Chapter 15
A few weeks had passed since the book club had started reading Emma, and today I was embracing the spirit of the era.
Enjoying the bright sunshine, I twirled in my elegant Regency-era gown, the delicate muslin fabric billowing around me in a soft pastel shade. The high empire-waistline and short puffed sleeves embodied the simplicity and grace of the early 18th-century fashion, while the modest neckline added a trace of refinement.
The crisp wind tousled my hair as I draped the final blanket over the grass, stepping back to admire my handiwork. The charming scene looked like it had sprung straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel as if the renowned author herself had RSVP’d to my garden party.
“Paris, you’ve outdone yourself.” Aunt Margo, in a bonnet festooned with ribbons, glided towards me. She donned a chemise dress made of thin, white muslin with a sash tied around her waist. “It’s like we’ve been transported straight to Regency England!”
Intent on recreating the realism of the period, I had spread out two large blankets. On serving trays I placed cold roasted meats, fruit pastries, bread, and cheese. Paper lanterns hung from the trees and soft classical music played from a discreetly placed Bluetooth speaker.
“Thank you, Aunt Margo. You look great.”
“Paris, this is spectacular. Just like the scene from Emma.” Samuel ambled over, his waistcoat impeccably tailored to accommodate his portly stature. “This feels even more authentic than my spreadsheets.”
“Your cravat alone deserves its own ledger entry, Samuel. Bravo!” I applauded his attention to detail.
“Bonjour.” Rachel’s voice sang out, arriving in a pretty gown of light-pink. Her onyx curls had been tamed into an elegant updo. She carried a basket bursting with what I knew would be baked goods capable of making Mr. Darcy himself weak at the knees.
“Rachel, you look like you’ve stepped straight out of a French romance novel.” I beamed, already angling for a macaron.
Rachel handed me a pastry with a smile so warm it could soften butter. “This is the best Literary Persuasion Society meeting yet.”
Settling on the edge of the blanket, I surveyed the park, the manicured lawn dotted with clusters of flowers and towering oak trees. The aroma of blooming honeysuckle vines and the subtle sweetness of lavender wafted through the air. Squirrels darted among the branches, their chattering melding with the distant laughter of children on the playground equipment.
“Hello, hello, everyone.” Carmen arrived last, her tall frame wrapped in a long dress of deep burgundy velvet that complimented her dark hair and kind eyes. A colorful shawl was draped around her shoulders. “Paris, querida, this setting is a living painting.”
“I was going for ‘Jane Austen meets Bluebell Bend.’ Do you think I nailed it?” I asked, hoping for her artistic stamp of approval.
“Indubitably, querida,” she said with a graceful nod. “Where is Dax? Will he be joining us today?”
All eyes fixed on me.
“Um, yeah. I sent him a text yesterday and he said he’d be here after work,” I said.
“All right, everyone, grab a glass of lemonade. Let’s toast to an afternoon of delightful company and literary debate.” Samuel smiled, lifting his drink.
Aunt Margo waved a hand adorned with an assortment of gemstone rings. “And here’s to Paris, for bringing Austen to life in the park.”
Everybody cheered, our laughter merging with the distant chirp of birdsong.
“Now, let’s discuss Emma’s matchmaking skills or lack thereof,” Samuel said, grabbing a cold cut.
Just as our discussion was gaining momentum, I caught sight of Dax. He strolled up the path, looking as dashing as Mr. Knightley himself. My breath caught at the sight of him in fitted breeches, polished boots, and a tailcoat accentuating his athletic build.
I had to remind myself to breathe. “Mr. Knightley, I presume?”
He gave me a roguish grin. “The very same, Miss Woodhouse,” he replied with a sweeping bow. “This gathering of yours puts Downton Abbey to shame.”
The compliment made me smile. “I’m glad you could join us. What did you think of Emma?”
Dax’s expression turned thoughtful. “At first I struggled to relate to a matchmaking heroine and provincial village life. But your passion for Austen inspired me to keep an open mind. By the end of the story, I was invested in the characters and their happily-ever-afters.” He licked his lips. “What I’m saying is, I feel like romance and horror aren’t so different after all. They both have the power to evoke strong emotions and keep you turning the pages late into the night.”
Dax’s appreciation for the romance genre affected me deeply. It was like finding a unicorn—a man who not only tolerated my love for all things swoony and heartfelt but actually embraced it. Most guys wouldn’t sit through a discussion on the merits of Mr. Knightley’s character development much less dress like him. It was enough to make a bookish girl’s heart skip a beat.
