Chapter 3
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 the sun 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.”
Mom grabs a stack of envelopes from the mail basket and shuffles through them. “Mhmm, Grammie Rae told me about your newest venture. Do you think this reflects an inner desire, Rhi?”
I groan. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. You can’t do the therapist thing on me.”
We’ve been having this conversation since I moved back home, all broken pieces and stubborn pride. I wasn’t ready to be fixed then—especially after Jacob left. I’m not sure I am now.
Jacob and I met in college—he played guitar, I did theater.
We showed up to each other’s performances, stayed out too late, danced in dorm hallways, laughed like the world was always going to be golden.
When we were still together a year after graduation, it felt like maybe we’d outrun the odds.
Like maybe we had the kind of love that could last.
He said he loved me. And maybe he did.
But maybe there are different kinds of love.
There’s sunshine love—the kind that only blooms when everything is bright and easy.
There’s snowflake love too—like what I had with my grandmother, who lived with us when I was a kid.
Delicate and rare and beautiful in a way that stays with you long after it melts.
But what I needed most was storm-season love. The kind that sits with you through the downpour and doesn’t flinch. Jacob didn’t have that kind. He wanted the girl who laughed through the sunny days, not the one crying on the floor in a tangle of grief and Grandma Ida’s old scarves.
So he left. Not just me—he left Magnolia Cove.
And maybe he was right. Maybe my storms were too long. Too loud. Too much.
Maybe I am.
I haven’t let anyone get that close since.
And my mother hasn’t let me forget it. She’s gentle about it—mostly. But with every passing year, her nudges have gotten less subtle and more determined. She wants to see me happy, dang it. And she’ll cheer, scheme, or strong-arm the universe into making it happen.
What she doesn’t see—what no one sees—is that deep down, I’m not built for the kind of love that stays. I burn too hot in the highs, sink too deep in the lows. Even the good ones get tired of weathering that kind of intensity. Some people are meant to go it alone. I think I’m one of them.
Mom drops the mail and puts both hands on her hips, a mock look of offense raising her brows. “Is it ‘doing the therapy thing’ if I ask about your life?”
“Yes, if you say ‘reflection of inner desires’ it is. I’m happy single. I have my big trip in the works.”
But of course, she gives me that look—the one that says she’s a coon hound who’s just treed a squirrel and she’s not backing down until I admit I’ve got feelings.
The worst part? She’s usually right. Annoyingly, frustratingly, magically right.
I inherited my energy-reading magic from her, after all. She just uses hers for art therapy and emotional breakthroughs, while I use mine to match people with their perfect book and to occasionally avoid my own emotional growth. Balance.
She calls it mother’s intuition. I call it magical meddling. But deep down, I know she sees right through me—especially when it comes to my commitment issues, which she brings up approximately once a week, always with a gentle smile and a not-so-subtle raised eyebrow.
She walks up and presses a kiss on my cheek and surprisingly lets the subject fade. “I heard there’s a new employee at the library as well.”
“Oh, Eli Lancaster. He’s not actually an employee, he’s just helping the library with managing and warding our backlog of ancient texts. He’s a professor and a rare book curator, though—don’t you think that’s a fascinating job?”
“Your father certainly would.” We exchange chuckles. “Did you get to meet him?”
“I did! He’s actually hilarious and knows 70s rock bands which is an immediate point in anyone’s favor.” I pause and shove another bite of cookie into my mouth. I’m sounding a bit too enthusiastic. And I don’t do enthusiastic about potential romantic interests.
Even if Eli has kind eyes, a voice made for poetry readings, and the kind of slow-burn banter that could melt the spine off a first edition. Still. I’ve read this story before, and I know how it ends. “You know, I mean it’s nice to have someone new around who appreciates good music.”
Mom’s eyebrow arches in a way that means she’s shifted into therapist-mode again. “Oh? Tell me more about this Eli?”
I try to keep my voice casual, but it’s like trying to keep Grammie Rae away from gossip—nearly impossible.
“I don’t know. He’s got this whole understated-but-sophisticated vibe going on.
Like, he’s the type that could pull off a sweater vest and not make you cringe.
He also wears these black-rimmed glasses but somehow they set off his eyes and make him look intellectual, you know? ”
Mom stares at me, and a flush warms my cheeks.
I’m gushing like a romance novel heroine.
But, come on, can you blame me? Eli’s got this unassuming yet quietly charismatic presence that practically screams ‘intelligent hottie who probably knows the Dewey Decimal System by heart.’ All of that to say, he’s going to make an excellent matchmaking client.
Because that’s all I’m interested in with him.
Truly. Strictly professional. Even if he makes my heart do that ridiculous flutter-patter thing when he looked at me like I was more interesting than his favorite footnote.
And even though my magic hummed toward his like a needle finding true north.
It doesn’t mean anything. I learned the hard way what happens when you let someone in too deep—when you let yourself love someone like that.
It breaks you. And I promised myself I wouldn’t open myself up to that again.
“Anyway, he seems nice. Professional. A good addition to the community.”
“A good addition to the community,” mom repeats in the same tone of voice that I mimicked her therapy-talk. “Are you going to be working closely with him?”
“We’ll both work at the library, so I’m sure we’ll see each other around,” I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. “But you know I’m focused on my career. The only interest I have in dating is helping facilitate relationships for other people. Not for me. Because I’m not looking. At all.”
Mom’s lips twitch into a smile. “Of course, love.”
“I’m serious. I’m building my dream life—solo adventures, passport stamps, and all that jazz.
Plus, he works at the library! Can you imagine how awkward it would be if we dated and broke up?
” It would be the worst. I repress a shudder.
“I’d have to find a new job, and then where would I be?
Jobless, dateless, and probably living in a cardboard box by the beach. ”
I can only hope this argument is convincing enough to throw Mom off the scent. Her hound-dog instincts are already zeroing in on the fact that the new, undeniably attractive employee will be working with me every day.
I want to be the matchmaker—not the match-made.
“You seem to have given this a lot of thought for someone who’s not interested.” Mom’s eyebrows are now raised in full mom-mode and I don’t even fight my eye roll. So much for my hopes that she’d nod politely and move on like a normal person.
“Look, if you’re hoping for grandkids or whatever this is, you’re going to need to put more pressure on Gavin. He’s the oldest, anyway. Don’t they talk about birth order in therapy school? The oldest is the responsible kid. I’m the young, free spirited one.”
She offers me an eye roll that reminds me where I get the tendency from. “You’re just like your father. And that has nothing to do with birth order.”
“So she’s devilishly handsome and a lot of fun?” Dad walks in, tossing his house keys into the basket next to mine and I jump toward him and give him a giant hug. He teaches at a university on the mainland during the week and only comes home over weekends and school breaks.