Page 10 of Love By the Book
“We’ll both work at the library, so I’m sure we’ll see each other around,” I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. “But you know I’m focused on my career. The only interest I have in dating is helping facilitate relationships for other people. Not for me. Because I’m not looking. At all.”
Mom’s lips twitch into a smile. “Of course, love.”
“I’m serious. I’m building my dream life—solo adventures, passport stamps, and all that jazz. Plus, he works at the library! Can you imagine how awkward it would be if we dated and broke up?” It would be the worst. I repress a shudder. “I’d have to find a new job, and then where wouldI be? Jobless, dateless, and probably living in a cardboard box by the beach.”
I can only hope this argument is convincing enough to throw Mom off the scent. Her hound-dog instincts are already zeroing in on the fact that the new, undeniably attractive employee will be working with meevery day.
I want to be the matchmaker—not the match-made.
“You seem to have given this a lot of thought for someone who’s not interested.” Mom’s eyebrows are now raised in full mom-mode and I don’t even fight my eye roll. So much for my hopes that she’d nod politely and move on like a normal person.
“Look, if you’re hoping for grandkids or whatever this is, you’re going to need to put more pressure on Gavin. He’s the oldest, anyway. Don’t they talk about birth order in therapy school? The oldest is the responsible kid. I’m the young, free spirited one.”
She offers me an eye roll that reminds me where I get the tendency from. “You’re just like your father. And that has nothing to do with birth order.”
“So she’s devilishly handsome and a lot of fun?” Dad walks in, tossing his house keys into the basket next to mine and I jump toward him and give him a giant hug. He teaches at a university on the mainland during the week and only comes home over weekends and school breaks.
“Dad!” I exclaim, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of chalk that always seems to cling to him. “You’re home early.”
He squeezes me tight before releasing me and grinning at Mom. “Now, what’s this about Rhianna being like me?”
Mom laughs and gives him a kiss which causes him to sweep her into a dip. I finish my cookie and turn away. That’s the thing about my parents—they’re still in love. They married before social media existed and they still slow dance in thekitchen. Come to think of it, this is probably why Gavin and I have yet to find someone. When you grow up with the perfect relationship on display, it makes everything else feel subpar.
When Mom is back on her feet, her eyes dart to me again. “Rhianna was just deflecting from talking about the new man in town.”
I groan. “Mom, there’s no ‘new man.’ He’s just a new coworker. At the library. Where I work. Professionally.”
Dad leans toward me conspiratorially. “Fresh blood? What’s his thoughts on William Carlos Williams?”
“Not sure yet.” I give side-eye to Mom. “I’ve barely spoken with him.”
“A book man, though? Not from the island?”
“Dad,” I whine. “Not you too! He’s a professor like you, but that’s not the point. The point is?—”
“The point is,” Mom interjects with a sly smile, “that our daughter is getting all flustered over a man who apparently knows his 70s rock bands and looks good in a pair of black glasses.”
I splutter, looking between my parents in disbelief. They’re acting like I’m sixteen again and crushing on the boy who worked with me at the ice-cream shop. “I am not flustered! I’m just… glad to have a fresh conversational option, okay? It’s been the same three faces at the water cooler for years.”
“Mhm.” Mom pats my arm. “I have one more client before I can call it quits today. Rich, honey, dinner is on you tonight.”
“You’ve got it, love.” As soon as Mom walks out, he turns to me. “So, which pizza shop should we patronize?”
I laugh. Mom definitely meant for him to cook. Maybe she’s right that I’m just like my father. “Love you, Dad.”
“You too, chicken.” His hand is already inside the cookie jar.
I dart up the stairs two at a time until I reach the safety of my room. The family cat, Mr. Whiskers, sprawls across my bed, sunning himself in a patch of late afternoon light. I yank a book off an overstuffed shelf, intent on escaping into someone else’s story for an hour.
But when I lay down on my bed, my eyes dart to the Fleetwood Mac poster that I’d taped over the floral wallpaper as a teen. Then I’m thinking ofhimagain. Of his hazel eyes that changed colors as different light hit them. Of the richness of his laughter and our easy banter. Of his sharp jawline and the curl of his lips.
The way my magic seemed to reach for his without permission. Like it recognized something in him. Something that fit. A little too perfectly and?—
I jump to my feet, toss the book onto my side table, and march myself to my mirror. I give myself the sternest look I can muster. “Listen here, Rhianna Wilder. You are not, I repeat, NOT interested in Eli Lancaster. Mom is just putting that into your head. He’s a client and a coworker. A very handsome, intelligent, book-loving coworker who probably smells like old parchment and— No! Stop that! Focus on your work. On your savings goals. On your grand adventure around the world. You’re not falling for someone again. Not seriously.” I pause and give myself a firm look. “You know how that ends. Got it?”
I point two fingers at my eyes then back at my reflection. She gives me a nod that looks more convinced than I feel.
Beside the mirror, I’d taped a savings chart when I moved back in—after a few years working as a librarian post-grad, stacking up experience while quietly plotting my grand escape. Two more years and I’ll have enough. The hard part is almost done and now it’s just the fun planning—and a few more years of living with my parents who quietly hate the entire idea.
