Page 14 of Love By the Book
This morning, walking into the library to meet Michael, I'd passed her. She crouched down to speak with a child, herflowing skirt draped like a flower petal across the polished floor. Dark curls tumbled down her back, catching the light from the stained glass windows above.
"Of course I can find the perfect book for you," she'd said to a wide-eyed little girl. "It's my specialty."
Then she'd accepted the child's outstretched hand and skipped—actually skipped—to the children's section, her bracelets jingling with each movement.
It was like watching joy embodied. I came to Magnolia Cove seeking something to make me feel alive again, to break me out of the monotony I'd fallen into—especially after Mark’s death. And stumbled directly into Rhianna Wilder, the most vibrantly alive person I've ever encountered.
I've tried to think of a plausible excuse to talk to her again, rolling possibilities around in my mind until they're worn smooth like river stones. But everything I come up with sounds contrived, forced.
"—mostly keep to themselves," Michael is saying, and I realize I've missed part of his response. "Claire handles non-fiction, she's super organized. Rhianna runs the circulation desk and children's programming, she's basically the heart of the place. Everyone loves her."
I try not to look too interested at the mention of her name. "I met Rhianna. She seems... passionate about her work."
Michael chuckles. "That's one way to put it. Rhianna's passionate about pretty much everything. Last month she convinced the entire staff to dress as characters from Greek mythology for a special storytime. Dean Markham even attended. He didn’t participate, of course, but she somehow got the rest of us to go along with it." He shakes his head, fondness evident in his expression. "I was Apollo. Had to wear a laurel wreath for six hours."
The image makes me smile despite myself. I can easilypicture Rhianna orchestrating such an event, her enthusiasm sweeping everyone along in its wake.
"You'll get to know everyone soon enough," Michael assures me. "It's a small staff. We're like family."
Family. The word sits oddly in my chest. I've never really belonged anywhere outside of my own family and academic circles, where connections are formed through shared intellectual interests rather than emotional bonds. The idea of this close-knit library community both appeals to me and makes me nervous. What if I don't fit in? What if my social awkwardness keeps them at a distance?
But then I think of Rhianna again, of how easily she drew me into conversation despite my usual reticence. Perhaps this place is different. Perhaps I could be different here.
"So," Michael says, gesturing expansively around the room, "this will be your domain for the next few months. We desperately need someone with your expertise to catalog everything properly, assess what needs restoration, and strengthen the protective wards where needed. Maria mentioned you have a particularly strong talent for book preservation spells?"
I nod, grateful to be back on comfortable ground. "Yes, it's been my focus alongside my academic work. Books are... well, they're more than just objects to me."
"I can tell," Michael says with a knowing smile. "Well, I'll leave you to get acquainted with your new charges. You’ve seen your office already. If you need anything, I'll be at the reference desk until closing."
As Michael's footsteps fade, I'm left alone in the hushed sanctuary of ancient texts. The silence wraps around me like a comfortable blanket, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood and the whisper of magic sustaining the room.
I graze the book spines nearest me again, feeling the subtle variations in leather and binding techniques. Some of these books have survived centuries, outliving their creators, theirreaders, entire civilizations. There's something profoundly humbling about that.
Rhianna dances back into my mind as she’s done repeatedly for the last 24 hours. We’re meeting tomorrow at The Whimsical Whisk. It's not a date, I remind myself firmly. It's a consultation so she can try to match me with someone else—someone who might be compatible with my quiet, ordered life. Someone who isn't her.
The thought makes my chest tighten inexplicably. Which is ridiculous. I barely know her.
And yet... There was something about our interaction yesterday. The way conversation flowed between us without the usual awkward pauses and stilted responses that plague my interactions with new people. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about music, even when disagreeing with me. The natural ease of it all.
I pull a book from the shelf—a treatise on Welsh dragons from the 1700s—and carefully open it. The pages are brittle but intact, protected by fading preservation spells that need reinforcement. As I begin examining it, letting my magic assess the condition of the binding, I find myself smiling.
Tomorrow, I'll see Rhianna again. I'll have a reason to talk to her, to hear her laugh, to watch her hands gesture animatedly as she speaks. I'd face any level of social anxiety for that.
For now, though, I have these books. This quiet, this peace, this purpose. I settle deeper into the work, letting the familiar process of examination and preservation ground me. But even as I lose myself in centuries-old texts, a part of my mind remains fixed on tomorrow.
On her.
On the possibility of something I hadn't come to Magnolia Cove expecting to find.
Rhianna
The bell over The Whimsical Whisk’s door jingles as Eli and I step inside. The smell of cinnamon and butter hits me like a sugar-coated freight train, and I have to physically restrain myself from doing the happy dance I usually perform when walking into my favorite bakery.Play it cool, Rhianna. Act professional. Don’t be too much.
“And this,” I say with a flourish that would make a game show host proud, “is the crown jewel of Magnolia Cove’s culinary scene. Home of the ‘I’d sell my soul for another bite’ cinnamon rolls. And, as of today, the official headquarters for our matchmaking consultation.”
Eli’s grin tugs up the corners of his mouth, emphasizing the dark stubble on his jaw. My stomach twists but it’s only because I’m hungry and for absolutely no other reason.
“That good, huh?” he asks.
