Page 28 of Love By the Book
"I might have had an idea." I tap my pen against my bottom lip, trying to ignore how his presence makes my skin tingle. "Want to hear something potentially brilliant or possibly insane?"
That's how all my ideas are—dancing on that fine line between genius and disaster. Like my matchmaking service. After weeks of that eye-catching flyer pinned to the library bulletin board, with its perfectly chosen font and just the right amount of glitter, I still haven't had another sign-up beyondEli. No one's biting, despite my enthusiasm and the town's usual appetite for anything new and quirky.
It stings more than I want to admit. But I'm not giving up. Not yet.
When plan A falls through, you look for plan B—other ways to spark connection, to bring people together.
Which is how this new idea was born.
Business has been slower than molasses in January, and I’ve got time on my hands—plus, this might be exactly the thing to make my Library Fellowship application shine.
Eli’s lips quirk up in that half-smile that definitely doesn't make my stomach do backflips. It’s like one minute I’m dreaming of him, the next I’ve summoned him in the flesh. And why is he even more handsome in reality while the shadows cut across his sharp jaw. "Those tend to be the best ideas."
“I’m thinking the library should offer evening tours but make themexperiences." I wave my hands, probably looking like a crazy person but too excited to care. "Like, performances of local legends!"
Eli's eyes light up like I just admitted that 80s music is better than 70s music. Which, for the record, I will never do. "Like the phantom ship that appears in the harbor during storms?"
"Yes! Or the story about the first settler who learned magic from merfolk, except we can't exactly advertise that part to the tourists..."
I scoot over, patting the chair next to me with probably too much enthusiasm. It’s not until after I make the action that I realize what I’m doing—inviting him to join me, implying he should stay later. I mean, surely he planned to leave; it’s probably almost midnight and why would he want to spend his sleeping hours?—
He settles in beside me before my mind can spiral further,close enough that I catch the scent of his vanilla and cedarwood cologne. I’ve imagined that scent since karaoke night. “I've actually been researching similar legends for my current project. Did you know that in nearly every coastal town there’s lore around ghost ships? Each one has their own twist—cursed crews, ghostly captains, and the like, but they have a lot of similarities too.”
And just like that, we're off. Hours slip by as we pore over volumes, trading stories and completely forgetting that sleep is supposedly a thing humans need. Eli knowseverythingabout folklore, and watching him get excited about obscure details makes me want to?—
I won’t finish that thought, because I’m doing this project to getthefellowship. The one that would let me zip between twenty-four different libraries across six continents like some kind of book-loving Carmen Sandiego. During the week, I’d assist the local librarians and help them reach more people in their communities, running the kind of events that make my heart sing and diving into projects that could actually make a difference. And the weekends? Those would be for exploring hidden streets in Paris, getting lost in Bangkok’s night markets, maybe even tracking down that theater-turned-bookstore in Buenos Aires that Grandma Ida always said we’d visit.
I’ll be gone in six months, and I can’t afford to get attached—especially not to someone like Eli Lancaster. He’s the opposite of a casual fling: thoughtful, precise, the kind of person who would matter. The kind who could unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to keep stitched together.
I’ve been careful these past few years, choosing flings that fizzle out before they can hurt. Eli, though, would leave a crater.
This is why I swore off serious dating. Not because I don’t believe in love—but because I’ve already given everything to someone once, and it still wasn’t enough. Some people just asktoo much, feel too much. It's easier—for everyone—if we don’t go too deep.
Even if my heart flips every time he looks at me like he sees it all.
"We could start here," I say, spreading out my very professional sketch—read: scribbled mess—of the library layout. "Turn the reading room into a moonlit study for the Moonlight Reader legend. You know, the one where the ghost appears after hours to read unfinished stories by candlelight?"
"Yes! Then you could move to the garden for the merfolk legend." His fingers brush mine as he points to different locations on the map, and I pretend my skin doesn't buzz from the contact. "The fountain would make the perfect backdrop. Or if you wanted to go bigger you could even incorporate parts of the town? Like a walking tour?”
It’s a good idea. Too good. And the way he says it—like we’re already building something together—makes something in my chest tighten.
I should tell him about the fellowship—about how whatever buzzes between us can’t go anywhere. Maybe even throw in a disclaimer that I’m allergic to emotional risk. That the idea of letting someone in makes me break out in a cold sweat. How my therapist mother could probably name this behavior, give it a label, and offer three grounding exercises before I even finished blinking—if I ever actually let her try. But he's looking at me with such warmth and enthusiasm, and I'm weak. Sue me.
Plus, I might not get the fellowship. I mean, I’m assuming I will—I’m busting my butt to make it happen. But nothing’s guaranteed, and if it doesn’t work out… Well, why get everyone excited over something that might not even happen? Yes, this is the excuse I’m using to continue not discussing it with Mom. Yes, I feel guilty about it. No, that guilt isn’t enough to make me brave that particular conversation yet.
The hours pass in a blur of quiet conversation and ink-smudged notes, the kind of late-night haze where exhaustion should be setting in—but somehow, I feelwired. Maybe it’s the steady warmth of his leg pressed against mine, the accidental brush of our arms sending sparks dancing over my skin.
Or maybe it’s him.
It doesn’t help that he smells amazing—old books and coffee and that cologne I swear I’ve never smelled on anyone else. Or that every time he gets excited about an idea, he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it a tousled mess that makes my fingers ache to smooth it down. Or maybe it's the way our magic hums in sync—mine all spark and scatter, his steady and sure, like we’re dancing to the same song without even trying.
I should be tired. I should be yawning, blinking blearily at the pages in front of me. But the way he looks at me when we stumble onto something interesting? The way his voice shifts when he’s caught up in a thought?
Yeah. No chance of sleep now.
I’m supposed to be his matchmaker, not sitting here fantasizing about how his stubble might feel against my palm if I cupped his face and?—
Focus, Rhianna.Focus on the project. The fellowship. The dreams that don’t include kissing literary professors in dark libraries. And the safety that comes with sticking to the plan—one that doesn’t leave room for heartbreak.
