Love By the Book (Magnolia Cove Magic #2)

Chapter 1

Rhianna

"The secret to perfect matchmaking is...

glitter. Lots of it. Like, unreasonable amounts," I whisper dramatically, leaning toward the circle of wide-eyed children gathered around my booth at the Magnolia Cove Farmers Market.

The morning sun streams through colorful banners overhead, casting rainbow patterns across our table.

I laugh, stirring a mason jar filled with shimmering pink slime. "Also maybe a sprinkle of moonlight and a really good playlist."

The kids lean in closer, completely enchanted—which is exactly how I want them. The Magnolia Cove Library Presents: Magical Potion Workshop sign flutters in the breeze above us. On the table, a dozen jars sparkle with various concoctions, each one more glittery than the last.

Magnolia Cove is what we call a magical pocket community—one of a handful of hidden places in the world where people with magic can live freely.

Wards cast by the town’s magical council keep the energy veiled from non-magical eyes, letting us enchant the world just enough to make it sweeter.

Around here, the flowers always bloom on time, the library smells like whatever mood the head librarian decides to bottle—this summer, it’s lemon sunshine—and the brick streets never seem to crack.

Even the cinnamon rolls taste like comfort itself, thanks to a bit of mood-lifting magic infused in the sugar.

It’s subtle, mostly. Gentle. Like someone brushing a charm over the ordinary and making it glow.

"Now, who's ready to make a magical jar that can totally—not officially—spark romantic destiny?" I wink, holding up my creation.

"ME!" shouts a chorus of excited voices, hands shooting into the air.

"Miss Wilder, can mine help my mom find a boyfriend?" asks Lily, a gap-toothed seven-year-old with pigtails and the most serious expression I've ever seen on a child.

"Mine is for my turtle!" declares Jamie, already reaching for the gold glitter.

I grin, pushing my sleeves up as I distribute empty jars. The table is a Jackson Pollock painting of art supplies, and a fine dusting of sequins already clings to my cardigan. It's perfect chaos.

As the kids dive enthusiastically into their potions, my gaze drifts across the market.

That’s when my magic lifts my attention to someone—Karl, early thirties, dark hair curling slightly at the ends as he leans over a display of sun-ripened tomatoes at Robert Hart’s farm stand.

He’s arranging them with the same quiet focus he brings to everything—thoughtful, gentle, the kind of man who hands out strawberries to local kids and remembers your cat’s name.

And then I notice her—a woman with brunette hair tucked behind one ear, cute tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose as she samples a spoonful of Grammie Rae’s spun honey.

Her yellow sundress glows in the morning light, and a canvas tote bag with a faded literary quote swings at her hip.

The visitor that Grammie Rae—the town’s unofficial gossip columnist and walking database of everyone’s business—was telling me about earlier. Brooke.

Something flickers between Karl and Brooke—like a golden thread connecting their energies across the market. It's subtle, but unmistakable to someone like me who can read those vibrations.

Oh. Oh.

My magic senses are tingling.

"Oh no," comes a familiar voice. "I’ve seen that look before."

I glance up to see Alex approaching, two iced coffees in hand.

Her expression shifts—tight lips, flared nostrils, that familiar mix of amusement and judgment that makes her look every inch the New York City food critic who waltzed into Magnolia Cove to try the cinnamon rolls and ended up stirring up more than cookie batter.

She hands me one of the iced coffees. It’s from The Whimsical Whisk, of course—Ethan’s working the booth today, which explains why Alex is out here instead of holed up inside her café, Sinclair’s Sips and Savories.

They have a system, the two of them. And if there’s one thing better than Ethan’s cinnamon rolls, it’s the iced caramel cold brew he makes with some kind of espresso-magic blend that should be illegal.

"Rhianna Wilder, what are you plotting now?"

“See Karl over at Robert’s stand?” I nod toward the stall where he’s carefully helping a woman pick out the ripest tomatoes. “Single. Sweet. The type of guy who carries extra bags for customers and brings fresh herbs to the diner just because he thought they might need some.”

Alex arches a brow. “And?”

I tip my chin toward the honey booth. “Now look at her. Cute glasses, sundress, tote bag full of main-character energy.”

"The tourist with the fancy reusable bags? What about her?"

I lower my voice, glancing around. Not that any of the kids are paying attention—they’re too busy turning the booth into a glitter-coated war zone.

