Between the pages of love and reality

By Nicole Whittaker

Clara Jacobs is a woman who has built her life around literature. As a literary editor, she spends her days poring over the works of others, and as a reader, she loses herself in the pages of romance novels each night. Clara believes that the love stories she finds within these pages are safer than the messiness of real relationships, and she has built a fortress around her heart that is guarded by the inked words of her favorite male characters.

But when Clara meets Ethan Bennett, the charming owner of a local bookstore, her world is turned upside down. Ethan shares Clara's passion for literature, and his warmth and authenticity stir emotions in her that she never knew existed. Despite her best efforts to resist him, Clara finds herself drawn to Ethan in ways that she never thought possible.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Whittaker
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223954361

Nicole Whittaker

Nicole Whittaker was born in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia to a bloodline of creative people, artists, authors and musicians among them. So it's not surprising that Nicole has created art and fiction from an early age. She specializes in fantasy romance but also dabbles in contemporary as well.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Clara Jacobs was sitting at her desk at the publishing company, with the noises of typing and phone conversations everywhere. Her desk overflowed with manuscripts filled with stories waiting to be shared. The scent of ink on paper filled the air, making her feel safe and thinking about travels she hadn’t discovered yet. Clara reviewed the latest manuscript from her pile, her fingers prepared as if she were a skilled artisan at their loom. As she read each word, it became a part of the story’s tapestry. The soft glow on her glasses concealed her eyes while they followed the words in the book with precision, like a cartographer mapping new lands. Clara was a vigilant editor. Her mind hunted for the errant comma. It also searched for modifiers to position correctly and for words that could be more appropriate. Each edit was a small tribute, showing respect for the significance of sharing stories.

As Clara worked, she noticed the lively atmosphere of the office gently quiet down. However, before long, her own thoughts captured her attention completely, immersing her in a quiet space of deep thinking. Her thoughts were free to roam and not guided by anything in particular. So they moved away from sentence structure and rules of language easily, without her even needing to try. Her mind was bound to them, existing in the delicate world of love stories. She stored these types of books in the quiet corners of her shelves, where her heart found stories of true love on those cherished pages. the solace that those tales offered tantalised her bruised heart. The passion of those love stories flourished, not affected by the harshness of real life. These realms gave Clara the ability to control the pace of romance. Using a pen, she could soften the sharp corners of human feelings. Characters in love moved to the rhythms she created. Indeed, there lay her sanctuary. The place allowed for rewriting heartbreak. As endings always yielded to the writer’s will.

Softly exhaling, Clara’s breath resembled a gentle melody, expressing the immense sadness dwelling within her heart. She longed for something true and real, like those fictional romances she had read about in books. She protected her emotions by embedding them in the texts she read. The words acted as a shield against true feelings that offered no promise of joy. In a time long before, Clara had confidence in the power of actual relationships. She thought she would discover her perfect partner, who could raise her up and carry her to a happy ending of her own story. Nevertheless, as time went by, disappointments started to build up and she grew disillusioned with love. She felt weary because of unkept promises and lies surrounding her. Clara gave her trust many times, but each time it finished with her heart shattered into tiny fragments. She felt love fiercely and did not consider the dangers. She gave all of her soul to these connections. However, these experiences left her with a sense of emptiness and solitude. Whenever a romantic relationship of hers would end, she found refuge in the fictional tales she created. In that place, love was forever and given without the messiness of the real world.

The light danced on her desk and it wavered as shadows stretched across the room. That marked the close of another day. Stories filled it that had yet to experience rejection or sadness. Clara’s hand paused over the manuscript as her heart’s fluttering was a reminder she did not wish for. Unlike for the characters in her beloved stories, however, she could not change life after it happened. The door clicked open to announce Marie’s arrival. As her warmth filled the office, it pressed against the calm, sterile surroundings like the sunlight piercing through clouds. Her smile shone like a guiding light as she made her way through the maze of desks and cubicles. She looked for Clara among the tall piles of paper and the flickering screens.

Hello, wordsmith, Marie greeted. Her voice rising above the activity in the room. Approaching Clara’s desk, she carried a ceramic mug emitting steam. The aroma of tea mingled with the scent of ink and determination. Clara looked up, her expression revealing a telltale sign of weariness. Marie, a calming presence in Clara’s world, brought a smile to her face. You always know what I need. Clara whispered as she accepted the cup with her fingers. The warmth of the mug seeped into her skin, providing comfort. Of course I do, Marie responded. She could always understand with no need to probe into the secrets of others’ hearts. Sitting at the edge of the desk, with legs swinging, her gaze was caring and inquisitive.

