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

Chapter 11

Over the next few weeks, Dax and I spent more and more time together. Between our genre debates and laundry rendezvouses, I was peeling back the layers of the muscle-bound man who had become my favorite partner in crime. And I appreciated having a chauffeur for our outings.

It was nice to have a friend with a reliable car and an encyclopedic knowledge of the best bakeries in town. Well, there were only two bakeries in Bluebell Bend, but we frequently visited them both and still couldn’t decide which one was better.

Beyond Dax’s impressive ability to parallel park in the tightest of spaces, I admired his work ethic and love of reading. And when he impressed me with his soft spot for felines? Let’s just say, I started liking him even more.

Who would’ve thought that I’d find such a kindred spirit in a man who could probably bench press a small car?

While I waited for Dax to pick me up, I angled the paperback closer to the black plastic cauldron I’d dug out from my Halloween décor. The title Rosemary’s Babysitter emblazoned across the book cover caught the last rays of sunlight. A perfect shot for my bookstagram account. Peering through my phone camera, my lips puckered in a mock-serious pout.

Just brewing up some literary magic. Don’t worry, no actual babysitters were harmed in the making of this post, I captioned the photo and hit share.

Instantly, ‘likes’ began to trickle in.

“Attempting to lure in new followers?”

Dax stepped through the door and flashed me a crooked grin that made my knees feel like they’d been replaced by Jell-O.

I set my phone down on the coffee table. “You know me, just sharing my love for literature with the world.”

Dax plopped down on the couch. “Just as long as you haven’t accidentally summoned any fictional characters to life after reading that book. You have no idea how persuasive those Ouija boards can be.”

Gasping in mock offense, I swatted his arm. “Excuse you, I am a responsible reader. I would only summon the most well-behaved characters. Unlike you.”

He placed a hand over his heart, feigning a wounded expression. “Ouch. And here I thought you kept me around for my devastating good looks and rapier-sharp wit.”

I snorted, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to my chest. “More like your uncanny ability to find the best parking spots.”

Dax draped an arm across the back of the couch. “Call me a man of many talents. And if those talents happen to include protecting you from meter maids, then so be it.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Probably be drowning in parking tickets. Face it, Paris. You need me.”

Tossing the pillow at him, he caught it with ease. “Need is a strong word. I prefer tolerate. And only because you have a car and I don’t.”

He snorted. “I thought we had something special. I’m wounded, truly.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic. You know you’ve become one of my favorite people, even if you do have questionable taste in pizza toppings.”

He threw the pillow back at me, which I narrowly dodged. “Says the woman who thinks cat fur is a fashion statement.”

Glancing down at my shirt, I frowned. “I’ll have you know that I’m single-handedly keeping the lint roller industry in business. It’s a sign of my unwavering devotion to my feline overlord.”

He stood and moved closer, his gaze soft and warm. Raising his hand, he gently brushed hair behind my ear. I drew back, my breath catching in my throat.

“Ready to go, bookworm?”

Nodding, I grabbed my bag, tucking my phone and the copy of Rosemary’s Babysitter inside before heading out.

Dax and I hopped into his car and drove across town. Streetlamps flicked on, the last vestiges of sunset clinging to the rooftops in fiery patches. He parked the car down the street and we continued on foot. The evening was cool enough for my breath to form puffs in the air, yet tepid enough that the chill felt refreshing rather than biting.

A graveyard loomed ahead, its wrought-iron gates doused in moonglow. An owl hooted from a tree and a ground fog churned around our legs.

Dax rested his hand on the gate. “May I introduce you to Eternal Slumber Cemetery.”

The gates screeched open, and Dax and I stepped inside.

Hanging out with Dax tonight was kind of exciting. Though I wasn’t ready to admit it aloud, horror was beginning to grow on me—like a fungus, but in a good way.

We ventured deeper into the cemetery, where the lampposts emitted an otherworldly luminosity, turning the tombstones silver. The breeze carried the scent of earth and old stone.