The book club chatted about the storyline, losing ourselves in an animated discussion of its themes of self-discovery, gender roles, and romance. Next, we debated Emma’s faults and Mr. Knightley’s merits while nibbling on the food.
“Emma was such a busybody.” Aunt Margo fanned herself with a hand-painted fan. “All that prying into other people’s love lives...I’d have just consulted their star charts. Much more efficient.”
Samuel tugged at the hem of his intricately embroidered waistcoat. “There’s something to be said for the thrill of the chase, even if the stars have already spelled it out.”
Rachel shifted her position on the blanket. “Thrill or no thrill, I’d rather not have my future dictated by celestial bodies.”
I nodded. “And I’d rather hold out for a love story like Emma and Mr. Knightley’s—full of surprises.”
Carmen patted Dax’s shoulder. “As I recall, Dax was quite the skeptic about romance novels, weren’t you? And now look at you, all dapper and debating Jane Austen.”
All heads turned towards Dax, who shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face.
“It’s true, and I won’t deny it. Paris said if I gave Emma a chance, I’d find something to enjoy. She wasn’t wrong,” Dax said. “Austen’s sharp wit and keen insights into human quirks grabbed me. The way she builds her characters, real and flawed, makes them relatable. And the banter between Emma and Mr. Knightley? Sharp as a knife and twice as cutting. I actually laughed out loud. Plus, her take on the upper-class, all that nonsense about status and matchmaking—it’s brilliant. Never thought I’d say this about a romance novel, but Emma has substance, and I can appreciate that.” Dax’s gaze met mine, and he winked.
The sun climbed higher in the sky, its rays beating down on us like an overzealous spotlight. This day would be seared into my memory forever, and it wasn’t just the fact that we were discussing 18th-century literature within our own little Austenian world.
Hours later, Carmen, Rachel, Samuel, and Aunt Margo got to their feet. Dax and I lingered on the blanket, while the others gathered their things and said goodbye. Once they had left, I leaned back on my hands and stretched out my legs.
“I can’t believe you pulled all this together.” Dax pointed at the empty plastic dishes and paper lanterns swaying overhead in the trees.
Shrugging, I was pleased he appreciated the details. “I wanted to give you the full immersive experience. Though I’ll admit, it was as much for me as it was for you and the book club.”
“Well, then consider me immersed.”
We lapsed into a comfortable silence. I glanced at his profile, admiring the play of light and shadow across his handsome features.
“What?” Dax asked, catching my stare.
“Oh, just thinking about the book club and how much fun today was.”
He picked at a blade of grass. “At first I was skeptical about this whole romance novel thing, but you were right…there’s a lot more to the storylines than I realized.”
His stare held mine and butterflies erupted in my belly. Before I could think better of it, I reached out and placed my hand over his where it rested on the blanket. Dax turned his palm upward to link his fingers through mine.
“How about a little test on those romance tropes we discussed? For instance, what did you make of the ‘misunderstanding that could’ve been solved with a single conversation’ trope in Emma?”
“Ah, the classic trap of romance,” Dax said. “It’s the backbone of suspense in love stories, right? Keeps you hooked, waiting to see how it all gets sorted out.” Dax shifted closer, his gaze dropping to my lips. “However, some misunderstandings are better resolved...not with words, but with actions.” He untangled our fingers and scooted closer until he was right beside me.
“Oh? Really?” A goofy, stupid grin lifted my lips. “For instance?”
Dax closed the distance between us, and his lips met mine in a gentle kiss, then passion flared, and the kiss deepened, sending a rush of heat through me. The softness of his mouth against mine, the firm grip of his hand holding my waist, all thoughts dissolved except the sensation of being wholly, completely kissed.
I melted into his embrace, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his masculine cologne. His fingers gripped my hip tighter, and I tangled my hands in his wavy hair, pulling him closer. The world around us vanished until there was nothing but this perfect moment, this incredible connection, and the all-consuming need to lose myself entirely in his touch, his taste, his arms.
As the kissing intensified, so did a nagging voice within me—a reminder that kisses often led to heartbreak. A lump formed in my throat, thick and unyielding. I quickly pulled back, my breathing shallow like a struggle against an invisible chokehold.
Dax frowned. “Did I overstep? Because if I?—”
“No, no, it’s not you. It’s just...” I hesitated and my mouth dried. “After what happened before, I’m scared of getting hurt again. I don’t know if I’m ready to take that risk, even though I’m attracted to you and I love spending time with you.” I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. “I really value our friendship, and I couldn’t handle losing you. You’re like the peanut butter to my jelly, the Darcy to my Elizabeth, the...well, you get the idea.”
