Chapter 11
Eli
Crisp night air nips at my face as I make the walk back from the forest’s edge. The last of our tour group disappears back toward the town, their excited chatter fading into the distance.
It’s hard to believe it’s only been three weeks since Rhianna and I stood in the library, half-joking about planning this event. Two weeks of late nights, tangled research, and more coffee than I care to admit—and somehow, we pulled it off.
Rhianna walks ahead, her laughter carrying on the breeze, her energy still buzzing from the night's success.
I should be focused on that—on what we pulled off, on how incredible it was to see weeks of research turn into something real.
Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to breakfast at The Whimsical Whisk—that morning we'd spent bleary-eyed and buzzing on caffeine, riding the high of our all-nighter.
Despite the early hour, despite the fog of exhaustion that should have dulled everything, I'd felt more awake, more present than I had in years.
It wasn't a date—at least, we hadn't called it one—but it had felt like one.
The kind that leaves you checking your phone later, hoping for a message, replaying moments in your head when you should be focusing on something else. Like right now.
For a moment, on that hazy morning at The Whisk, I wanted more. I’d wanted to lean in, to close the space between us, to taste the cinnamon still clinging to her lips. But I saw the hesitation in her eyes—subtle, but unmistakable. She wasn’t ready. Not in the way I was.
So I followed her lead. Kept things easy, light. Pretended I didn’t feel the current humming beneath every word. Because every time we edge closer, she retreats. There’s a wall there—one I can’t name, one she’s not ready to lower—and I don’t know what’s behind it.
What scares me most is how quickly my plans are unraveling. How easily I’ve started picturing a life here, in Magnolia Cove, long after the summer ends. One with cinnamon mornings and late-night laughter, if she’d let me in.
I exhale, refocusing on the night’s success instead.
The whole town had become a stage—phantom ships projected onto the harbor mist, Mrs. Delehay playing the ghostly widow in the museum, even Tom’s elaborate fog effects at the dock.
And Rhianna—she’d been in her element. Watching her bring these stories to life, seeing that spark in her eyes, it did something to me.
Even if she never lets me get closer, even if she keeps that part of herself locked away… I still want more.
I can feel myself falling, tumbling toward something that might shatter me in the end.
Each step closer to her feels like walking toward an inevitable heartache.
I see the signs—her hesitation, the careful distance she maintains—but I can't seem to stop myself.
I'm drawn to her brilliance, her energy, her light.
And even knowing I might be the only one crossing this bridge between friendship and something deeper, I can't turn back. Not yet.
"That," Rhianna announces, dropping onto a nearby bench, "was absolutely amazing.
" Her eyes sparkle with triumph, and there's a streak of ghost makeup smudged near her temple.
The silver glitter catches in the streetlight, making her look like she belongs in one of these stories we've been researching.
I resist the urge to reach out and wipe away the smudge.
"You're amazing," I say instead, then quickly add, "The way you brought everyone together, made the stories come alive.
.." Even Head Warlock Dean Markham participated, though he spent most of the evening eyeing the tourists suspiciously and probably watching to see if we slipped up and shared too much. Dean’s young for his role, and even more suspicious and tightly wound than most warlocks.
Which is saying a lot, coming from a man who alphabetizes his spice rack for fun.
Rhianna beams at me, making me forget all about Dean Markham.
These past two weeks have been dangerous—late nights planning at The Hungry Gull, research sessions that turned into deep conversations, watching her charm the whole town into helping.
I should have been working on my research that’s due in the fall semester.
Instead, I've been falling harder for this whirlwind of a woman who keeps reminding me she wants nothing serious.
But tonight felt different. The way she kept glancing at me during performances, how her hand brushed mine between stops, how she laughed at my terrible ghost puns that would have made Piper groan.
"Hey Lancaster," she says, standing up and pulling a pair of flashlights from her bag. The lingering ghost makeup is smeared, her hair wild from the evening wind, and she's never looked more beautiful. "One more adventure before the night is over?"
I follow her gaze to the hill looming behind us, dark trees swaying against the starlit sky.
I take the flashlight without hesitation—it's become instinct, following wherever Rhianna Wilder leads.
Half of our adventures I would have considered bold before meeting her.
