” I set down a plate of tuna on the counter.
Yes, she only ate restaurant-grade fish. No, I had no idea how this happened.
The shop’s furry diva descended from her perch and ate her meal.
“Time to prep for the book club meeting.”
Her tail twitched in acknowledgment or perhaps mild annoyance—I was never quite sure which.
Since it was Sunday afternoon, and the only day the bookshop was closed, I got busy arranging chairs into a circle near the counter. The highlight of my month was hosting the Literary Persuasion Society book club, where my friends came together to dissect and discuss our latest reads.
While I waited for the book club members to arrive, I shuffled across the room in high-top sneakers that added exactly zero inches to my five-foot-three stature, still glitter-splattered from last week’s marketing campaign—don’t ask. In the kitchenette, I fired up the coffee machine, brewing java so strong it could fuel a nuclear reactor—or at least ignite a lively discussion on the irresistible allure of a good enemies-to-lovers trope.
Returning to the main area, a pile of paperbacks had fallen over, no doubt courtesy of Sushi.
I restacked the books by a certain author who shall remain nameless, my hands slightly trembling. With a shaky breath, I straightened. I would not to let my mind wander to the foolishness I had once fallen for—hook, line, and sinker, just like poor Marianne Dashwood.
Sushi bumped her head against my hand, a reminder that, at least in this bookstore, I was unconditionally loved.
With a shake of my head, I slipped my phone from my pocket to check my Instagram persona.
Ah, the glamorous life of a wannabe book influencer.
I scrolled through my latest posts, admiring the artfully arranged stacks of novels and the cleverly crafted captions that I hoped would inspire others to appreciate the wonderful world of fiction.
Sure, my current audience consisted mostly of my Aunt Margo, a few loyal customers, and my best friend, Rachel. But I had big dreams, dreams of becoming the go-to girl for all things literature, of changing lives one book recommendation at a time.
I glanced at my cat. “Hmmm, do our followers want more live dramatic readings of classic literature? Or should we post more photos of us, looking all extra cute?”
“Meow.” Her insistent tone reverberated through the quiet bookstore.
“More cat photos, you say? You little narcissist.”
“Meow.”
“Fine, fine. One quick selfie. But first I need to get camera worthy. And you of course need no styling tips from me.”
Working at twisting my lavender hair into a bun, the end result looked more unfashionable messy than haute couture. Sighing, I straightened my graphic tee with the slogan: ‘Readers do it between the covers,’ worn with the no-fuss reliability of my favorite jeans.
Ah yes, my signature look—casual chic with a side of bookish rebellion.
Scooping up Sushi, she snuggled over my shoulder, a content purr vibrating against my chest. We posed together—a woman, her bookstore, and her cat—framed by the backdrop of vibrantly colored bookshelves.
When the photoshoot ended, she hopped down, sashayed over to the counter, and vaulted onto the surface.
The chime above the door announced Aunt Margo’s arrival, her presence like a burst of spicy incense. As my closest living relative, she held a special place in my life, while my parents enjoyed retirement in Florida.
My aunt flounced up to the counter draped in her usual ensemble of paisley and turquoise, the jingle of her bracelets competing with the wind chimes outside. Her tall figure and olive complexion were offset by the long mane of silver hair that graced her shoulders.
“Paris, honey.” Aunt Margo stroked Sushi’s fur, sending white tufts into the air. “Have you checked your horoscope? Venus is in transit, and that means—”
“Love is on the horizon?” I rolled my eyes. “You’ve been saying that since I was sixteen, Aunt Margo.”
She peered at me over her cat-shaped glasses. “And one day I’ll be right.” Her laughter was as warm as the sunlight streaming through the windows. “But this time, I have not-so-great news. Your horoscope’s indicating a severe love drought.”
As much as I adored my hometown, the dating pool was more of a dried-up water stain. As for the local men—I’d mentally swiped left on every bachelor within a ten-mile radius—twice.