He shifted to face me fully. “I understand. Trust me, I do. But can’t we give it a chance? See where this goes?” His voice was low, gruff.
Within me, a maelstrom of emotions threatened to spill over and I tugged at my sash. “What if we’re just setting ourselves up for disappointment? What if we’re like two mismatched socks, never meant to be?”
Dax wore a half-smile. “I know you’ve been burned in the past, and I could kill those guys for hurting you—but that’s not me. And I want more, more than just friendship. I said I’d give you time to think and I have. Now I need to know if this is happening…because, Paris Novak, I’m crazy about you.”
His confession hung in the air, an enticing promise of something deeper, something real. Could I take that leap of trust? Risk my heart on the chance that Dax might not hurt me?
I searched his face, desperately seeking any hint of deception, any reason to doubt him. There was none. Only a raw, honest vulnerability that caused my breath to hitch in my throat.
A part of me soared at the thought of an us, yet fear lingered. The back of my throat burned with unshed tears, bitter and acrid, making it difficult to swallow. Gambling our friendship for a relationship that might end badly—it was like playing Russian roulette with my heart.
“I’m so sorry, Dax, but I only want to be friends. I can’t risk our friendship on a maybe.” My voice wavered, betraying the conflict twisting and turning within me.
Dax’s hands clenched at his sides. “I think you’re lying to yourself.”
“What?”
“Paris…” Dax’s voice softened, but the intensity in his stare held steady. “I’ve read more romance this past month than in my entire life. Not just because it’s your favorite genre, but because I wanted to understand what makes you tick. To make you happy. And yeah, our day-to-day couldn’t be more different, but...” He trailed off and got to his feet. “Look, I’m not asking for forever here. Just a shot. But if that’s too much to gamble, then I’ll back off.”
Them my thoughts flashed through every romance trope, trying to find our fit. Were we friends-to-lovers or opposites attract? Or two characters destined to remain on separate pages? I groaned. Did it matter? Yes, yes it did. I would forever be the cautious, overthinking bookshop owner tethered firmly to the ground.
“I appreciate you reading those books, for trying, but I need time. It’s not a no, just a…not right now.”
“You’re scared,” Dax said, his voice strained. “Scared of what this could be, of how it might change things. Paris, I’ll never hurt you.”
I stood up, smoothing down my dress. “It’s not that simple.”
“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. Your passion for books, the way your face lights up when you talk about your favorites, the scent of your peach shampoo that lingers whenever you’re near. I find myself constantly wanting to talk to you, to be around you.” Dax stepped closer. “You’re the only person I can’t wait to talk to every day. I see you, Paris. The real you. And when it comes to something I really want, something I believe in, well, I’m not afraid to lay it all on the line.”
My heart stuttered. This was the moment in every romance novel where the heroine either ran into the hero’s arms or ran away. I wasn’t sure which path to choose.
“What if we’re just setting ourselves up for heartbreak?” I whispered.
Dax’s hand cupped my cheek. “And what if this is the start of something amazing?”
I jerked back. “I told you, I’m not sure I’m ready. That this is a good idea. Why can’t things just stay the way they are?”
Dax threw his hands up. “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you—convince you to be with me. Maybe William was right. Maybe this”—he gestured between us— “is just a pipe dream. And if that’s how you feel, then perhaps it’s best that we end this before it even begins.”
Staring at him, a prickling sensation burned my eyes. “I think you’re right.”
His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. “Yeah, maybe I am.”
He turned on his heel and walked away.
It felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest, leaving a gaping, raw wound in its place. Every breath I took was painful, as if the jagged edges of the hole were scraping against my lungs.
That naive, eternally optimistic side of me wanted to believe love could conquer all, just like in the pages of my favorite romance novels. The wiser part of me, the part that had been bruised by past heartbreaks, knew better. In the end, no matter how much we cared for each other, our paths were destined to diverge. Letting him go now would spare me greater pain down the road. Better to end things before we became too deeply entangled. Before I lost myself completely.
But why did I want to chase after him? Why was every step he took away from me like a dagger twisting in my chest? Why did it feel like I was willfully ripping out the pages of my own love story?
My throat constricted. What would Emma do?
Probably not stand here feeling sorry for herself, that’s for sure. With a sigh, I gathered the blankets and leftovers, then shuffled home to drown my sorrows in chocolate croissants and cat cuddles.