Page 48 of Love By the Book
After he rushes off, I head toward the stairs to his office with the folder tucked againstmy chest.
“Hey, Rhianna, wait up!”
I freeze, clutching Eli’s folder to my chest. Claire’s heels click against the floor as she hurries over, and my stomach twists. Things have been awkward since her date with Eli—the one I basically pushed them into, back when I was trying to be a proper matchmaker instead of falling for my client. The date went absolutely nowhere but Claire had seemed excited about it.
When she reaches me, she’s smiling. “I just wanted to say… I’m really happy for you two.”
“Oh.” I blink. “I… thanks?”
“Seriously.” She smooths her hand down her dress—a silky navy blue one, exactly the kind of understated elegance I could never pull off. “The way he looks at you? That’s the real deal. I knew it even when we went out. He spent half the history tour talking about you.”
A warm flush creeps up my neck. “He did?”
“Mhmm. It was actually kind of adorable. Annoying at the time, obviously, but adorable in retrospect.” She touches my arm. “You deserve something real, Rhianna. I’m glad you’ve found it.”
She graces me with another smile, then turns and walks back through the shelves. I stand there, Claire’s words echoing in my head. The real deal.
My heart feels too big for my chest as I climb the stairs, like it’s trying to expand to hold all this joy. For once since Jacob shattered me, I’m not thinking about escape routes or keeping one foot out the door. I’m just stupidly, wonderfully, romance-novel-level happy.
Eli’s scent—old books and luxuriously rich coffee and the unique cologne he wears—lingers in the air as I approach his desk. His planner lies open, and I can’t help but smile when I spot my name doodled in the corner, surrounded by tiny stars.
The man can’t draw. The stars look more like spiky blobs,but something about their earnest wonkiness makes my heart squeeze. Because of course perfectionist Eli Lancaster, who color codes his notes and has his desk arranged like a museum display, would have adorably awful doodles.
I stack the folder with others and turn to leave but my gaze catches on an underlined note in the planner.
2 PM - Department Meeting @Zoom (return timeline/fall schedule)
Return timeline? My brain stutters over the words, trying to make them mean something else. Return to what? He moved here. He’s starting fresh here. That’s what he said. That’s what everyone said. Unless…
Unless he didn’t.
I’m frantically thinking back to our early conversations. Had he ever said he was moving here permanently? Or had I just assumed? He’d talked about needing a change, about wanting an adventure, about starting fresh… but had he ever used the word ‘permanent’?
My fingers grip the edge of the desk as possibility after possibility crashes through my mind. Maybe it’s about returning to teach a guest lecture. Maybe it’s about returning library books (okay, that’s desperate even for me). Maybe?—
I sink into his chair, the leather still warm from where he sat this morning. His scent permeates my next breath, and it feels like a betrayal that it still makes my heart flutter even as my stomach twists with dread.
I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t flip through his journal and invade his privacy. But Jacob had secrets and signs he was slipping away too—and I ignored them until they exploded. I can’t make that mistake again.
I look.
A month from now another entry.Moving day.
The pages flip forward under my tremblingfingers. Faculty meetings. Class schedules. Office hours. An entire life mapped out.
Without me.
A sob builds in my throat, pressing against my ribcage like a trapped bird. The hat feels stupid now. Everything does. And still, his scent lingers—coffee and old books and comfort—and it guts me that it still makes me feel safe.
I thought... God, I thought this was it. The real thing. The kind of love story I stay up late reading most nights—sacrificing sleep for another happily ever after. A story worth risking heartbreak for. And I really believed… this time, it would be different.
But then I stop myself.Wait. Deep breath, Rhianna.
I press my palms against the cool wood of his desk and force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Eli is reliable. Steady. Thoughtful. He's the kind of man who underlines important dates and folds his socks in that joy-sparking, possibly cult-like way people were doing a few years ago. This isn't some secret he's been hiding—it's right there in plain sight in a planner he keeps on his desk.
This is worth a conversation, not a meltdown. He’ll explain. Maybe ‘return timeline’ means something else entirely.
