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

Chapter 2

Around me, the Literary Persuasion Society members found their spots, lounging in the mismatched chairs placed in a circle on the hardwood floor.

“Did everyone enjoy this month’s book pick?” Aunt Margo sat beside Samuel, flipping through her well-worn copy.

“I devoured it,” Samuel admitted. “Those plot twists? Chef’s kiss!”

Sushi, the club’s furry mascot, paraded around, soaking up adoration like a miniature, fur-coated monarch.

“Careful now, Samuel, your inner romantic is showing,” I teased, sipping my coffee.

Rachel tilted her head. “Nothing wrong with a man appreciating a good love story.”

“I agree,” Carmen said. “It’s the language of the human heart, after all.”

My gaze drifted over my assembled friends who were more like family to me, making being single in Bluebell Bend a little less lonely.

Glancing out the large front window at Bluebell Bend in springtime, it appeared as picture-perfect as a feel-good Hallmark movie. And I wasn’t just saying that because I owned the pinkest building on Main Street, complete with gingerbread woodwork and baby blue shutters. There were blooming gardens, neat brick buildings, locals chatting over steamy cups of hot chocolate at the café across the street, and bright blue skies.

Movement caught my eye and I turned my head. Sushi launched a tactical assault on a stack of bookmarks on the counter, spilling them on the floor.

I set my coffee on the counter. “Bad kitty.”

Sushi blinked at me unapologetically and leaped down.

Squatting, I gathered the bookmarks off the floor. My reflection glanced back at me from the glass display case—big blue eyes and a pale oval-shaped face that could use a touch more sleep and a smidge less stress.

Just as I straightened, the door burst open with a loud thud, startling everyone. A yelp escaped my lips and the bookmarks in my hand took flight, soaring upward before fluttering down around me like oversized confetti.

I recognized the newcomer as Daxton Granger, a personal trainer and the talk of every gym-goer in Bluebell Bend. Of course, I’d only heard about him through the grapevine, since the closest I’d come to a gym was watching Netflix while lounging on my yoga mat.

Dax walked inside and shut the door, the human embodiment of a romance novel cover, looking like he could bench press the entire historical section, his biceps straining under his snug T-shirt. And let’s be real—at thirty-years-old, my soft, slender figure was less about hitting the weights and more about nibbling on sugary pastries.

Who needed washboard abs when I could deadlift a hardback? I’d take a good book over a treadmill any day.

“Sorry, I’m late.” Dax wore a grin, equal parts charm and arrogance. “Got held up at work.”

Carmen smiled at Dax. “Welcome to the Literary Persuasion Society.”

My palms grew clammy, and I wiped them discreetly on my jeans, hoping no one would notice my sudden case of the jitters. “Ah, hi. I’m Paris, and these are the other book club members.”

He waved at the group. “If you don’t already know me, I’m Dax Granger.”

Everyone introduced themselves, then nibbled on a pastry or sipped their coffee.

As I scrambled to collect the scattered bookmarks, Dax surprised me by crouching to help. The whiff of his cologne, sandalwood and musk, tickled my senses. Reaching for the same bookmark, his fingers grazed mine. I jerked my hand back, my face flushing.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

“No problem. Always happy to lend a hand, especially to a damsel in distress.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say distress, more like momentarily flustered by flying bookmarks.”

Trying to back away from him, I stumbled over my own feet, nearly crashing into a display of small town romances. Silently cursing my inability to act like a normal human being around this man, I let out a nervous laugh.

Oh, for Austen’s sake! Did he think I was a complete dork? Or worse, did he pity me for being so obviously awkward? And why did I care?

Plopping onto my chair, I gave Dax a sideways look. His appearance was marked by a chiseled jawline softened by a light layer of scruff. His hazel eyes were set beneath short, tousled light-brown hair—and talk about broad shoulders, his clothing did little to hide the muscles beneath. Classic dark-wash jeans hugged his legs, ending in sturdy leather boots.

“Let me guess…” Aunt Margo eyed Dax with the precision of a hawk spotting a field mouse. “You must be a Scorpio.”