Marie questioned, Did you complete reading ‘Whispers of the Heart’? Their enthusiasm for the book was something they both enjoyed recently. The story revolved around a love that could not be and secrets that were whispered. Reading it made you want to dream about how life could be. Clara breathed in deeply, the scent of the tea blended with her memories of the lovers’ challenging destiny. I did, she admitted, speaking softly and with great respect for the writing that captivated her. It made me lose my breath, Marie. She described the longing between Elizabeth and Jonathan. It was almost palpable. Marie moved her head up and down, the small coils of hair on her head jumping as she did so. And the surprise at the story’s end? It caught me off guard when he revealed why he could not stay with her. She moved nearer, like sharing a secret. Her eyes shone bright with the excitement that comes from exchanging stories.

A shiver traced down Clara’s spine, the echo of the characters’ turmoil still resonant within her. It was masterful, she agreed. Her voice was barely above a whisper. She spoke as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate emotions that lingered in the air. I felt every ounce of their pain, their happiness. It was... She looked for the term, her mind swimming through the wealth of language that was her sanctuary, ...exquisite.

Their conversation was a tapestry woven from fiction and the silent understanding of dreams. At that moment, they were more than friends. They were kindred spirits travelling the landscapes of love and loss penned by one another. Each sentence spoken between them was a thread binding them closer, an affirmation of the solace found in shared stories.

As they delved deeper into the narrative’s heart, Clara cradled the tea, its warmth seeping into her bones. In the back and forth of dialogue she shared with Marie, she could almost believe in the magic of a real life love that went beyond words. It lived and breathed outside of the printed page.

The clock ticked on, indifferent to the fantasies they explored, and reality waited to reclaim its place. However, Clara allowed herself to float on the sea of imagination. She savoured the sweet taste of romantic companionship and the gentle echoes of a story that promised that and more.

Clara’s gaze drifted from Marie’s animated face to the bookshelf that stood as a sentinel in her office. The spines of her cherished novels lined up like soldiers. Their titles whispered tales of undying love and unwavering devotion. Her eyes caressed the gold-embossed letters, each a siren calling her to the safety of their pages. There, amidst the ink and parchment, love was as precise and predictable as the words that built its foundation.

Clara? Marie’s voice broke through the reverie, soft yet insistent.

Startled, Clara’s focus returned to the present, the lure of fictional worlds reluctantly releasing its grip. She met Marie’s penetrating gaze, finding no judgment, only an understanding that reached beneath the surface.

Those stories, Marie said, nodding toward the shelves with a knowing smile, they paint quite the picture, don’t they? Perfect passion, flawless life... But they’re not the real kind of love.

Clara’s fingers tightened around the teacup, her knuckles whitening. The porcelain held the heat of the liquid still inside, a tangible reminder of the world outside her fantasies.

Real life, Marie continued, leaning in, her voice a velvet caress against the growing silence, is messy and raw. It’s filled with unexpected turns and truths that can cut deep. But it’s also... real. The joy you find, the connection—it’s all yours. Authentically, beautifully yours.

In the quiet that followed, Clara felt the weight of every well-made story she had hidden within. Each character’s happiness was a shield against her own unscripted heartaches. But there, Marie’s earnest eyes reflected an invitation. It was a challenge to step beyond the perfect love stories and risk the chaos of genuine emotion.

Vulnerability, Clara whispered, the word tasting both foreign and sweet on her lips. It’s frightening, isn’t it?

Only until it feels like you’re flying, Marie responded, her laughter a gentle ripple that seemed to fill the spaces between them.

The room hummed with unspoken possibilities. The air pulsed with the beats of two hearts daring to dream beyond words. As the day’s light waned, it painted shadows on the walls. Clara held onto the fragile thread of courage that Marie had spun. She wondered if it was strong enough to tie her to a reality where love was anything but predictable.

Clara’s hand trembled as it hovered above her manuscript, the red pen poised like a sword over the heart of another author’s creation. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on her brow. She realised with a start that it wasn’t the pile of pages before her that made her pulse quicken. The sweat at her back was the dizzying brink of real human connection. It called and threatened her in equal measure.

Terrifying, isn’t it? The gentleness in Marie’s voice was a stark contrast to the tumult raging within Clara. To think of letting someone see you—the real you, not the version you edit and polish for the world.