Dax glanced up at the full moon. “I could see you having an epic romance with a brooding vampire.”

“And you’d be the wisecracking werewolf who keeps sabotaging our relationship.”

Dax placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “I’d prefer to think I’d be the adorable sidekick who helps you realize that he’s the wolf for you. Team werewolf for life!”

Smacking my forehead with one hand, I scoffed. “Oh, please. You’d be constantly distracted by squirrels and fire hydrants. I think I can navigate the supernatural dating scene on my own.”

A contented sigh escaped me, delighted to be wandering through the cemetery—of all places—with this wonderful, exceptional man by my side. It felt surprisingly intimate sharing this space with him, surrounded by memories carved in stone.

“I wonder what their stories were,” I whispered, reading the faded inscriptions. Some names were still legible, others were lost to time. “Dax, did you ever imagine yourself as the good guy in horror novels as a kid?”

He was quiet a moment, then cleared his throat. “Yep. Always the hero, never the victim. And you?”

“I’m the stealthy woman with a hidden agenda. The one who everyone underestimates until she saves the day with her obscure knowledge of ancient rituals and her clever cat.”

“Ah, a woman of layers and intrigue.”

“Like an onion.” I tilted my head. “Or a parfait. Everybody loves parfaits.”

Dax and I wandered past crumbling headstones, flower wreaths, and angel effigies. The lampposts’ soft light created an eerie ambiance. Like a scene straight out of a Tim Burton film, where a skeleton might pop out, ready to serenade us with a jazzy tune about the joys of being dead.

“So, did you bring garlic and crosses?”

“Of course.” Dax patted his back pocket. “It’s what makes me a great personal trainer. Being prepared is the key to success, whether it’s for a workout or a graveyard stroll.”

“Where are we going?”

Dax pointed to a mausoleum at the far end of the cemetery, its marble fa?ade gleaming under the moonlight. “That resembles a scene from Rosemary’s Babysitter. Come on.”

Crossing the graveyard, shadows stretched on the damp ground like a dark stain. My heart rate spiked, and I moved a little closer to Dax.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah. Just a little spooked.”

“Are you finally acknowledging the chilling allure of horror?”

“I’ll have you know, sir, that the only chill I’m interested in involves ice cream and a heartwarming rom-com.”

“Ah, but every good story has its moment of peril.”

I brushed hair from my face. “Yes, but preferably less cemetery-ish.”

The lampposts illuminated the walkways winding through the tombstones, statues, and crypts. Dax pushed open the heavy door.

My hand flew over my mouth. He had transformed the space with the glow of countless candles and a cozy picnic set up in the center of the room.

My eyes went wide. “Dax, what is all this?”

He grinned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Do you like it?”

A thick blanket and cushions were spread out on the ground, along with an assortment of delectable treats and fresh fruit.

Turning to face Dax, I whispered, “You did all this for me?”

He shrugged with a shy smile. “I wanted to do something special to show you how much I enjoy spending time with you. Especially since you’re braving a creepy graveyard after reading a horror novel.”

My laugh echoed off the stone walls. “Well, you certainly know how to make a girl feel special. Who needs dinner in a fancy restaurant when you can have a moonlit picnic surrounded by the dearly departed?”

“You get me like no one else, bookworm.” Dax grasped my hand and led me to the blanket. “I figured if we’re going to be friends long-term, we might as well hang out in a place that’s as unique and unconventional as we are.”

We relaxed among the flickering candlelight, and the closeness of Dax’s presence enveloped me. I was having so much fun. In a graveyard. Inside a mausoleum.

And the weirdest thing? I was having a picnic with the man who had managed to make my pulse throb more times than I cared to admit. It was like a scene from a paranormal romance novel, and I couldn’t suppress a laugh.

Dax quirked an eyebrow at me. “What’s so funny?”

My mouth twitched. “Nothing, it’s just...if you had told me a few weeks ago I’d be having a candlelit date in a crypt, I would’ve laughed you out of my bookshop.”

