Chapter 8 Eli #2
After all, I tried it. I walked up to the counter, signed up for the humiliating and terrifying matchmaking service, and went on an entire date.
I’m pretty sure that qualifies as my second bold move.
One more to go. Mark would’ve laughed and probably said it didn’t count unless there was skydiving involved.
But I’m trying. Even if these bold moves feel more like cautious nudges than the leaps I’d expected. Even if I’m not sure they’re changing anything yet.
“That’s okay. Dating is tough, especially when you’re not aligned with the person.
” Rhianna’s smile falters a bit. “I definitely had that issue in my last relationship.” Her gaze drops to her plate, and something shadows her expression—just for a moment—before she blinks it away.
Then her eyes brighten like she’s flipped a switch.
“Oh! And the guy before him? Everything had to be a giant romantic production all the time with him.”
The server arrives with our plates—scallops and orzo for Rhianna, buttery shrimp and grits with lemon garlic sauce for me.
Rhianna dives into her food but I hesitate. Something in her shift felt… off. Like she’d skipped a chapter. The kind you leave out when it still hurts too much to say aloud.
I don’t ask. It’s not the time, and I don’t have the right. But I wish I could protect her from whatever left that shadow on her face. Wish I could go back and undo it—whoever he was, whatever he did to make her tuck that hurt so neatly behind a smile.
“Is romantic bad?” I ask about the previous boyfriend instead, keeping my tone light.
She chews through her bite before answering.
“Not bad, necessarily, just not for me. Everything had to be such a big deal.” She rolls her eyes and I can’t help but smile at the gesture as she continues.
“I swear, if I had to sit through one more candlelit dinner where a violinist played so close to our table that I got bow hair in my soup, I was going to snap that Stradivarius over my knee and use it as kindling for a bonfire instead.” She hovers her fork in the air for a moment before adding, “I actually think that would be a more fun date.”
A laugh spills from me. “I could see why that might be annoying.”
“Oh, it gets worse. Once he decided a picnic at the beach would be the most romantic gesture.”
“And it wasn’t?” I ask, food forgotten. I can’t care about dinner no matter how beautifully plated or magic-infused it is when Rhianna sits directly across from me, telling a story with her glistening eyes and dancing hands as much as her words.
“It was terrible. A whole flock of seagulls attacked us. Dive-bombed us like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Let’s just say, I’ve become an expert at speed-eating outdoors. No lingering with food in the open for this girl!”
We’re both laughing now. “So,” I say once we catch our breath, “I take it you’re not big on the dating scene these days?”
Her smile turns wry. “Not so much, no. I figure I’ll stick to matchmaking for others. It’s safer that way—less chance of seagull attacks.”
I pop a bite of food in my mouth and ignore the little pang in my chest at her words.
Because this—whatever feeling this is—can’t happen.
Rhianna is my coworker and I should avoid dating her on that point alone.
I’ve already created an awkward situation with one coworker.
Rhianna just said she’s not interested in romance.
And besides, we’re too different. I’d bore her within a few months.
“I guess you probably think me wanting to drop out over a little dull conversation and awkwardness seems pretty ridiculous compared to vicious seagulls.”
She’s laughing again, and it’s all I want—to make her laugh, to listen to the rich sound of it and watch her face brighten.
“Deranged birds are too high of a standard for comparison. Awkward conversation is worse anyway. Oh my gosh, though it makes for one of my favorite romance tropes.”
“Which one?” I couldn’t name a single romance trope, actually. I’ve spent my entire career researching and teaching Comparative Literature or reading old mythology tomes. Romance makes rare appearances and is usually tragic.
“Stuck in an elevator together.”
Being stuck in an elevator sounds like a nightmare and somehow I’d love to get trapped in one with Rhianna.
Hours of conversation with her with no excuse for it to end.
I imagine she’d have me chuckling within minutes and forgetting the situation not long after that.
Disappointment would fill me when the electricity finally returned, and we began moving again.
“And this happens enough in romance novels to be a trope?”
She gives a dramatic gasp and places a hand over her chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve never read romance?”
I shuffle my spoon through the grits. “I can’t say it’s my primary genre.”
“Those are basically relationship manuals. Read a man-written-by-a-woman and you’ll understand so much.”
“Well, I’m open to the idea if you have a suggestion. I’m usually reading folklore.”
“Ha.” She grins so her eyes squeeze together. “I can find the perfect romance for you. Trust me, I’m able to match people with just the right book. Give me a few weeks to really think about it and I’ll bring you one.”
“I can’t wait.”
We’ve both leaned in across the table. Her skin is luminous in the lamplight. The sun has disappeared and everything outside is blue, making her face the brightest thing. It might have been true before the lights dimmed.
“Maybe I shouldn’t give up on dating so quickly,” I say. If I quit the matchmaking service, I give up having an excuse to spend time with Rhianna.