Clara nodded, barely trusting her voice, her gaze fixed on the manuscript as if it were a lifeline. She could feel the pull of her bookshelf, the silent call of those pristine spines, and the promise of predictability they held. There was safety in their ink and paper embrace, a sanctuary where the sting of rejection and the raw ache of longing could never reach her.

Clara, Marie continued, her tone demanding but filled with empathy that drew Clara’s gaze upward. Your fear is valid. However, it is also the thing that prevents you from experiencing the warmth of genuine affection. This kind adapts and flourishes in the face of life’s uncertainty."

Marie’s words were both a balm and a challenge all at once, igniting a war between the yearning and self-preservation in the caverns of Clara’s chest. Her heart, a frenzied drumbeat against the cage of her ribs, seemed to ask: Could there be strength in the softness? In the surrender?

Think of vulnerability not as a weak point but as the opening for love, Marie continued. She reached across the cluttered papers to squeeze Clara’s hand, grounding her. It’s in those unguarded moments that we truly touch another soul.

The room stretched out around them, time and space dilating to the extent of the moment. Clara felt each word settle like autumn leaves upon the surface of a still pond, sending ripples through her being. To be seen—indeed seen—and loved in that seeing was more potent magic than any penned by the authors whose works lined her shelves.

True connection, intimacy... they need us to peel back the pages of our story, Marie murmured, her voice a lullaby that wove through Clara’s defences. To let someone read the unedited chapters of our lives.

A single tear, unbidden, traced a path down Clara’s cheek, a silent testament to the resonance of Marie’s affirmation. She let herself dwell on the chance that the rich love stories she cherished in fiction might one day grace her fragile, hopeful life.

Clara inhaled, the air in her lungs mingling with the whirlwind of emotions churning within her. Her chest tightened, trepidation clamping down on the raw edges of hope that Marie’s words had frayed. She glanced at the clock. Its hands ticked forward in a relentless march. They seemed to remind her of life’s unstoppable passage. It was of moments, slipping through fingers clenched in hesitation.

Clara? Marie’s voice was a soft inquiry, a hand extended across the chasm of Clara’s doubts.

Thank you, Clara managed, the words a whisper against the cacophony of her inner turmoil. Your faith... it’s a gift. A gift she wasn’t sure she deserved or could ever repay.

Faith is trust in disguise, Marie replied, her eyes holding an ocean of understanding. And you have more of it than you think.

Silence stretched between them. It was a canvas for unspoken thoughts. The thoughts were in shades of might-have-been and could-yet-be. Clara’s gaze fell upon the manuscripts in front of her. Each page was a sanctuary of crafted dreams. They were a buffer between her and the unpredictable stories of life.

Marie rose, her presence a constant as the day ebbed away into shadows cast by the dying light. Clara watched her friend move with a grace born of certainty, contrasting with the quivering apprehension that held Clara captive in her seat.

Take care, Marie said, pausing at the doorway, her silhouette framed by the threshold of the familiar and the unknown beyond.

Always, Clara responded, her voice a murmur, but one laced with the silver lining of newfound resolve.

Clara inhaled, her chest tightening with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. The clock on the wall seemed to mock her, its steady ticking a reminder of time slipping away.

Marie? Clara’s voice broke through the turmoil, a lifeline in the storm of Clara’s emotions.

Thank you, Clara whispered, her voice barely audible above the din of her doubts. Your encouragement means more than you know.

Marie offered a gentle smile, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding that touched Clara’s soul. You’re stronger than you realise, Clara. You have the power to shape your own destiny.

Clara’s gaze drifted to the manuscripts before her, each a testament to her passion and dedication. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that, she admitted, her fingers tracing the edges of the papers as if seeking solace in their familiarity.

Marie rose from her seat, a beacon of reassurance in the dimming light of the office. Trust yourself, Clara, she said, her voice soft yet resolute. You have all the tools you need to write your own story.

As Marie made her way to the door, Clara felt a surge of determination coursing through her veins. I won’t forget your words, she promised, her voice steadier now, infused with newfound resolve.

The final echoes of the workday faded into quiet. Clara reached for her laptop. The cool metal under her fingers grounded her fluttering heart. She closed the device with a gentle click—a period at the end of a sentence, yet not the end of the story. Her hands moved methodically, gathering the remnants of her day into the bag that bore the weight of her world.

The office, once abuzz with the fervent energy of creation, now stood still. Clara felt the thrum of life pulse around her, a symphony of stories waiting to be lived and told.

