Page 8 of Love By the Book
“I’m Eli Lancaster.” I extend my hand. “Starting tomorrow I’ll be working at the library.”
And, apparently, spending most of my time there too, now that I’ve somehow agreed to what sounds suspiciously like a full-time job. But then she smiles again—wide and bright andentirely unbothered by my internal grumbling—and I find myself thinking that maybe being here every day won’t be so bad after all.
She gives my hand a shake. Her hand is small in mine, soft and cool. I want to keep holding onto it but I’m also relieved when she drops the contact. “Oh, welcome to Magnolia Cove! I’m Rhianna Wilder, librarian extraordinaire and a woman of excellent music taste.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull the glittery strip of pink paper from my pocket. “Are you also the Rhianna from this flyer?”
Her entire face lights up. I’ve heard that expression before, but never understood it. Now I do. It’s like plugging a Christmas tree in and watching the transformation. I want to see her face do that a hundred more times.
“Yes! Oh my gosh, are you interested in the matchmaking service? I’m so excited! This is perfect timing—I was just thinking about how to get started, and here you are!”
I nod, trying to match her excitement even as my stomach twists. “Yes. I’m… trying new things.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Rhianna beams. Her smile could power the entire library, and probably half the town. “I’m 100% going to help you find the love of your life in no time!”
I release a breathy chuckle, suddenly struck by the horrifying reality of what I've just agreed to do. Rhianna’s presence is soothing—no, more than soothing. But this matchmaking service? This means sitting across from strangers. Stammering. Sweating. Trying to articulate my deepest hopes and fears to people who will stare at me, waiting for coherent sentences that will never come. My heart begins to race, the familiar panic of unpredictable social interactions crawling up my spine. What was I thinking? This isn't a bold move. This is a disaster in the making.
My heart thunders to the point that it pounds in my temples, caught between panic and something else entirely—a spark of attraction I haven't felt in years. Rhianna’s energy pulls at me like a gravitational force, and for a moment, I'm captivated by the way her hands move when she speaks, the subtle curve of her smile, the golden flecks dancing in her brown eyes. But reality crashes back with brutal efficiency.
The woman before me is practically bouncing on her toes with excitement, vibrant and full of life—the kind of woman who turns heads when she walks into a room. Her turquoise skirt swirls around her legs as she moves, her cardigan adorned with playful pins that speak to a personality so different from my own. Someone like her would never be interested in a quiet, bookish professor like me. I can already imagine the conversation dying, her growing restless with my careful words, my studied silences. I'd probably bore her to tears within a week.
Still, there’s something about her enthusiasm that’s infectious. Maybe that’s exactly why she’s perfect for this role. Her energy, so different from mine, might be just what I need to shake up my routine during my stay. Maybe bold move number two isn’t about finding love at all, thank god, but an opportunity to experience some of the spontaneity I came for.
“So, when do we start?” My playful tone is gone, and a rasp has entered my voice as I force the words out.
Rhianna’s grin widens, if that’s even possible. “How about we set up an initial consultation for tomorrow afternoon? We can go over your preferences, deal breakers, and all that good stuff.”
I nod, hoping the look I give isinterestedand notabsolutely terrified.“Sounds perfect.”
As I walk away from the circulation desk, the citrusy library scents mingle with Rhianna’s fruity-floral perfume and I can’t help but wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Butthen I remember Mark, and my promise to myself. Three bold moves. This is number two.
I take a deep breath, straighten my cuffs again, and step out into the warm Magnolia Cove afternoon. The sun is bright, almost blinding after the peaceful, dim library interior and I blink rapidly to adjust. It’s only when I’m halfway down the street that I realize something.
I stop dead in my tracks. “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, earning a curious glance from a woman holding a Pomeranian.
I forgot to look at my office. The entire reason I went to the library today, and I completely forgot about it. How did that happen? One conversation with Rhianna, and my carefully laid plans flew right out the window.
A rueful chuckle escapes me as I shake my head. Is this what Rhianna does to people? Is this what I’m in for with this matchmaking business? My ordered, predictable, comfortable life suddenly seems very far away.
Part of me wants to turn around, go back inside, and ask to see Michael as I’d planned. It would be the sensible thing to do. The Eli thing to do.
Instead, I continue down the sidewalk, away from the library. Whatever happens next, at least it won’t be boring. And maybe that’s exactly what I need.
Welcome to bold move number two, Eli. Let’s see where this leads.
Rhianna
I practically skip through the side door of our family’s house, then toss my keys into the bowl on the counter with a satisfying clink. Look, I know few adults live with their parents, but few people have historical family homes on Main Street, either. Besides, it’s just me, and I have saving goals, okay? Helping cover the utilities with my parents is much cheaper than renting one of the resident’s cottages. Because of that, in a couple more years I’ll be boarding a plane to somewhere warm and wonderful.
Anyway, there's just something about home. Copper pots hang above the center island—pots Dad used to teach me and my older brother how to make pralines, stirring the sugar and pecans until they were just right. A wire basket of fruit perches on the counter’s edge, alongside a glass cookie jar—both mainstays of my childhood. Mom still keeps them stocked even though Gavin moved out almost a decade ago and it’s only the three of us left here. Art prints from friends of Dad at the university hang in frames near the fridge.
It’s eclectic, a bit cluttered—and home.
I let out a long, contented sigh. Maybe it’s just me but thesun seems to glisten through the windows with an extra sparkle today. I glimpse myself in a mirror and—oh my gosh, I’m smiling. Like a real, genuine, I-just-won-the-magical-lottery smile. What in the name of The Whisk’s blessed cinnamon rolls is happening?
“Well, don’t you look chipper.” Mom’s voice floats in a moment before her. She’s wearing her paint-speckled smock and her art-therapist assessing gaze. “Good day at work?”
I bounce over to the cookie jar and pull out one of Mom’s polvorones, the delicate, crumbly dough melting on my tongue as powdered sugar dusts my fingertips. The touch of magic she imbued them with sends warmth unfurling in my chest, like a hug in dessert form. “Every day has been a good day at work since I got the activity director role.”