She licks her lips which is excruciatingly distracting. “What you need is a more laid-back approach. I have an idea.” Even before she explains, I already know I’ll say yes. “I’m going with some friends to The Tipsy Mermaid tonight. Why don’t you come with us?”
My heart leaps at the invitation even as my mind spirals through a dozen potential excuses.
I’m not typically a ‘last-minute plans’ kind of man.
In fact, the idea usually sends me into a mild panic.
No time to mentally prepare, no idea what to expect, no exit strategy if it all goes awkwardly sideways.
And The Tipsy Mermaid? That name alone sounds like a sensory overload waiting to happen.
But the thought of spending more time with Rhianna overrides the noise in my head. It’s irrational. Entirely out of character. And yet… I don’t want to say no.
“The Tipsy Mermaid?” I ask. “Let me guess, it’s a nautical-themed bar where the bartenders wear seashell bras?”
“So close, Lancaster.” Rhianna’s earrings dance as she shakes her head. “No seashell bras, but it is a bar.” She pauses, her grin slowly spreading wider. “A karaoke bar. It would be a great opportunity for you to meet some people without the pressures of one-on-one dating?”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I actually grew up taking vocal lessons. Not for my sake, but because Piper wanted them and was too scared to go by herself. Singing I can do. Karaoke, though?
The thought of getting up on a stage, with all eyes on me and a microphone in my hand, makes my chest tighten.
My palms are already damp. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I can practically feel the heat of the lights, the silence of the crowd just before the music starts, the pressure to be good, or at least not embarrassing.
What if I miss a note? What if my voice cracks? What if I forget the lyrics entirely and just stand there while everyone stares and wonders how someone so clearly uncomfortable ended up in front of a karaoke machine in the first place?
The logical part of my brain tells me I can do this—I’ve sung before, in lessons, in recitals, even in front of strangers. But that was different. That was structured. Controlled. This is public vulnerability disguised as entertainment.
But then I look at Rhianna’s expectant face, her warm brown eyes twinkling with excitement, I nod.
“You know what? Why not?”
Rhianna fist pumps the air in a way that’s entirely inappropriate for the setting which makes it only that much more charming. “Perfect! Trust me, Eli, you’re going to love it. We are going to have the best time tonight!”
My heart stutters over that we. It’s just a word, two letters, and yet it sends a rush of warmth through me. Like it might be just enough to keep me from having a panic attack.
As we finish our meal and prepare to head out, I’m filled with a lightness that doesn’t match the situation. Eli Lancaster does not go to karaoke bars. He doesn’t sing in front of people. He doesn’t make last-minute plans.
Well, Eli Lancaster didn’t. Eli Lancaster with Rhianna Wilder, though?
That man, it seems, is capable of anything.
“So,” I ask as we step out into the cooling evening air, “what’s your go-to karaoke song? Let me guess, something by Fleetwood Mac?”
Rhianna links her arm through mine. The casual contact sends another jolt through me.
I hope she doesn’t notice how my breath catches.
“You know me so well already,” she says.
“But I like to keep people guessing. You’ll just have to wait and see.
Now, go home and change. I’ll meet you at the bar at nine? ”
“Nine o’clock.”
She gives my arm a squeeze before parting ways. I struggle to tear my gaze from her retreating form, to force myself to keep walking.
As I reach my apartment, I realize I’m still smiling. Whatever happens tonight, one thing’s for certain—this experiment is already changing me. And I think I like it.
That is, until I open my closet and the reality of the situation hits me like a ton of leather-bound books.
What does one wear to a karaoke bar?
I stare at my wardrobe, a sea of muted colors and sensible fabrics, and feel a wave of panic. The tweed jackets and button-down shirts that usually bring me comfort now seem to mock me.
“Come on, Lancaster,” I mutter to myself, rifling through hangers. “You can identify a 15th-century manuscript at twenty paces, surely you can find something to wear to a bar.”
I pull out a sweater, then immediately stuff it back in. Too librarian. A suit jacket? Too formal. A t-shirt with ‘I’d rather be reading’ printed on it—a gag gift from Piper—is quickly discarded.
In desperation, I call my sister.
“Pipes, help. What does one wear to a karaoke bar?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, then an eruption of laughter. “Oh, Brubba,” she wheezes, “please tell me you’re not planning to show up in a bow tie and loafers.”
“Of course not,” I lie, kicking said loafers under the bed.
Fifteen minutes and much sisterly teasing later, I’m dressed in dark jeans, a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and the least professor-like shoes I own.
As I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, I shake my head. All this fuss over clothes, and for what? It’s not like this is a date. It’s just a night out with Rhianna and her friends. Rhianna, who probably isn’t giving a second thought to what I’ll be wearing.
I take a deep breath. It’s just karaoke, just a night with friends. You can do this, Lancaster. It’s then that I realize I’ve started calling myself by my last name the way Rhianna does.
As I head out the door, I grin. Rhianna Wilder has already changed how I dress, how I spend my evenings, and even how I talk to myself. I wonder as a cool ocean breeze reaches me what else she might change before this adventure is over with.