Page 16 of Love By the Book
My cheeks flood with so much heat I look down, hoping to hideit. Eli can’t be talking about me. He’s a coworker. Plus, we’re very specifically meeting so I can introduce him to eligible singles on the island. He literally brought the flyer tab to me. He’s interested in dating—real dating. Not... whatever this is. Whatever we’re doing.
Because it’s definitely not flirting. Right?
I swipe at a bit of lint on my shirt only to realize I’m wearing a bedazzled t-shirt that gleams in the light, reflecting sparkles onto the table. Sparkly clothing. Like he just complimented. I have to redirect this conversation.
Because even if heisflirting with me, I’m decidedly not available for falling in love. Love always feels good at this stage—when you’re eating cinnamon rolls and staring into warm eyes and suddenly convinced you could run a marathon or take up interpretive dance or finally finish your taxes.
But later?
Love has a cost. It sinks into you—the way you care for someone, the way you start building your life with them in the center of it. And when they see the messiest, truest part of you? They leave. And I’m never letting anyone close enough to hurt me like that again.
It’s casual or nothing—and with the fellowship hanging in the balance, with the possibility of traveling the world finally within reach, it’s probably nothing.
I need to keep my head down. Focused. No distractions.
Especially not ones with hazel eyes that somehow manage to look like every comforting coffee shop I’ve ever wanted to live in.
“Okay, fine. Elvis had a great voice and yes there’s definitely an Elvis impersonation contest at the Blue Moon Festival. It’s a whole thing. ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’ and all that. The town council fifty years ago thought it would be hilarious. Now we’re stuck with glittering jumpsuits and questionable hip thrusts every year.”
Eli’s laugh is as warm and rich as hot chocolate. It does funny things to my insides that I promptly ignore. “That sounds amazing. I can’t wait to see it.”
And then, because apparently I’ve lost all control of my mouth, I blurt out, “I’ll find you the perfect date for the festival! By the blue moon. Scout’s honor.”
Eli’s lips pinch slightly, and I tell myself it has nothing to do with me. Still, a part of me hopes—stupidly, dangerously—that he doesn’t want to date someone else.
I shake the thought off. No. That way lies trouble. Attachment. Risk.
I’m not doing that again.
He claps his hand around his milk, but doesn’t take a drink. “Were you even a scout?”
“Umm, no.”
“All right, that sounds like a very reliable oath for my fate to rest on. I’m game.”
I chuckle. “We should dive into these cinnamon rolls. They’re best warm.”
We reach out at the same moment. Our hands brush, and I swear a jolt of electricity races down my arm. I snatch my hand back like the touch burned me. Eli does the same and mumbles something about “after you” that doesn’t help the heat that has to be burning my face into an apple-red color.
We both grab separate rolls the second time. Eli takes a bite and groans.
“Good, huh?” I can’t help but grin. Several big food magazines have featured Ethan’s baking. His secret cinnamon rolls are objectively the best thing since coffee shops discovered the power of pumpkin flavor.
“You weren’t kidding.”
The way he’s looking at me makes me wonder if he’s referencing my comment about how good the rolls are or how they’ll make you spontaneously burst into a marriageproposal. I rush the conversation forward, eager to move away from that kind of thinking.
“So, what’s your type? Tall, dark, and handsome? Petite blonde with a wicked sense of humor? Someone with a penchant for obscure trivia?”
With each description, I catch myself mentally comparing these potential matches to… me. Which is pointless. And not the plan. And definitely not safe. And one-hundred-percent not happening.
Eli chews another bite of cinnamon roll and seems to consider for a moment. “Women for sure. Otherwise, I guess I don’t really have a type. I’m more interested in someone who’s passionate about what they do, someone who can make me laugh. Someone who sees the magic in everyday things, maybe.”
I nod, jot down notes, and definitely don’t think about how I might match that description. “What about past relationships? Any deal breakers?”
For the first time in the night, Eli looks away and seems hesitant to respond. He wipes his fingers on a napkin and shrugs. “I was in a serious relationship for a couple of years. She was actually everything I thought I wanted—consistent, steady.”
Ugh. Consistent and steady. Those are definitely not words anyone would use to describe me. I’m more like a glitter tornado with a solid Spotify playlist. I can see it, though—someone like Eli, who probably thrives on routine, on knowing where everything stands. He seems like the kind of guy who has a morning routine that extends over an hour where he must go through each step in a specific order or it ruins his day. I’m more of a never-put-my-hairbrush-in-the-same-place-twice type.
