Chapter 10
Rhianna
The library at midnight is my personal brand of magic—quiet, cozy, and just eerie enough to keep things interesting.
There's something enchanting about being alone here after hours, surrounded by all these stories just waiting to be discovered.
The building creaks and groans around me like it's trying to tell its own tales while I dig through yet another stack of local books that we can’t bring out while non-magical tourists visit during our regular hours.
I've been trying to focus for the past hour, but my mind keeps drifting back to karaoke night.
To Eli Lancaster channeling his inner Stevie Nicks (okay, fine, Lindsey Buckingham) and absolutely bringing down the house.
Who knew Professor Buttoned-Up had that hiding under all those pristine oxford shirts?
But more than his surprisingly amazing voice, it was watching him transform on stage that got me thinking.
One minute he was shy, reserved Eli, and the next. .. pure magic.
Which might explain why I’ve spent the last three hours down this rabbit hole of local legends and lore instead of, you know, sleeping like a normal person.
Because watching Eli at karaoke—seeing him really let go, light up, become someone unexpected—made me realize something.
You can read about a person all day, hear their stories, learn the facts.
But experiencing them—watching them come alive in a moment you never saw coming—is something else entirely.
And that got me thinking. How many stories are tucked away in these books, waiting for someone to see them, really see them, instead of just skimming the surface? How much of history has been left gathering dust when it was meant to be felt?
Not that I've been thinking about Eli specifically. Much. Okay, maybe a little. But in my defense, it's hard not to when he sang that song while looking right at—
"Burning the midnight oil?"
I jump approximately sixteen feet in the air, nearly baptizing my research in cold chamomile tea. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, wearing a navy sweater that makes his eyes look unfairly gorgeous. I swear I’m one accidental smile from real feelings. And that cannot happen.
"Lancaster!" My voice definitely doesn't squeak. "What are you doing here?"
He holds up an ancient-looking book bound in leather that's seen better days. "Reinforcing some of the older magical wards. I saw your light on." His eyes drift to the chaos of papers spread across my desk. "Local folklore?"
"I might have had an idea." I tap my pen against my bottom lip, trying to ignore how his presence makes my skin tingle. "Want to hear something potentially brilliant or possibly insane?"
That's how all my ideas are—dancing on that fine line between genius and disaster.
Like my matchmaking service. After weeks of that eye-catching flyer pinned to the library bulletin board, with its perfectly chosen font and just the right amount of glitter, I still haven't had another sign-up beyond Eli.
No one's biting, despite my enthusiasm and the town's usual appetite for anything new and quirky.
It stings more than I want to admit. But I'm not giving up. Not yet.
When plan A falls through, you look for plan B—other ways to spark connection, to bring people together.
Which is how this new idea was born.
Business has been slower than molasses in January, and I’ve got time on my hands—plus, this might be exactly the thing to make my Library Fellowship application shine.
Eli’s lips quirk up in that half-smile that definitely doesn't make my stomach do backflips. It’s like one minute I’m dreaming of him, the next I’ve summoned him in the flesh. And why is he even more handsome in reality while the shadows cut across his sharp jaw. "Those tend to be the best ideas."
“I’m thinking the library should offer evening tours but make them experiences." I wave my hands, probably looking like a crazy person but too excited to care. "Like, performances of local legends!"
Eli's eyes light up like I just admitted that 80s music is better than 70s music. Which, for the record, I will never do. "Like the phantom ship that appears in the harbor during storms?"
"Yes! Or the story about the first settler who learned magic from merfolk, except we can't exactly advertise that part to the tourists..."
I scoot over, patting the chair next to me with probably too much enthusiasm.
It’s not until after I make the action that I realize what I’m doing—inviting him to join me, implying he should stay later.
I mean, surely he planned to leave; it’s probably almost midnight and why would he want to spend his sleeping hours—
He settles in beside me before my mind can spiral further, close enough that I catch the scent of his vanilla and cedarwood cologne.
I’ve imagined that scent since karaoke night.
“I've actually been researching similar legends for my current project. Did you know that in nearly every coastal town there’s lore around ghost ships? Each one has their own twist—cursed crews, ghostly captains, and the like, but they have a lot of similarities too.”
And just like that, we're off. Hours slip by as we pore over volumes, trading stories and completely forgetting that sleep is supposedly a thing humans need. Eli knows everything about folklore, and watching him get excited about obscure details makes me want to—
I won’t finish that thought, because I’m doing this project to get the fellowship.
The one that would let me zip between twenty-four different libraries across six continents like some kind of book-loving Carmen Sandiego.
During the week, I’d assist the local librarians and help them reach more people in their communities, running the kind of events that make my heart sing and diving into projects that could actually make a difference.
And the weekends? Those would be for exploring hidden streets in Paris, getting lost in Bangkok’s night markets, maybe even tracking down that theater-turned-bookstore in Buenos Aires that Grandma Ida always said we’d visit.
I’ll be gone in six months, and I can’t afford to get attached—especially not to someone like Eli Lancaster. He’s the opposite of a casual fling: thoughtful, precise, the kind of person who would matter. The kind who could unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to keep stitched together.
I’ve been careful these past few years, choosing flings that fizzle out before they can hurt. Eli, though, would leave a crater.
This is why I swore off serious dating. Not because I don’t believe in love—but because I’ve already given everything to someone once, and it still wasn’t enough. Some people just ask too much, feel too much. It's easier—for everyone—if we don’t go too deep.
Even if my heart flips every time he looks at me like he sees it all.
"We could start here," I say, spreading out my very professional sketch—read: scribbled mess—of the library layout. "Turn the reading room into a moonlit study for the Moonlight Reader legend. You know, the one where the ghost appears after hours to read unfinished stories by candlelight?"