“Close.” He sat in the chair beside mine. “Sagittarius.”

“Ah, yes, like I said, a Sagittarius.” My aunt sat up. “That would explain the athletic physique, and I’m betting a thirst for adventure. You archers love to experience new things.” She tapped her chin before turning to me. “Whereas Virgos like Paris prefer immersing themselves in routines.” My aunt peered at me and slowly grinned. “Why stay inside organizing your meticulously color-coded underwear drawer when a handsome Sag like Dax here promises a hunky distraction?”

Oh, Aunt Margo. My cheeks burned. Though I didn’t believe in astrology, Aunt Margo certainly knew how to embarrass me while having a bit of fun at Dax’s expense.

“Well, you know us Virgos.” I flicked my wrist dismissively. “Constantly analyzing and overthinking. It’s a wonder we ever leave the house.”

Dax faced the others. “I appreciate you letting me crash your book club today. Samuel thinks I need to expand my reading preferences.”

He was definitely not the type to appreciate the finer points of a quiet, book-filled lifestyle. He was more likely to use a romance novel as a coaster for his beer than actually read it.

I frowned at Dax. “You do realize this book club mainly focuses on romance?”

Dax cracked his knuckles. “Well, I’m always open to trying new things. And I have read Pride and Prejudice and Poltergeists.”

Everyone laughed.

“Dax, my friend, that’s a masterpiece of literary mashups,” Samuel said.

That settled it. Dax would never take this seriously or fit in with the Literary Persuasion Society, a group full of genuine bibliophiles. It wasn’t that I didn’t think he could appreciate a good romance novel—okay, maybe it was a little bit of that. Mostly, it was the way he disrupted the comfortable routine I’d come to rely on with my friends.

The book club was my safe space, a place where I could be myself and have discussions with like-minded people. Dax threatened to upend that delicate balance. Maybe it was unfair to judge him so quickly, but the thought of change, of letting someone new into our little literary bubble, made my chest tighten.

Perhaps it was time to put him to the test and hope he’d leave without a fuss.

Snatching a random paperback off a table, I gestured at the book. “Have you ever even read a romance, Dax?”

He shifted in his seat. “Can’t say that I have. I don’t read much outside of horror.”

“A popular genre, but where’s the sentiment? The intimate connections?” I asked.

“Oh, you might be surprised.” A thoughtful expression crossed his face. “Horror can delve into some pretty deep themes about the human condition, and the characters often have to rely on each other to survive. That can lead to some intense emotional bonds. And while I’m admittedly more of an adrenaline junkie when it comes to my reading preferences, I can appreciate the appeal of a good love story, as long as it’s a subplot.”

My foot tapped. “I’ll take swoon-worthy over scary any day. Romance challenges us to open our hearts, to be vulnerable.”

Carmen stood and excused herself to the bathroom. Rachel’s phone rang and she stepped outside to take the call.

Dax held up one of my bookmarks featuring a couple in a passionate embrace. “You are aware that it’s all fantasy, right?”

“Oh, and I suppose your thrillers and horror novels are the epitome of realism?” I pushed hair out of my face. “Romance is about the human experience, the depth of emotions, and the transformative power of love. There’s beauty and truth in that, even if the stories are sometimes idealized.”

“More like the power of cheesy lines and predictable plots.” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering. “A good thriller keeps you on the edge of your seat, heart pounding, palms sweating. Now that’s a good read.”

How dare he disparage my favorite genre in my own shop!

Clasping my hands tightly on my lap, I frowned. “Face it, Dax. You’re too scared to embrace the emotional rollercoaster that is a well-written romance.”

He laughed. “Scared? Nah. I just prefer to keep my adrenaline pumping with a good old-fashioned horror or thriller.”

My scowl wavered at his stubborn refusal to see the light. There was something undeniably attractive about a man who stood his ground, even if he was completely misguided in his literary preferences.

Aunt Margo clucked her tongue. “Now, now, you two. There’s room for all kinds of books in this world. Why don’t we focus on our love of reading instead of bickering like an old married couple?”