Today, you gave me much to ponder, Clara said, her eyes meeting Marie’s once more, finding an anchor in their depths. I promise to consider your words. Words that wove a spell of possibility around the protective barriers she had so meticulously constructed.

Remember, you’re the author of your own tale, Marie called out, her voice retreating down the hall, leaving behind the echo of empowerment.

Alone, surrounded by the silent sentinels of literature that had been her refuge, Clara sensed the stirrings of change within her. This notion of stepping beyond the typeset lines into the messy scrawl of reality was terrifying. But deep down, nestled within the recesses of her soul, she acknowledged the truth—she could not live in the margins forever.

Each step she took toward the exit felt like a verse in an unwritten poem, a hesitant rhythm seeking its cadence. The door swung open, a portal between the haven of her literary cocoon and the vast, unscripted expanse of life. Clara stepped over the threshold. Her heart swung between fear and courage. But always, it swung forward.

The evening air embraced Clara Jacobs. She had emerged from the labyrinth of printed words and hushed tones, stepping into the cacophony of the city’s heartbeat. At the entrance of the publishing house, her sacred place of scripts and dreams, she halted. Feeling the weight of her fears settle like an unwelcome shawl on her shoulders. The rush-hour tide flowed around her, a river of souls, each engrossed in their own narratives and chapters of love, loss, and longing.

Clara’s gaze lingered on passing faces, expressions fleeting and unreadable, yet every line seemed to tell a tale. Could she ever find the courage to weave herself into such a tapestry, to become more than a silent observer behind the safety of her spectacles? Her heart thrummed with yearning. It was a soft murmur beneath the roar of traffic and life. It whispered of the risk and reward in the unwritten pages of her love story.

She took a hesitant step. The cobblestones were cool beneath her feet. They were a reminder that reality was far less predictable than the neat endings of her cherished novels. The fear of the unknown clawed at her resolve, threatening to draw her back into the comforting shadows of her literary fortress.

Something shifted within her—a spark kindled in her chest, igniting a flame that flickered within her hazel eyes. With new resolve, Clara lifted her chin. The sun’s golden light painted her face with the colour of possibilities. Each breath became a silent vow to herself, a pledge to venture beyond the confines of her imagination, to craft chapters of her own making.

Step by step, she whispered to the wind, her voice barely audible above the din. It was a promise, a prayer, a challenge. She knew the journey would demand resilience and ask her to dance along the edge of vulnerability and trust in the rhythms of chance and choice.

Yet, as Clara walked, the cityscape transformed around her. Shadows stretched towards twilight. Each streetlight was an ode to the lovers who had wandered these paths before her. Beauty in the uncertainty and poetry in the pulse of the urban sprawl beckoned her forward. And so, with each step, she allowed hope to unfurl like the petals of a night-blooming flower, delicate yet determined to seek the light.

Into the sunset, she wandered, the sky ablaze with a farewell symphony of colours, bittersweet and beautiful. Clara carried within her the tender seed of hope. She believed that love as enduring and deep as those in her treasured romance novels existed somewhere in the turning pages of the universe. A love that would transcend the boundaries of fiction, a love that was hers to write, hers to live.

Chapter 2

Ethan Bennett’s fingers moved over the backs of books that had just come in. Every name was like a quiet call for an adventure and sadness. The smell of new printing mixed with the familiar smell of old paper filled his small, cozy place full of books. His shop held a collection of dreams wrapped in leather and stitched together, like a boat carrying fantasy on the sea of real life.

The bell above the door made a sound, showing that one more person looking for comfort in books had come inside. Ethan turned his gaze from the tidy rows of books on the wooden shelves. He focused his look on Hank Wilson. The sun in the late afternoon outlined Hank’s shape against the store’s front windows. Hank was like a well-read book - familiar, with edges that weren’t so new anymore, but still held dear.

Hello, Hank, Ethan said, his voice gentle like a favourite story. Do you want to hear another suggestion?

Hank, with eyes the colour of early morning light, showed happiness that comes from enjoying books together. He walked through the area with fiction books like a person on a holy journey, his movements careful and every stop full of hope for what he might find next.

I do not mind having one, Hank responded. His mouth’s edges rose into a soft smile, making wrinkles at his eye corners. It was a close moment of friendship between two people who loved books. It was like their hearts were talking without using any ink to write.

Hank gently touched the backs of the books with his fingers as if he was quietly giving respect to holy artifacts. Did you read the new work by Caldwell? He asked, his voice mixing wonder with deep tones of experience as he respected every word on the page.