He opened the container of fruit and held it out to me. “I suppose life has a funny way of surprising us, huh?”

Plucking a grape, I popped it into my mouth. “It sure does. And do you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

A cool draft swept through the room. I shivered, rubbing my arms, the thin fabric of my sweater doing little to ward off the chill.

“Cold?” Dax edged closer.

“Maybe a little, but it’s nothing a little body heat can’t fix.”

He gave me a sideways glance. “Is that Paris speak for ‘cuddle with me’?”

My lips curved into a smile. “I prefer to think of it as a strategic sharing of resources. For survival purposes. Like a preemptive strike against the forces of hypothermia.”

He scooted over until our sides were pressed firmly together. I laid my head against his shoulder. Above us, the night sky glittered through gaps in the old stone roof. We eased into silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward but comfortable. His hand touched mine, tentative yet wanting, and when I threaded my fingers through his, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Dax.” I lifted my head to look at him. “You’re becoming one of my best friends.”

His expression clouded, then just as quickly, he forced a faint grin. “Um, yeah. You too, bookworm. This is the best non-date, date I’ve had in a long time.”

“Oh, come on! Seriously?”

“I sorta stopped dating six months ago. On my last date, we spent the entire evening talking about her dog’s digestive issues. I don’t think I’ve ever learned so much about canine bowel movements in my life.”

Grabbing a strawberry, I bit into it. “At least it was educational.”

Dax raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s the sort of riveting conversation I was looking for on a first date. What about you? I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of dating fails.”

Unlacing our hands, I sat up. “Where do I even begin? One guy insisted on speaking in a British accent the entire night. Problem was, he kept slipping in and out of it. One minute he sounded like the Queen, the next he was straight out of Jersey Shore.”

His forehead creased. “That’s so weird! Did you ever figure out why he was doing it?”

“I was too afraid to ask. I just nodded along and tried not to crack up each time he said ‘cheerio’ or ‘bloody hell’.”

It felt so easy, so natural, to be here with Dax, trading stories and laughter under the starlit sky. I reached for a plump strawberry from the spread before us, my fingers brushing against his as he moved to do the same. My adrenaline did this crazy hormonal-pumping thing. I popped the fruit into my mouth, savoring its sweet tang.

Dax reclined on his elbows and studied me for a moment. “We’ve talked about a lot of things over the past month or so, bookworm, but I still feel like I barely know you. Tell me about your childhood.”

“Growing up, my parents always made sure our house was filled with books. It was like living in a library but with snacks.”

“Let me guess, your mom was the strict librarian type who shushed you for talking too loud?”

Reclining against the wall, I sighed. “Quite the opposite. Mom was a teacher, and she encouraged lively discussions about the books we read. Dad was the history buff. He’d launch into these long-winded lectures about the historical context of every novel.”

“You had quite the literary upbringing. No wonder you ended up running a bookshop.”

“It’s in my blood, I suppose. Books have always been my constant companions, through thick and thin. They’ve taught me about love, life, and everything in between.”

Dax turned to face me. “And what has the wise Paris Novak learned from all those books?”

“That life’s unpredictable, messy, heartbreaking, and sometimes downright infuriating. But it’s also beautiful, extraordinary, surprising…and fun.”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” he teased.

“I blame it on the Jane Austen novels I consumed as a teenager.”

“Well, I may not be a Mr. Darcy, but I do have chivalrous manners.” Dax cleared his throat and adopted a posh, exaggerated tone. “Miss Novak, would you do me the honor of reading your favorite scenes from Rosemary’s Babysitter?”

I took the book from my purse. “Why, Mr. Granger, I thought you’d never ask.”

Reading out loud, we discussed aspects of the book. I kept glancing at Dax, enjoying his company. He had somehow managed to slip past my defenses when I wasn’t looking, leaving me equally giddy and terrified at the prospect of what that meant.

If someone had told me I’d soon be swoony over a muscle-bound beefcake allergic to romance novels, I’d have laughed in their face—but that was before Dax walked in and turned my bookish world upside down.