Now they feel natural, like breathing. Like being pulled into the orbit of a star.
At this point, to achieve my third bold move I’m going to have to do something outrageous. Like confessing my feelings. Or, you know, sing karaoke sober.
“Define 'adventure,’” I say.
She grins, and even in the dim lights I can see the mischief dancing in her eyes. “Oh, come on, where’s your sense of spontaneity?”
“I think it might have died on the stage of The Tipsy Mermaid a few weeks ago,” I shoot back, earning a laugh that makes my heart squeeze.
As we start our trek up the hill, flashlights bobbing, I lift my face. The stars peeking from behind dark tree boughs are stunning. They gleam like crystals. A month ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of traipsing through a forest in the dead of night. But here I am and loving every minute.
“So, are you going to tell me why we’re risking life and limb climbing a hill in the dark?” I ask as I duck beneath a low-hanging branch.
“Nope.” She swings the light around. “Where’s the fun in that? It’s good, though. I promise.”
I'd previously thought this misery rather than enjoyable. I’d even daydreamed of getting trapped in a broken elevator with her. As long as Rhianna is with me, I think I could define almost anything as fun.
Since I first saw her in the library dancing to music, I’ve felt more alive than any previous moment in my life.
We continue the climb, our conversation flowing easily from the event to books we’ve read to bizarre Magnolia Cove traditions to our families.
I talk about Piper, about her career as a reading specialist and how much she loves the kids she works with.
About how she teases me relentlessly and always beats me in Pac-Man and why she’s the reason I took vocal lessons.
“She sounds amazing,” Rhianna says softly. Twigs snap beneath our feet and our heaving breaths are the only other sound. “You’re lucky to have each other.”
“We are,” I agree. “What about you? Any siblings?”
“One brother, Gavin. Older. Responsible. Always got straight A’s. Grew up to teach history at the local high school. Makes sure baby ducks can cross the road. The whole ten-four.” She dips under another low branch. “Our best story together is the Great Pumpkin Caper.”
“The Great Pumpkin Caper?” Even before I hear the tale, it already has Rhianna all over it.
We reach the hilltop. All around us stars stretch like a blanket we could reach up and wrap ourselves in. It’s breathtaking, but my attention immediately shifts back to Rhianna who launches into the story.
“So, there’s this huge pumpkin patch on the outskirts of town, right? And I talked Gavin, when he was sixteen and I was fourteen, into playing the ultimate prank. I’m actually still shocked I convinced him.”
I’m not surprised. Rhianna has the personality that could convince a statue to tap dance. Her enthusiasm is infectious, her smile disarming.
“We’ll be over here.” She lowers on the hill’s edge where the forest spreads out until it reaches the dark peaceful expanse of the sea. “This is where I come when I’m feeling too much,” she whispers.
I sit beside her, taking in the beauty and the hush around us.
It feels like she’s just shared a secret, something fragile and shimmering.
Speaking into it would be like touching a bubble, bursting what’s too gentle to hold.
So instead, I let the silence settle, then shift back to the conversation we left behind. “Go on, what was the ultimate prank?”
Rhianna’s eyes sparkle in her flashlight before she flicks it off. “Well, I had this brilliant idea to sneak out at midnight and rig all the pumpkins with tiny speakers. Can you imagine? An entire field of pumpkins suddenly comes to life with spooky sounds!”
“From your tone of voice it sounds like that didn’t go as planned?”
She bumps her shoulder into mine, and my stomach clenches as I struggle not to lean closer.
As she continues the story filled with hijinks and theatrical moments her hands move animatedly, punctuating each part of the story.
Watching her, it’s no wonder she could create tonight’s event with such ease and flair.
I feel like a sailor turned toward a siren, drawn in and unable to break away.
“…and there we were, covered in mud, trying to explain to Mr. Johnson why his pumpkin patch had turned into a midnight chorus of ‘Monster Mash’!”
I’m laughing down to my stomach. “You’re something else, Rhianna Wilder.”
She nudges me again. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you never got into trouble as a kid.”
“Me? I was a perfect angel,” I deadpan. “Just don’t ask Piper about it.”
“I’m desperate to meet her now.”