Page 29 of Love By the Book
"What time is it, anyway?" I ask, stretching arms that definitely don't appreciate my terrible life choices. At least it gives me something else to focus on.
Eli checks his watch and lets out a surprised laugh. "Almost five in the morning."
"What?" I blink at him. "We've been at this all night? How did that happen?"
"Time flies when you're plotting ghostly appearances." His smile is soft in the lamplight.
"Want to grab breakfast?" I hear myself ask before my brain can catch up with my mouth—before I can follow my plan of focusing on something else and ending things before we both get hurt. “I know a place that makes cinnamon rolls that'll change your life."
I waggle my eyebrows to emphasize my point and he laughs. Every drop of resistance I’ve clung to fades in the warmth of that sound. It’s impossible to hold back a smile, too, as I catch his gaze lingering on me just a bit longer than usual.
“The Whisk is open at five?”
“Sure is.”
“Hmm.” He pretends to consider, running his fingers down his jaw. But when he turns back to me, there’s a new seriousness in his eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve heard those cinnamon rolls can make people fall in love. More local lore, perhaps?” He adds the last part with an attempt at casualness, but it feels forced.
My mouth goes dry. Oh. This is the part where I should laugh it off, where I should steer us back to safer ground. Eli and I discussing love, specifically one of us falling into it with the other, is dangerous territory. Because this is how it begins—sweet and easy and full of sparks. But when the storm comes, the boat won’t hold. And I have no interest in drowning and gasping for air, wondering how I got pulled under again. I’d rather stay on shore.
The words catch in my throat, and for a moment, all I can do is hold his gaze, feeling my heart thud a little too hard.
“Maybe it’s time to branch out, try something new, Lancaster.” I’m smiling, but like his words it feels forced. “The cinnamon rolls aren’t the only thing Ethan makes that’s worth risking your heart over. His chocolate croissants have inspired poetry.”
I’m deflecting and we both know it. But to hiscredit, Eli just chuckles and offers me a hand like some kind of romance novel hero. Which he's not. Obviously. Even if he’s checking a lot of the boxes.
“I’ll have to take your word for it. Though I warn you—my poetry is even worse than my conversation skills on random dates.”
“I’ve still yet to see these horrid conversation skills.” With myself at least. Topics flow between us like a river.
“Yeah, I guess you haven’t.”
He catches my eye, and for a moment the air between us crackles with everything we’re not saying. I can feel it—our energies swirling together, brushing and sparking like wind against embers. It’s soft, magnetic, impossible to ignore. I clear my throat, breaking the spell. We both busy ourselves, gathering our things, but the silence between us feels charged, heavy with the unspoken.
As we walk through the quiet streets, shoulders bumping, trading ideas about costumes and staging for the event, I realize I'm inwaydeeper trouble than I thought. Because this feels real. It feels like something that could matter. With every laugh, every brush of his arm against mine, I can feel the ground shifting beneath me, pulling me toward something I swore would never happen again.
So I focus on the way the streetlights cast long shadows on the cobblestones, on perfecting my terrible ghost impressions (which makes him laugh every time), on anything but the way my heart does backflips when he smiles. Sometimes living in the moment is the only way to keep from thinking too far ahead, especially when you’re already bracing for the part where it ends.
I tell myself I’m getting better at it. At not thinking. At pretending this is simple. Maybe if I lie to myself enough, I’ll start to believe it.
Eli
Crisp night air nips at my face as I make the walk back from the forest’s edge. The last of our tour group disappears back toward the town, their excited chatter fading into the distance.
It’s hard to believe it’s only been three weeks since Rhianna and I stood in the library, half-joking about planning this event. Two weeks of late nights, tangled research, and more coffee than I care to admit—and somehow, we pulled it off.
Rhianna walks ahead, her laughter carrying on the breeze, her energy still buzzing from the night's success. I should be focused on that—on what we pulled off, on how incredible it was to see weeks of research turn into something real. Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to breakfast at The Whimsical Whisk—that morning we'd spent bleary-eyed and buzzing on caffeine, riding the high of our all-nighter. Despite the early hour, despite the fog of exhaustion that should have dulled everything, I'd felt more awake, more present than I had in years. It wasn't a date—at least, we hadn't called it one—but it had felt like one. The kind that leaves you checking your phone later, hoping for a message, replaying moments in yourhead when you should be focusing on something else. Like right now.
For a moment, on that hazy morning at The Whisk, I wanted more. I’d wanted to lean in, to close the space between us, to taste the cinnamon still clinging to her lips. But I saw the hesitation in her eyes—subtle, but unmistakable. She wasn’t ready. Not in the way I was.
So I followed her lead. Kept things easy, light. Pretended I didn’t feel the current humming beneath every word. Because every time we edge closer, she retreats. There’s a wall there—one I can’t name, one she’s not ready to lower—and I don’t know what’s behind it.
What scares me most is how quickly my plans are unraveling. How easily I’ve started picturing a life here, in Magnolia Cove, long after the summer ends. One with cinnamon mornings and late-night laughter, if she’d let me in.
I exhale, refocusing on the night’s success instead. The whole town had become a stage—phantom ships projected onto the harbor mist, Mrs. Delehay playing the ghostly widow in the museum, even Tom’s elaborate fog effects at the dock. And Rhianna—she’d been in her element. Watching her bring these stories to life, seeing that spark in her eyes, it did something to me.
Even if she never lets me get closer, even if she keeps that part of herself locked away… I still want more.
I can feel myself falling, tumbling toward something that might shatter me in the end. Each step closer to her feels like walking toward an inevitable heartache. I see the signs—her hesitation, the careful distance she maintains—but I can't seem to stop myself. I'm drawn to her brilliance, her energy, her light. And even knowing I might be the only one crossing this bridge between friendship and something deeper, I can't turn back. Not yet.