Ethan moved nearer, his eyes shining with a bright excitement for knowledge. Oh yes, It’s like a complex tapestry of emotions that reveals the intricacies of human nature. he expressed. The surrounding space filled with excitement, full of the expected joy from reading stories together that they had not yet discovered.

Hank whispered, his beard moving with the excitement of their conversation. And how she describes everything—it’s like an artist playing with colours that touch your spirit. They talked using the words about books as if showing deep respect for writing.

They engaged in lively talks about the structure of stories and how deep the characters were. It felt like everything else around them disappeared, leaving just the core of classic tales.

A hesitant voice broke the comfortable atmosphere, stopping their circle of learning. Sorry, is the book ‘The Constellations of Us’ available here? a customer inquired, her eyes searching through the maze of books with a touch of urgency.

Certainly, Ethan said. He offered an apologetic smile and then excused himself from Hank. Ethan moved through the rows very smoothly, His heart beat in sync with the search and discovery process.

The book rested on a shelf that was too high, posing a challenge to grab. Ethan had to stretch himself for getting hold of the difficult-to-reach title. His fingers gently touched the book’s back, like how a person who loves deeply would do. He went down, holding the story as if it was a valuable stone found in the depths of people’s minds.

Here you are, he said, giving the book to the person who wanted to buy it. His voice was full of a silent promise that there would be an adventure in the story of the book. The face of the customer opened up into a thankful smile, reflecting the happiness growing inside Ethan’s heart. He was a bookseller, fulfilling his noble duty.

Returning to Hank, Ethan found comfort in the familiar weave of their talk. The exchange of insights was a soothing rhythm in the quiet symphony of his bookstore.

Ethan’s hands moved with a reverence reserved for sacred texts as he wrapped Hank’s selections in crisp brown paper. The air was rich with the smell of freshly printed pages. It mixed with a faint hint of cedar from the shelves. The shelves cradled many worlds within their sturdy frames. Each title Hank had chosen was a testament to his voracious appetite for storytelling—a hunger Ethan recognised in his soul.

Ah, the eternal debate, Ethan mused, tapping the cover of a contemporary novel adorned with accolades. Whether this year’s prize-winner truly eclipses the classic giants. His smile was a silent invitation to dance among words and witticisms.

Hank chuckled, the sound warm and earthy. I still hold a torch for the old masters, but there’s something irresistible about a fresh voice that speaks right to the heart of our time.

Indeed, Ethan agreed, his eyes glinting with the spark of shared understanding. He slid the books across the counter, the rustle of paper whispering secrets. The landscape of literature is ever-shifting—new voices rising like dawn on the horizon.

They spoke easily. It was a duet between kindred spirits. They found comfort in the endless worlds of the written word. With each scanned barcode, an unspoken camaraderie wove tighter around them, a tapestry of intellect and emotion.

By the way, Hank, Ethan said as the cash register chimed its approval, we’re hosting a book club meeting here next Thursday evening. He handed over the bagged books, bridging the space between commerce and community. I would be honoured if you joined us, Ethan said as the cash register chimed its approval. We’re delving into the latest historical fiction craze—dissecting fact from poetic license.

Hank’s eyes lit up, the prospect of literary discourse igniting a familiar fire within him. Count me in, he replied with eager anticipation. There’s nothing quite like unravelling the threads of a story with fellow enthusiasts.

Ethan nodded. Satisfaction bloomed within him. He was glad to think of his bookstore becoming a sanctuary. There, the love for reading would be preserved, nurtured, and celebrated. It was more than a place of business—it was a haven for those who sought refuge in the embrace of a good book.

Excellent, Ethan said, his tone imbuing the simple word with layers of promise. It’s the highlight of my month, seeing perspectives clash and converge over dog-eared pages.

Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Hank affirmed, his voice resonating with the timbre of one who had found his tribe.

Hank departed with a treasure trove of stories under his arm. Ethan watched him go. A sense of accomplishment filled him. They shared a connection. The love of literature was the basis for it. This connection was the lifeblood of his store. It was a subtle force that turned the pages of his own story. It did so: one visitor, one recommendation, one meaningful encounter at a time.

The chime of the bell above the door heralded a pause in their exchange, a gentle reminder of the passing time. Hank shifted his stance. The weight of his chosen books was a comforting heft in his arms, signalling a departure was near. Ethan’s eyes, ever observant, caught the subtle cue.

Before you go, Ethan began,