Page 19 of Love By the Book
I pull another album free from its case and flip it so she can see the track list. "And second, may I present ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’? The greatest rock opera ever written?"
“‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is a masterpiece.” Her slim fingers accept that album from me as well. She studies it with an intensity that makes my chest feel tight. “But I bet you only like it because it’s popular.” She smirks, glancing up at me with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I pretend to be scandalized and place a hand over my heart. “You wound me. I’ll have you know that’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of following the crowd. Besides, I’ve ruined this album forever. I once made my students do a comparative analysis of it with Hamlet.”
“You did not.”
“I did. They never forgave me. The dean called it an interesting departure from traditional literary analysis.”
“Of course he did, you pretentious academic.” She bumps my shoulder with hers, and the casual contact sparks all my nerve endings. “I’m guessing you’re one of those people who can’t hear a love song without turning it into a metaphor for mortality.”
“I have opinions about everything.”
Rhianna’s laugh makes something warm unfurl in my chest. “Color me shocked.” She slides the Queen albums back into their places with careful precision. “So what other opinions are you hiding behind your terrible music taste?”
I laugh, and when she walks, I follow. I should walk away. There’s work I need to do—research to complete and articles I need to write before I return for the fall semester. Instead, I follow her down the aisle as she trails her finger along album spines, trying not to think about how she’d nodded encouragingly at me yesterday, her expression brightening when Claire suggested we get together.
Opinions, though, I have plenty of those. It’s practically a job requirement for a liberal arts professor. “Well, I think vinyl is superior to digital in every way.” She rolls her eyes and I can’t help my smile as I continue. “The Beatles are overrated?—”
“How dare you!”
“—and anyone who says they don’t like ABBA is lying to themselves.”
She stops so abruptly I almost run into her. “‘Dancing Queen’?”
“Undeniable classic.”
“‘Mamma Mia’?”
“Changed musical theater forever.”
She spins to face me, and we’re standing much closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the tiny silver compass charm on one of her necklaces, and the flowing curve of her lips.
“Professor Lancaster,” she says solemnly, “I think we might actually be friends.”
The word ‘friends’ hits like a bucket of ice water, reminding me of how I ended up agreeing to the date. Because Rhianna’s expression had brightened when she’d suggested it, and I’d nodded along like an idiot just to keep that smile going. Because Rhianna Wilder is everything I’m not—effortlessly outgoing, beautiful in a natural way, and magnetic to everyone around her. The kind of person who shines in any crowd, while I… Well, I’d rather be buried in a stack of books than face any attention.
In short, she’s exactly the kind of woman who’d never fall for someone like me.
I take a step back, putting distance between us. “My research calls. I should return.”
Something flickers across her face—disappointment? Relief? But her smile doesn’t waver. “Yeah, of course.” She turns away, then pauses. “You know, if you’re interested in local work, talk to Marcus atA Novel Idea. He’s got an incredible collection of local history stuff tucked away in the back room.”
I hesitate. I’ve passedA Novel Ideaa dozen times since moving in, but I wrote it off as another small-town shop catering to tourists—the kind that stocks overpriced paperbacks and novelty mugs. I never thought to look beyond the curated front displays.
But a hidden section of local history? That’s different. That’s interesting.
A nagging curiosity tugs at me. If Marcus really has rare or forgotten records tucked away, there’s a chance something valuable—something connected to Whitlock—might be buried there.
I nod slowly, filing the name away. “Didn’t realize he carried local archives,” I admit. “I’ll check it out.” I try to ignore how my pulse picks up when she beams at me.
“Good luck!” She gives me a little wave and practically bounces away, rejoining her friends who’ve clustered near the front counter.
I watch her go. The tightness in my chest is just anxiety about tomorrow’s date, about this entire moving and taking bold actions thing. It’s probably just the lingering tension that never really left after Mark. It has nothing to do with the warmth that bloomed between Rhianna and me, or the way she makes me feel like I’m something more than I am, or how much I want to know what other charms she’s wearing on those delicate necklaces.
I turn back to the folklore section with determination. I’m here to find Whitlock’s work, write a few papers I can get published to maintain my academic credibility, and maybe shake up my life a little. Not to develop inconvenient feelings for the woman who’s enthusiastically trying to set me up with someone else.
But as I pull another book from the shelf, her laughter floats to me from the store’s front, bright and musical as a favorite song.
