Chapter 2 #3
A sigh pushes past my lips. The door opens, and someone walks past me but I don't even look at them. I'm standing like a statue staring at a multi-colored poster with my hands in my slacks’ pockets like if I focus enough, it'll disappear. Or maybe I will.
But it doesn't. And neither do I.
A particularly large piece of gold glitter on the flyer catches the light when the door opens again and twinkles at me like it's privy to some cosmic joke. I can almost hear Piper's voice in my head: "Where's your courage at, Brubba?"
Fine. This is all an experiment, anyway.
Three bold moves, a wild search for the mythical signed Whitlock books, then I can revert to my previous, boring life and let all these horrifying decisions fade into distant memory.
Just another chapter in the tale of my life, one I can quietly close and never revisit.
With a shaky hand,—and a silent prayer that none of my students ever get word of this—I reach out and tear off one of the contact strips. The sound of ripping paper is impossibly loud in the quiet foyer. I quickly stuff the strip into my pocket, as if hiding evidence of a crime.
There. I've done it. Sort of.
Now all I have to do is actually talk to this Rhianna person. At the circulation desk. Where I'll be working. Every day.
My heart races. What if word gets around that the new guy is so desperate he immediately signed up for a matchmaking service? What if it makes its way back to my actual job and life?
I take a deep breath and smooth the cuffs of my favorite tweed blazer. No backing out now. This is bold move number two. It's terrifying, yes, but that's the point, isn't it? To do things that scare me, to live life instead of observing it from behind the safety of my books.
With one last glance at the glittery monstrosity of a flyer, I turn and walk toward the circulation desk. Time to start this new chapter.
The library smells of lemons. That’s not something I would have guessed. My loafers tap softly, echoing in the quiet space as I force myself to move toward the circulation desk.
That’s when I hear it—a soft humming and the occasional lyric sung under someone’s breath. The sound draws me toward the circulation desk, where a whirlwind of movement catches my eye.
She’s a blur of color and energy, her dark hair swaying as she bobs her head to whatever tune is playing through her earbuds.
Her fingers dance over book spines as she sorts through a cart of returns.
She’s wearing a turquoise skirt that whirls as she bops around.
It’s paired with a white graphic tee and a mustard-yellow cardigan adorned with pins that say things like ‘Prose before Bros’ and ‘Talk Wordy to Me.’
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder in this moment of joyful solitude. “Excuse me, are you Rhianna?”
She spins around, thick lashes framing warm brown eyes that brighten when she smiles. My heart stops pounding for a moment as she pulls out an earbud and answers me. “The very one. The only one, in fact!”
Something unexpected flutters in my chest—a sensation entirely foreign to my carefully regulated emotional landscape.
Her smile hits me with an almost physical impact, and I find myself momentarily transfixed by the curve of her lips, the sparkle in her eyes that seems to illuminate her entire face.
I've never been distracted by someone's mere presence before, yet here I am, suddenly aware of the subtle floral scent of her perfume, the graceful way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
Somehow I find my voice. “Well, there’s also the one cemented forever in song form.”
Her full lips part in an even larger grin. “I spell my name differently than that one, but I concur. It’s only the very best song that’s ever existed, after all.”
“I’m afraid you’re incorrect on that,” my voice is a tease. And who the hell is this version of Eli Lancaster? I don’t know, but YOLO or whatever it is that Piper says all the time.
The words flow out of me with an ease that's startling.
I'm bantering. I'm teasing. With a complete stranger.
Without rehearsing or weighing each potential response for its risk of awkwardness.
The realization is almost dizzying—this isn't me, or at least, it hasn't been me for as long as I can remember.
“Please.” Rhianna rolls her eyes playfully. “Fine, name one that’s better.”
“Dreams, also by Fleetwood Mac.”
She pauses, her smile dropping and her eyes going wide. “Oh my gosh, you’re right.”
Heat creeps up my neck but I shrug. “Fleetwood Mac is the best soft rock band of all time, though. Full stop.”
“As much as it pains me, I do have questions.” She leans on her arms, close to me, like she’s about to whisper a secret.
“Like, first of all, how dare you relegate Fleetwood Mac to ‘soft rock’ as if they weren’t producing revolutionary music that spanned a dozen genres.
” Her smile is infectious and I find myself mirroring it.
“Second of all, what about The Eagles? Or Bread?”
I can’t contain my laughter. “Bread? I mean, they’re good… but they have nothing on Stevie Nicks.”
“Just because they don’t have Stevie’s notoriety,”—she pauses and crosses herself, then presses her hands together for a moment of silence—“doesn’t mean they weren’t excellent. I suppose we can at least agree that the 70s were the best era for rock.”
“What about the 80s?” I can’t resist asking.
“I mean, some of the best Queen and AC/DC music came out in that decade.” It amazes me how easily the words are flowing.
Music and books are my two safest topics—familiar ground I can usually count on, even if I still stumble through them in group settings or with new people.
But with Rhianna, it feels easy. Natural.
Like we’ve been having this conversation for years.
She gasps in mock horror. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need to ask you to leave the library.”
We both dissolve into laughter, and I’m struck again by how simple this feels. It’s been a long time since I’ve connected with anyone like this. Too long, if I’m being honest.
Most of my conversations are structured, predictable—intellectual sparring in academic settings, polite small talk over catered university dinners, surface-level exchanges with acquaintances who don’t really know me beyond my credentials.
Even my last relationship, steady and reasonable as it was, had a rhythm to it. Safe. Comfortable.
But this?
This is something else entirely. It’s effortless, like stepping into a conversation that’s already been happening, like finding a melody I somehow know the words to before the chorus even begins.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
“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 and entirely 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 is interested and not absolutely 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. But then 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.