Smitten in the Stacks (For the Love of Austen #2)

Chapter 1

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, reclined on the highest shelf like she owned the place (she did). Her judgmental stare tracked my every move.

I set down a plate of tuna on the counter. “Afternoon, Your Highness.”

Yes, she only ate restaurant-grade fish. No, I had no idea how this happened.

The shop’s furry diva hopped down 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.

I got busy arranging chairs into a circle near the counter. It was Sunday afternoon, and the only day the bookshop was closed. The highlight of my month was hosting the Literary Persuasion Society book club. A day when my friends came together to dissect and debate our latest reads.

While I waited for the 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 a good enemies-to-lovers trope.

Returning to the main area, I found a pile of paperbacks had fallen over. No doubt courtesy of Sushi.

My hands trembled as I restacked the books by a certain author who shall remain nameless. With a shaky breath, I straightened. I would not 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 I was unconditionally loved. I petted her fur, then slipped my phone from my pocket to check my Instagram persona.

Ah, the glamorous life of a wannabe book influencer.

Scrolling 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 romance.

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 romance, 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. First I need to get camera worthy.”

I tried twisting my hair into a bun, but the end result looked more unfashionably messy than haute couture. Sighing, I straightened my graphic tee with the phrase, ‘Proud Book Nerd,’ worn with my favorite skinny 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 only relative who lived in town, 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.

“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 reading glasses. “And one day I’ll be right.” She threw head back and laughed. Her laughter was as warm as the sunlight streaming through the windows. “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. 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 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.

“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 lovely bouquet of beef jerky. Now that’s a man who knows how to express his feelings.”

“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 the nice boy who works at the hardware store? He seems to have a thing for you.”

I frowned. “You mean the one who 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.”

“At least neither tries to woo me with processed meats or power tools.” I wandered over to the Jane Austen first editions. “How can I settle for a guy who thinks dried meat sticks are 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 notions. You even spurned the delightful 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.”

With a practiced air of nonchalance, I shrugged off her concern. “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.”

The sudden pain of the past resurfaced 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. “He was charming, insightful, and he understood my passion for literature. Except he wasn’t the person I thought he was. Turns out, Julian was engaged to 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 threatening 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’s why I found solace in the pages of my books, where the heroines 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 one 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?

“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.”

The bell above the entrance jingled merrily and we turned as the door swung open.

My best friend Rachel Graham breezed inside, her entrance heralded by the aroma of cranberries and oranges even before I spotted the tray of baked sweets she carried. Rachel 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 was a petite biracial woman with light-brown skin and dark curls styled in a ponytail. She had an effortless style, wearing a pink sweater over chinos with glaringly white kicks, making her look like she had just stepped out of a 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 smell 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, then groaned.

Aunt Margo leaned over, her voice low, teasing. “Actually, Paris and I were debating on whether any man has ever made her heart skip a beat outside of literature.”

Rachel nudged my aunt with her elbow. “Ah, but what’s wrong with bookish affairs? 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 polite 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.

Flicking hair over my shoulder, I shrugged. “Just needed a change.”

Rachel slanted 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 Beige.”

Aunt Margo shook her head. “You truly are one of a kind, honey. And Bluebell Bend is lucky to have you, even if they don’t always understand you.”

“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.”

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 my bookstore, surrounded by tales of love and escapism, 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 sat in one of the chairs.

Pouring myself a mug of coffee, I smiled at the way his polyester tartan pants and polo shirt looked 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, and she wore a batik print top over linen pants.

Samuel cleared his throat. “Prepare yourselves for a fresh perspective. I’ve invited a friend to join our literary gathering. He’s running late, but 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 that 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.