The issue wasn’t a lack of dates, it was that no one understood my desire for an epic, sweep-me-off-my-feet kind of love affair. In many ways, I was the stereotypical single girl whose closest relationships were with a judgy furball who hogged my pillow and Jane Austen from my bookshelf.
"Perhaps you were too quick to dismiss Barry."
My aunt’s last hopeful for me was the town’s butcher known for his love of meat puns and an unsettling habit of talking to his sausages as if they were his offspring.
I smiled wryly at my aunt. “He's a nice guy, but not my type. And while I appreciate your efforts to help me find love, I’m not sure playing matchmaker is your forte.”
Aunt Margo sniffed. “I thought Barry was perfect for you.”
“I’m not sure I want to be with someone who’s more emotionally invested in his venison than in me.”
Aunt Margo grinned. “Whatever do you mean? He even gave you that nice bouquet of beef jerky. Now that’s a man who knows how to express his feelings.”
In my opinion, it was an unorthodox way to end my single status.
“Yes, because nothing says romance like cured meat. I just don’t want to settle for someone who thinks a romantic dinner involves a candlelit display of cold cuts.”
“What about that nice boy who works at the hardware store? He seems to have a thing for you.”
I frowned. “You mean the one who always smells like WD-40 and asked me if I wanted to see his wrench collection?”
She threw her hands up. “Heavens, Paris! At this rate, you’ll end up a spinster with nothing but your books and Sushi for company.”
I rolled my eyes. “At least neither tries to woo me with processed meat or power tools.” I wandered over to the Jane Austen first editions. “How can I settle for a guy who thinks dried meat sticks is the height of romance when I have a literary hero like Mr. Knightley who knows how to court a woman with wit, charm, and impeccable manners?”
“You and your romantic book notions. You even spurned the nice English major in thrifted corduroys and elbow patches I tried to set you up with.” My aunt clucked her tongue. “You have to give real men a chance, flaws and all. Like my third husband. The man couldn’t even butter toast without causing a culinary disaster, but I adored him.”
I shrugged off her concern with a practiced air of nonchalance. “But I’m not looking for Mr. Perfect. I just want someone who gets me, who loves me for me...like Darcy from Bridget Jones’s Diary. And besides, at least fictional guys never hog the blankets or leave their dirty socks on the floor.”
Aunt Margo shook her head. “Why are you so set against giving anyone a chance? It can’t just be because of your fascination for fictitious heroes.”
I was quiet for a moment, the sudden pain of the past resurfacing like a fresh, unhealed wound. “Do you, uh, remember last year when Julian Hale did a book signing here?”
She frowned. “The handsome, tweed-clad wordsmith of those racy historical romances?”
“That’s him. Well, I...had a fling with Julian last summer…” A sharp pang pierced my chest, the words sticking in my throat. “He was charming, insightful, and he understood my passion for literature. But he wasn’t the person I thought he was. Turns out, Julian was already involved with someone else, and I was just a minor subplot.” My fingers absently traced the spine of a nearby book. “I'm just protecting myself from getting hurt again.”
Blinking back tears that threatened to smudge my carefully applied mascara, I tried to squash the memory of that ill-fated romance. The wounds of my past heartbreak were still raw, and perhaps that was why I found solace in the pages of my books, where the heroines always got their perfect ending, and never had to avoid Willoughby-esque suitors, survive disastrous blind dates, or step on hairballs.
She squeezed my hand. “One idiot’s mistake shouldn’t cast a shadow over the entire male species.” Her expression softened. “Don’t let that experience define you or make you judge all men by his actions. You’re wiser, stronger, and more deserving of happiness than ever before.”
My mouth dried. Could Aunt Margo be right? Was I holding out for a literary ideal that didn’t exist outside the pages of books?
“But how do you know when it’s someone worth taking a chance on?”
Aunt Margo reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “When someone makes you feel like you’re the leading lady in your own love story, that’s when you’ll know.”
I gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek. “One can hope. If I ever do find someone special, I'll try not to let my cynicism get in the way."
