Page 37 of Love By the Book
But I think Mark would approve.
He’d like Rhianna Wilder too. With her glitter and chaos and sharp insight, she didn’t just knock me off balance—she made me want to stay unbalanced. To see what happens if I stop holding so tightly to the plan.
Alex gives me a knowing smile. "Good. You two are good together. It's nice to see her so happy."
The door clicks shut behind her, but her words linger—settling into the quiet like dust motes in sunlight. I sit there for a long moment, letting them echo in the space she’s left behind.
Eventually, I try to return to my research, but my thoughts keep drifting to tomorrow, to Ethan's mysterious collection, and inevitably back to Rhianna. I trace my thumb over the binding of the aged book before me. Life has a way of surprising you.
I came to Magnolia Cove to play my field’s version of the ultimate Where’s Waldo—tracking down a signed Cyrus Whitlock, the holy grail of obscure folklore texts. To shake up my routine with my—let’s be honest—mildly ridiculous three-bold-moves challenge, and experience something different before returning to my neatly ordered existence. And maybe… to try and find some meaning in Mark’s loss.
I close the book and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. Three months ago, if someone had told me I'd be placing protection wards on wedding cakes and falling for a librarian with a penchant for glitter, I would have thought they were confusing me with someone else entirely.
I thought finding a signed Whitlock would be the pinnacle of this little adventure—the scholarly equivalent of climbing Everest. Instead, I find myself caring less about rare books and more about rare people. About a woman whose laugh makes my heart race. About a community that, despite its eccentricities (or perhaps because of them), feels increasingly like home.
My second bold move was signing up for Rhianna's matchmaking service, and that led me to the most unexpected discovery of all—not a book, but the possibility of a future I never planned for. A future that feels both terrifying and more right than anything I've meticulously plotted on my five-year plans.
Yet here I am. And strangely, wonderfully, it feels exactly right.
Ethan's cottage sits at the far edge of the beach, its navy exterior with worn ivory shutters standing apart from the other homes. It looks like something from a postcard—the kind of place that embodies coastal living without trying too hard. Two rocking chairs face the ocean on the small porch, a chessboard positioned between them as if waiting for players.
I approach the door, carefully balancing a worn 19th-century baking book I’d brought as a thank-you gift—its margin notes from the original owner were too charming to part with easily, even if the book never quite fit into my research.
After successfully warding the wedding cake this afternoon—a relatively simple spell that will keep it stable no matter how much the boat rocks—I'm more excited about this visit than I probably should be. But academic passion has always been my weakness, and the prospect of unexplored magical texts has me practically vibrating with anticipation.
Before I can knock, the door swings open, revealing Ethan in a henley and jeans. It’s the first time I’ve seen him outside his professional attire—apron off, shoulders relaxed. He looks effortlessly at home here.
There’s something about the people who live in Magnolia Cove long term—no matter how different they are. They all carry this quiet confidence, like they’ve found their place and settled into it without hesitation. And lately, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve found mine too.
"You must have magic footsteps," he says with an easy smile. "I didn't hear you until you made it to the walkway."
I offer a polite shrug, but my mind flickers back to thefirst time we shook hands—the telltale flicker of his magic coursing through me. Ethan’s a shifter, a powerful one from what I’ve gathered, though he doesn’t carry himself with any need to prove it. His senses, though, are still sharp—especially his hearing. He could probably hear most people the moment they stepped onto the beach in front of his cottage. Some people find that kind of magic intimidating. But Ethan Hart is the kind of person who puts others at ease the moment he enters a room—like gravity, but gentler.
"I can’t help it, I’m afraid," I say, adjusting my glasses. "Occupational hazard of working in libraries and ancient university buildings. We're trained to move silently."
He chuckles and steps aside. "Come on in. Thanks again for helping with the cake. You saved me from begging a favor off the council.”
The inside of the cottage is every bit as inviting as the outside—cozy, lived-in, effortlessly warm. A leather couch faces a small stone fireplace, a quilt draped across the back. But it’s the far wall that draws my attention. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominate the space, packed with volumes of every size and subject. Some are arranged in tidy rows, others piled sideways or crammed in wherever they fit. Loose papers and worn bookmarks protrude from their pages.
"Alex wasn't exaggerating," I say, nodding toward the bookshelves. "That's quite a collection."
Ethan follows my gaze. "They’ve been in the family for generations. My dad used to read to me from these when I was a kid—mostly adventures and old folktales. We both got hooked early. I guess letting them go just never felt like an option." He gestures to the book in my hands. "What's that?"
"Oh." I'd almost forgotten I was holding it. "Just a small token of appreciation. It’s a nineteenth-century baking book I picked up years ago—nothing rare, but the original ownerscribbled detailed notes in the margins. I thought it might interest you."
Ethan takes the book, his eyes widening slightly as he flips through the pages. He pauses at a recipe near the center, tracing one of the handwritten notes in the margin. “This is incredible. Look at this butter layering technique—way ahead of its time. I’ll lose hours testing something like this.” He pauses and offers a sheepish smile. “Alex calls it my ‘science project phase’ whenever I start tweaking recipes at three AM.”
I chuckle, more in recognition than amusement. “I once spent an entire weekend cross-referencing an obscure Welsh legend across five different translations just to prove a footnote wrong.”
Ethan quirks an eyebrow. “Now that’s commitment.”
“Commitment should be my middle name,” I say and we both laugh. Then I nod toward the bookshelves. "Alex mentioned some of them have magical wards that are fading?"
"Yeah, about a hundred or so. They've been in the family for ages. Warding doesn’t run in my line. Can’t do it, no matter how many times I’ve tried." He sets my gift on the coffee table. "Before we dive into that, how about some coffee? I grind the beans fresh—can’t start anything without the good stuff."
"That would be great. And I couldn’t agree more. Life’s too short for mediocre coffee.”
“Coming up,” he says as he moves to the kitchen. I can't help but advance toward the bookshelves, drawn like a moth to flame. Even from a few feet away, I can sense the subtle hum of magical energy emanating from certain volumes. Some wards are still strong—a low, steady pulse that speaks of skilled spellwork. Others flicker weakly, like a candle about to be extinguished.