Samuel clapped his hands. “That’s what we’re here for. Lively debates on books, genres, and the existential dread of running out of coffee.”

“Or the eternal question of whether kale belongs on pizza,” Aunt Margo said.

Dax’s crooked grin returned full force. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not exactly thrilled with me being here, Paris?”

I sucked in a breath, then exhaled. While this man was the epitome of everything I wasn’t—more brawn than Byron, more deadlifts than Dostoevsky—it was the thought of letting someone new in, of opening myself up to the possibility of disruption and uncertainty, that made my hackles rise.

Channel your inner Emma Woodhouse.

“I apologize if I was rude. I’m just excited to share the joy of romance novels with a new reader. There’s something magical about the way these stories can transport you to another world, make you feel all the feels, and leave you with a sense of hope and happiness. It’s like a warm hug for your soul. And don’t even get me started on the swoony heroes and the fierce heroines who...” My voice trailed off, realizing I was rambling. “See for yourself.” I tossed the book to him, half-expecting him to fumble the catch. But of course, with his annoyingly perfect reflexes, he snatched it out of the air with ease.

“Heartstrings and Handcuffs?” He studied the cover, his eyebrows raising. “Sounds...intriguing.”

Why did I have to pick a book with such a suggestive title? My face was probably the same shade as the cerise wallpaper.

“It’s not what you think,” I mumbled, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on my tee. “It’s a metaphor. For, you know, the ups and downs of relationships.”

Dax placed the book back on the table. “I’m sure it’s a great read.”

Samuel and Aunt Margo were staring at us. I squirmed in my seat.

Samuel clapped Dax on the shoulder. “Don’t mind Paris. She’s just protective of her bookish sanctuary. We’re happy to have you, and I’m sure you’ll bring a unique viewpoint to our discussions.”

Returning, Carmen smiled warmly at Dax. “Oh, yes. We’re pleased to have you join our literary group. Fresh meat—I mean, fresh perspectives—are always welcome.”

“Yes, the more the merrier!” Aunt Margo said. “A strapping young stud like yourself might just be the pizzazz we need in our book club.”

Dax flashed a grin that could have melted butter. “Well, I’m flattered by the warm greeting. And glad to be here.”

My foot twitched against the chair leg, but I kept my face expressionless. No need to get myself worked up. He wouldn’t be here long. Dax wasn’t one of us and he’d realize that soon enough.

Clearing my throat, I tried to regain control of the situation. “Yes, well, as much as we all love a good meet-cute, perhaps we should actually discuss the book? That is the purpose of a book club, last time I checked.”

Carmen waved off my attempt at literary reason. “We’re just trying to make Dax feel like part of the gang. Isn’t that what book clubs are all about? Bonding over our shared love of reading?”

I bit my tongue, knowing she had a point. It was just, well, something about Dax’s presence that made me feel off-kilter, like a bookshelf teetering under the weight of too many books.

Staring at him, my eyes narrowed. What was this exercise junkie really doing here?

My defenses snapped back into place, but this time, it was more out of self-preservation than judgment.

What if Dax saw through my careful disguise and realized I was just a weird, insecure girl who didn’t like strangers entering her world without an invite? What if he...if he judged me as harshly as I was judging him?

None of that mattered because he didn’t belong. This was a bookshop and a book club that catered to romance readers. While on occasion I did order other genres for my customers, I couldn’t quite picture Dax reading a steamy bodice-ripper. Unless, of course, he was here to research the mating habits of the wild romance reader in their natural habitat. In which case, I hoped he brought a notebook and a healthy sense of humor because things were about to get delightfully awkward.

But…he was kinda cute. I started picturing those muscular arms reshelving books…

Oh, for the love of Austen! This was not the time to ogle a temporary club member.

In the small town universe I inhabited, where the highlight of any social gathering was discussing the latest scandal over potluck dinners (and let me tell you, Mrs. Jenkins’ affair with the mailman was the talk of the town), men like Dax were anomalies—rare comets streaking across a starlit sky. I could admire the spectacle but keep my distance, knowing full well the burn of getting too close.