My best friend Rachel Graham breezed inside, her entrance heralded by the scent of cranberries and oranges even before I saw the tray of baked sweets she carried. Rachel always enjoyed providing the refreshments, and I appreciated her baking skills almost as much as I appreciated her friendship. After all, what's a book club without a little sugar to sweeten the bitter taste of unrequited love?
“Am I interrupting the latest astrological forecast?” Rachel wore an oversized, pink sweater over yoga pants, and her auburn curls were styled in a bouncy ponytail that seemed to defy gravity. A petite biracial woman, her light-brown skin complemented her effortless style, making her look like she had just stepped out of a cozy spring-themed catalogue.
Aunt Margo’s kohl-rimmed blue eyes lit up. “No, just ensuring our Paris here is ready for all the love the universe has in store.”
“Of course she is.” Rachel gave me a warm smile.
“Those look delicious.” I was already drooling.
Rachel placed her baked goods beside the gurgling coffeepot. I snagged a sugary scone, biting into the soft, spiced dough and groaned.
Aunt Margo leaned over, her voice low, teasing. “Actually, Paris and I were just debating on whether any man has ever made her heart skip a beat outside of literature.”
“Ah, but what’s wrong with bookish affairs?” Rachel nudged my aunt with her elbow. “I might be a married lady, but there’s always room for a fictional fling or two.”
“Or three, or four,” I said.
Grinning, Aunt Margo turned to me and her gaze slid over my head. “That new hair color is quite the statement.”
Maybe it was her nice way of saying I stood out more than I blended in, an outsider among the conventional hairstyles and humdrum fashion trends that populated Bluebell Bend.
I shrugged, touching my hair. “Just needed a change.”
Rachel titled her head. “It’s bold, like her taste in books. Not everyone can pull off discussing classics like Mansfield Park with the same enthusiasm as the novel Fifty Shades of Smoochology.”
Aunt Margo shook her head. “You truly are one of a kind, Paris Novak. Bluebell Bend is lucky to have you, even if they don't always understand you.”
I grinned, feeling a sense of pride at her words. “Well, I like to think of myself as the town's very own Emma Woodhouse. Matchmaking books with readers, one happily-ever-after at a time. It may not be conventional, but it's certainly never boring.”
My heart turned over heavily. Their fondness for my quirkiness was like a gentle reminder of the fine line I walked between my world and others. In this haven, surrounded by tales of love, adventure, and the occasional undead courtship, I was the town’s book cupid. Beyond these walls, I was Paris Novak, the girl with the quirky tees, purple hair, and mismatched socks, always one step out of sync with the rhythm of Bluebell Bend.
The door opened and Samuel Smith, an African-American man in his forties, with brown eyes peering behind square-framed glasses, walked inside.
“Hello, everyone,” Samuel said in a loud, booming voice. “I’ve got some opinions about our latest read.” He settled into one of the chairs, his comfort among romance novels was as evident as his ease on the putting green.
Pouring myself a mug of coffee, I smiled at the way his khaki pants and polo shirt—impeccable as the binding of a mint condition first-edition—made him look like he’d just stepped off the driving range.
Our final member, Carmen Flores, a Hispanic widow in her fifties, made her entrance moments later. “Good afternoon!” Her dark-brown hair rested on slender shoulders, framing her big brown eyes, and she wore a flowing batik print top over paint stained linen pants that hinted at her latest art project.
Samuel cleared his throat. “Prepare yourselves for a fresh perspective. I’ve invited a friend to join our literary gathering. He’s running late and should be here soon.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. A new member?
Slumping in my seat, I cast a wary glance at the door. Our group had been a close-knit circle for so long, the thought of someone else joining our book club was mildly panic-inducing.
Was I ready to let some random stranger join our book discussions and into my life?
No. No, I wasn’t. About as ready as I was to swap my cherished paperbacks for eBooks—nostalgically resistant and slightly appalled. Change and I had never been on good terms, and I wasn’t about to start embracing it now.
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