One is furiously shaking a jar of what looks like purple slime, another is sprinkling sequins with the intensity of someone warding off evil spirits.

A stray puff of glitter explodes into the air like fairy dust from a faulty wand.

"Her name’s Brooke. She’s staying at the bed-and-breakfast for the week. Grammie Rae says she’s a children’s book illustrator visiting for inspiration. And their energies are perfectly compatible. Like peanut butter and chocolate. Like Stevie Nicks and that microphone with all the scarves. Like—"

"Like two random strangers who have never met each other and probably have no reason to?" Alex interjects, though the corners of her mouth are twitching.

"That’s the beauty of it! They’ve never had the opportunity." I tap my temple knowingly. "But I can feel it. Their energies sing together like they’re both parts of the same song."

Glitter crunches under Alex’s sandal as she shifts her weight. One of the potion jars has tipped over on the edge of the table, forming a slow-moving pink ooze that’s dangerously close to dripping onto someone’s backpack. I swoop in with a napkin and nudge it back before disaster strikes.

Alex lifts an unimpressed brow. "And you’re going to be that catalyst, I suppose?"

"Watch and learn." I stand up, smoothing down my sea-green dress covered in tiny embroidered books. "Jamie, you're in charge of the glitter for exactly two minutes. Make sure no one eats it."

Jamie, a freckle-faced 9th grader who used to play trumpet in Rachel's band, gives me a solemn salute that scatters glitter onto three nearby patrons.

I weave through the market, the scent of fresh bread and spun honey filling the air as I plot my approach. It needs to seem casual, natural—a chance encounter orchestrated by fate, not a wild-haired librarian with questionable decision-making skills.

Grabbing an empty basket, I position myself near the honey booth, pretending to examine jars while keeping an eye on Karl across the way.

He’s helping a young boy choose a pint of strawberries, crouching down to offer one with a smile and a gentle nod.

A moment later, he ties the boy’s shoelace, then hands the berries to the kid’s mom with a quiet word and that easy warmth he always carries.

The woman—Brooke—is moving toward the display that sits between the honey booth and Robert's stand.

Perfect. The universe is already helping.

I time my approach, stepping out just as she's passing by, ready to create a casual collision that will send her gently toward Karl's berry arrangement. What I don't expect is the small child darting across my path, chasing a butterfly.

My evasive maneuver to avoid the child sends me careening into a display of Grammie Rae's specialty honey jars. My elbow connects with the carefully stacked pyramid, creating a domino effect that's both horrifying and, if I'm being honest, aesthetically impressive.

"Oh my gosh—" I lunge to catch them, but my reflexes are about three jars too slow.

Glass doesn't shatter, thankfully—magic wards against breakage are standard at the Magnolia Cove market—but the jars roll wildly, one spinning directly into the strawberry display, toppling baskets that tumble toward Robert's stand.

"Watch out!" I call, my voice far too late to be useful.

Karl lunges forward to catch the falling strawberries, colliding with Brooke who's stepped forward to help. Her tote bag swings around and snags on the edge of a table stacked with baskets of green beans, sending it wobbling dangerously.

In an impressive display of reflexes, Karl steadies both Brooke and the berry baskets with one graceful movement, his hands at her waist.

"I'm so sorry," Brooke says, looking mortified.

"Not your fault," Karl replies. "Though I think these berries might need a safety net."

There's a moment—a perfect, crystalline moment—where their eyes meet, and even through my mortification, I can see it: that spark, that recognition, that possibility.

"I'm the one who should apologize," I say, extracting myself from the scene and trying to look dignified while grabbing a few stray honey jars and sliding them back onto their shelf. "Completely my fault. Total accident."

Karl helps Brooke right her bag, then offers her a basket of berries. "For the trouble," he says with a smile I've never seen on him before. “I'm Karl, by the way.”

"Brooke," she replies, her cheeks flushing a shade that matches the strawberries. "You know, I was actually hoping to find someone who knows the island well. I'm looking for inspiration for my next book..."

I back away slowly, trying to contain my triumphant grin as they continue talking, Karl already pointing out features of the island on a market map he's pulled from beneath the counter.

When I return to the library booth, Alex is waiting with her arms crossed, but her lips are twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

Meanwhile, the kids have taken full advantage of my absence—glitter coats the table like fairy dust after a storm, and one of the potion jars is bubbling suspiciously.