Page 43 of Love By the Book
The string quartet plays slow and sweet, their instruments glowing with a soft blue shimmer of magic that matches the enormous moon hanging above us. Eli's hand is warm against my lower back, and I try not to think about how perfectly we fit together, how natural it feels to rest my head against his chest. The sweet scent of his cologne mingles with the salty breeze coming off the water.
"You're quiet," he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear.
"Just feeling the music." It's not entirely a lie. The violins are weaving actual magic through the air—the shimmer of it falls like stardust around us. But mostly I'm feeling him. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The way his thumb traces small circles on my back.
"Liar." His tone is teasing, but there's something else there too. Something that makes my breath catch. "You're thinking so loud I can almost hear it, Wilder.”
I laugh softly. "That's rich coming from the guy who probably catalogues his thoughts alphabetically."
“How did you know?” He chuckles but pulls back justenough to look at me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my stomach flip. "Though I have to admit, you've been throwing off my organizational system lately."
"Oh?" I try to keep my voice light, playful, but it comes out breathier than intended. "How so?"
"Well, for starters, you’ve filed yourself under every letter of the alphabet." His hand slides up my spine, leaving a trail of warmth. "Remarkable. Intriguing. Hilarious. Addictive. Noteworthy. Alluring..."
Each word sends a shiver through me. "You forgot ‘Impeccable Music Taste.’”
"That's under ‘I,’ along with ‘Ingenious’ and ‘Irresistible.’”
My breath catches. It’s one thing to flirt, it’s another to be seen like this. My usual defenses stutter and all I can do is look up at him, heart thudding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
God, I’m in trouble.
The music swells around us, and I close my eyes, letting myself sink into this moment. Into him. Having someone I loved walk away from me when I needed him most forced walls up around me—fortresses I didn’t even realize I was building until they were too high to climb down from. I thought they’d keep me safe. Untouchable. But maybe it’s not force that brings those walls down. Maybe it’s gentleness. Eli never pushes. Never asks for more than I can give. He just… shows up. Listens. Laughs at my terrible puns and remembers the little things. And somehow, without demanding anything in return, he’s made me want to sit by the gate I swore I’d never open—wondering if, maybe, it’s safe to unlatch it after all.
His hand glides lower, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of every point where our bodies meet. The steady pressure of his fingers. The warmth of his chest against mine. The way his breath hitches when I shift closer, eliminating what little spaceremains between us. The distant murmur of the crowds fades and the music wraps us up like silk. I swear I can feel his heartbeat pick up to match mine. When I tilt my head back to look at him, his eyes are dark behind his glasses, intense in a way that makes heat pool in my stomach. I’ve spent months studying his careful movements, his precise habits, but there’s nothing careful about the way he’s looking at me now.
The song ends, but neither of us moves to break apart. The moon bathes everything in an ethereal blue light, making the ordinary magical—or maybe just revealing the magic that was always there.
"Come home with me?" Eli's voice is soft but certain.
My heart stutters. There are a dozen reasons to say no. My future plans he doesn’t know about. My promises. My fears. But looking up into his eyes, I can't remember a single one of them.
"Yes."
We leave the festival behind, stepping onto the winding path that leads back toward town. The distant hum of the crowd still lingers in the air, laughter and music carrying over the water as we walk. The path curves through the trees before spilling us onto Main Street, where the glow of twinkling shop windows and lantern-lit flower boxes makes everything feel impossibly warm, even at this late hour.
Our hands are linked, and every few steps he brings my fingers to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to my knuckles like he can't quite help himself. Each one sends sparks of warmth through my entire body.
I’ve always prided myself on being able to read people, to sense the thread of connections. But this—this is different. This feels like standing in the center of a storm, like being struck by lightning and discovering you’ve been waiting for it your whole life. Magic hums beneath my skin where his lipstouch, and I wonder if he can feel it too, this electric current running between us.
The town I've known my whole life looks different tonight. Or maybe I'm the one who's different. Every familiar sight feels new when seen through the lens of this feeling, this possibility—the old brick buildings with their weather-worn signs, the cobblestone streets that have guided me home a thousand times. I’m holding my breath in my attempts to memorize this moment, save it. Each landmark seems to whisperstayeven as my dreams pull me toward distant horizons. And now there’s an anchor that’s warm against my hand, holding me here.
This trip I planned to escape Magnolia Cove after the wreckage Jacob left behind lands in my lap at the same time as this beautiful, kind man. A man who somehow makes the mundane feel magical, who treats my quirks like something rare and wonderful. And now I’m torn—standing at the edge of a path unfurled in the woods, unsure which direction is the one that will change everything.
Ugh. Dad’s poetry always sneaks up on me when I’m feeling things. Big things.
And that’s the problem. I’m starting to feelBIGthings.
So that’s going to get stuffed into the box of all-the-things-I-refuse-to-think-about-tonight. Taped up, labeled ‘emotional crisis—do not open,’ and shoved into the deepest corner of my mental storage closet. I can’t afford to unpack that—not now. Not with Eli smiling at me like I’ve just handed him the moon.
His apartment, when we reach it, is exactly what I'd expect. Spare but thoughtful, like he carefully chose each item. A record player sits in the corner, its needle locked precisely in place because of course it is. He’s arranged his shoes with mathematical precision by the door. But it's the books that catch my eye.
They're everywhere, protected by shimmering wards thatmake the air around them ripple like heat waves. Ancient leather-bound tomes and rare books share space with well-loved paperbacks, all treated with the same reverence. And there, on his dresser, warded just as carefully as what I’m sure are priceless volumes, are the books I gave him. The romance novel I insisted he read. And the Cyrus Whitlock book that once belonged to Grandma Ida—the one I nearly couldn’t part with.
I remember the way my fingers hovered over the cover that night, the weight of it almost too much to let go. But something in me had known—it was meant for him.
Seeing it here now, nestled among his treasures and guarded by a protection spell as if it were priceless, I feel that knowing settle deeper. I made the right choice.