"Yes! Then you could move to the garden for the merfolk legend.
" His fingers brush mine as he points to different locations on the map, and I pretend my skin doesn't buzz from the contact.
"The fountain would make the perfect backdrop. Or if you wanted to go bigger you could even incorporate parts of the town? Like a walking tour?”
It’s a good idea. Too good. And the way he says it—like we’re already building something together—makes something in my chest tighten.
I should tell him about the fellowship—about how whatever buzzes between us can’t go anywhere.
Maybe even throw in a disclaimer that I’m allergic to emotional risk.
That the idea of letting someone in makes me break out in a cold sweat.
How my therapist mother could probably name this behavior, give it a label, and offer three grounding exercises before I even finished blinking—if I ever actually let her try.
But he's looking at me with such warmth and enthusiasm, and I'm weak. Sue me.
Plus, I might not get the fellowship. I mean, I’m assuming I will—I’m busting my butt to make it happen.
But nothing’s guaranteed, and if it doesn’t work out…
Well, why get everyone excited over something that might not even happen?
Yes, this is the excuse I’m using to continue not discussing it with Mom.
Yes, I feel guilty about it. No, that guilt isn’t enough to make me brave that particular conversation yet.
The hours pass in a blur of quiet conversation and ink-smudged notes, the kind of late-night haze where exhaustion should be setting in—but somehow, I feel wired. Maybe it’s the steady warmth of his leg pressed against mine, the accidental brush of our arms sending sparks dancing over my skin.
Or maybe it’s him.
It doesn’t help that he smells amazing—old books and coffee and that cologne I swear I’ve never smelled on anyone else.
Or that every time he gets excited about an idea, he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it a tousled mess that makes my fingers ache to smooth it down.
Or maybe it's the way our magic hums in sync—mine all spark and scatter, his steady and sure, like we’re dancing to the same song without even trying.
I should be tired. I should be yawning, blinking blearily at the pages in front of me. But the way he looks at me when we stumble onto something interesting? The way his voice shifts when he’s caught up in a thought?
Yeah. No chance of sleep now.
I’m supposed to be his matchmaker, not sitting here fantasizing about how his stubble might feel against my palm if I cupped his face and—
Focus, Rhianna. Focus on the project. The fellowship. The dreams that don’t include kissing literary professors in dark libraries. And the safety that comes with sticking to the plan—one that doesn’t leave room for heartbreak.
"What time is it, anyway?" I ask, stretching arms that definitely don't appreciate my terrible life choices. At least it gives me something else to focus on.
Eli checks his watch and lets out a surprised laugh. "Almost five in the morning."
"What?" I blink at him. "We've been at this all night? How did that happen?"
"Time flies when you're plotting ghostly appearances." His smile is soft in the lamplight.
"Want to grab breakfast?" I hear myself ask before my brain can catch up with my mouth—before I can follow my plan of focusing on something else and ending things before we both get hurt. “I know a place that makes cinnamon rolls that'll change your life."
I waggle my eyebrows to emphasize my point and he laughs. Every drop of resistance I’ve clung to fades in the warmth of that sound. It’s impossible to hold back a smile, too, as I catch his gaze lingering on me just a bit longer than usual.
“The Whisk is open at five?”
“Sure is.”
“Hmm.” He pretends to consider, running his fingers down his jaw.
But when he turns back to me, there’s a new seriousness in his eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve heard those cinnamon rolls can make people fall in love.
More local lore, perhaps?” He adds the last part with an attempt at casualness, but it feels forced.
My mouth goes dry. Oh. This is the part where I should laugh it off, where I should steer us back to safer ground.
Eli and I discussing love, specifically one of us falling into it with the other, is dangerous territory.
Because this is how it begins—sweet and easy and full of sparks.
But when the storm comes, the boat won’t hold.
And I have no interest in drowning and gasping for air, wondering how I got pulled under again. I’d rather stay on shore.
The words catch in my throat, and for a moment, all I can do is hold his gaze, feeling my heart thud a little too hard.
“Maybe it’s time to branch out, try something new, Lancaster.” I’m smiling, but like his words it feels forced. “The cinnamon rolls aren’t the only thing Ethan makes that’s worth risking your heart over. His chocolate croissants have inspired poetry.”
I’m deflecting and we both know it. But to his credit, Eli just chuckles and offers me a hand like some kind of romance novel hero. Which he's not. Obviously. Even if he’s checking a lot of the boxes.
“I’ll have to take your word for it. Though I warn you—my poetry is even worse than my conversation skills on random dates.”
“I’ve still yet to see these horrid conversation skills.” With myself at least. Topics flow between us like a river.
“Yeah, I guess you haven’t.”
He catches my eye, and for a moment the air between us crackles with everything we’re not saying.
I can feel it—our energies swirling together, brushing and sparking like wind against embers.
It’s soft, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
I clear my throat, breaking the spell. We both busy ourselves, gathering our things, but the silence between us feels charged, heavy with the unspoken.
As we walk through the quiet streets, shoulders bumping, trading ideas about costumes and staging for the event, I realize I'm in way deeper trouble than I thought.
Because this feels real. It feels like something that could matter.
With every laugh, every brush of his arm against mine, I can feel the ground shifting beneath me, pulling me toward something I swore would never happen again.
So I focus on the way the streetlights cast long shadows on the cobblestones, on perfecting my terrible ghost impressions (which makes him laugh every time), on anything but the way my heart does backflips when he smiles.
Sometimes living in the moment is the only way to keep from thinking too far ahead, especially when you’re already bracing for the part where it ends.
I tell myself I’m getting better at it. At not thinking. At pretending this is simple. Maybe if I lie to myself enough, I’ll start to believe it.