Page 21 of Love By the Book
"You're just like her," Grandma Ida would say, pride warming her voice. "Wild and free and true to your own rhythm."
Grandma Ida always knew how to spin things. Honestly, she should’ve worked in PR. Despite her encouragement, before I found my people in middle school band—the oddballs who liked me exactly as I was—there were years I felt like a walking, talking personification oftoo much.
I didn’t have words for it then, but I think I’ve always feared being too much. And Jacob proved me right.
A memory surfaces, sharp and vivid. I'm ten years old, sobbing into Grandma Ida’s shoulder after another day of eating lunch alone. "No one wants to be my friend," I hiccup. "I'm too weird. I talk too much. I'm too... too..."
"Too much like Rhiannon," Grandma finished, stroking my hair. The Welsh goddess—always following her own path. "And that," she says, "is exactly what makes you wonderful."
And maybe she was right. After all, the only man Rhiannon ever slowed down for ended up betraying her. My life is patterns within patterns. Maybe I’ve echoed my namesake’s path all along.
I blink back tears and stand, needing to move. My fingers trail over Grandma Ida’s belongings—the collection of driftwood pieces lined along the windowsill, the framed photographs, the bookshelf stuffed with volumes organized by color rather than any logical system. Dad used to drive himselfcrazy trying to find specific books in her "rainbow chaos," as he called it.
I'm about to turn away when something happens—a sensation I've felt many times before but can never quite explain. An energy pulses from the bookshelf, drawing my attention like a magnet. My ability to sense when a book matches someone is what makes me great as a librarian, why Tom trusts me to find the weirdest monster romances I can get my hands on, the ones he’ll absolutely devour, and why Claire comes to me when she’s in a reading slump.
But this is different. This feels like... a match. A perfect match, but not for me.
For Eli.
I step closer, my fingertips skating over spines until they settle on a moss-green leather binding tucked between a scarlet romance novel and a cobalt book of poetry. The energy vibrates stronger, and I slide the book free.
My breath catches.Welsh Gods and Goddessesby Cyrus Whitlock. I've seen this book a hundred times, but today it feels like I'm holding something sacred. I open the cover, and the pages naturally fall to the most-read section:Rhiannon: The Enigmatic Goddess of the Moon.
The pages are soft with age and handling, the margins filled with Grandma Ida's elegant script. Little notes, observations, connections to other myths. She'd drawn a tiny horse beside one paragraph, and a small heart next to a line about Rhiannon's independence.
This book is precious. A piece of my grandmother, a connection to my namesake, a treasure I've taken comfort in since I was old enough to read. I couldn't possibly give it to Eli Lancaster. Even if its energy is utterly aligned with his in a way I can't explain. Even if the connection feels deeper than the usual book-to-reader match I sense.
I barely know him, I remind myself sternly. And besides,he's out on a date with someone else right now. With Claire, who's sensible and grounded and probably doesn't have a wanderlust itch under her skin or the instinct to keep love at arm’s length just in case it disappears.
I hate the twist in my stomach at the thought of them together. Hate that I'm standing in my late grandmother's bedroom, clutching a book to my chest, fretting over a man like some lovesick teenager. This isn't me. I don't do this.
But the book pulses with that undeniable energy, like it's already decided it belongs to Eli. Like it's just waiting for me to admit it.
I press my forehead against the bookshelf, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of Grandma Ida. My gaze falls on a framed photograph—me at seven, gap-toothed and grinning, her arm around my shoulders as we proudly display mud pies we'd made after a summer rainstorm. We're both laughing so hard our eyes are nearly closed.
"What would you tell me to do?" I whisper to her image.
The silence that follows isn't really an answer, but I imagine her saying what she always did when I faced a choice: "Follow your joy, Rhianna-bean. The rest will sort itself out."
I straighten up, adjust the frame to its proper position, and tuck the book under my arm as I leave the room. I'm not going to give it to him, I tell myself firmly. But I'll keep it close, just in case.
The book's energy signature is unmistakable. Every reader leaves a trace of themselves behind—emotions, thoughts, dreams embedded in the pages like invisible fingerprints. Over the years, this book has collected a unique energetic aura, one that resonates in perfect harmony with the essence I sense in Eli. It's not that the book has chosen him specifically, but that its accumulated energy aligns with him in a way I've rarely felt before—like two pieces of a puzzle meant to fit together.
That's what books are meant for, aren’t they?To be read, to be shared, to find the readers who need them most. Grandma Ida never hoarded her books. She lent them freely, gave them as gifts, passed them to strangers she met who mentioned an interest. "Books have their own journeys," she'd say. "We're just temporary caretakers."
I close Grandma Ida's door behind me, the crystal knob cool against my palm. The book feels warm under my arm, almost expectant, like it knows something I don't.
"Don't get smug," I mutter to it. "I haven't decided anything yet."
But even as I say it, I know I'm lying to myself. The book has already chosen its new owner. The question is whether I can honor that choice—whether I can let go of this piece of my past to follow what my magic is telling me is right.
I check my clock one more time as I head back to my room, the book tucked safely against my side. Dinner with Eli is still over an hour away. He'll tell me all about the date with Claire, and I'll be the perfect, professional matchmaker. And maybe—maybe—I'll know then whether this book is meant to find its way to him after all. It would be so convenient if magic could just hand me a big, sparkly “yes, this is the right thing to do” sign. Maybe with glitter. Or at the very least, less emotional confusion.
With a sigh, I settle on my windowsill seat, open my worn copy ofPride and Prejudice, and try to lose myself in Elizabeth Bennet's world instead of obsessing over mine. But the Whitlock book rests beside me, a quiet but intense presence, like it’s insisting that it's already made up its mind.
Eli
I adjust my collar for the hundredth time, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake. The sun gleams over Magnolia Cove, casting a golden glow over the quaint storefronts as I make my way to meet Claire for our ‘history tour’ date. It seemed like a reasonable idea when Rhianna suggested it—a perfect blend of my love for knowledge and Claire’s apparent passion for local lore. Claire seems like the type I’d be interested in as well—steady, routine-driven, and probably appreciative of a well-organized coffee cabinet. It all seemed so logical, but now I’m not so sure.
