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cilla

I take a sip of Michele’s overly sweet sangria and try to maintain my scholarly composure. The book club meeting has taken a turn I should have anticipated but foolishly didn’t.

“So, Cilla,” Diane leans forward, her blonde highlights catching in the pendant lighting above Michele’s farmhouse table. “What do you think about page one-fifty-three? Remind you of anyone?” She winks so dramatically it’s practically a facial spasm.

I know exactly what’s on page one-fifty-three. A gratuitous scene involving the brooding gardener exposing himself to Lady Eleanor with salacious results. Subtle.

“I think the author’s metaphors are heavy-handed,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “The economic undertones of class disparity between the characters actually reflect?—”

“Oh please,” Michele interrupts, refilling wine glasses around the circle. “We’re not in your history lecture, Professor Griffin. We want to know if you’ve noticed how much the hot gardener in this book sounds exactly like Rowan Malone.”

The entire room erupts in giggles. Even Mrs. Caldwell, who must be pushing seventy, is nodding enthusiastically.

“For fudge’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, then louder: “I barely know the man. He’s just my neighbor.”

“Who happens to be the most eligible bachelor in Cedar Bay,” Tara adds.

“And who happens to stare at you like you’re the last lifeboat on the Titanic,” Michele chimes in.

I feel my cheeks warming, and it’s not from the sangria. “Can we please return to the actual book? I had some thoughts about the historical inaccuracies in the portrayal of Victorian social customs?—”

“Historical inaccuracies?” Diane snorts. “Honey, nobody reads these books for a history lesson.”

“I do,” I say primly, which earns me more laughter.

“All I’m saying,” Michele continues, leaning in conspiratorially, “is that a man who builds things with his hands all day probably knows how to use them in other ways, too.”

“Oh my god,” I groan, wondering if my dachshunds, Birdie and Brody, would judge me for abandoning book club altogether. Probably not. They’d understand. They’re excellent judges of character.

“I’m actually focusing on finishing my dissertation right now,” I say, attempting to redirect. “Which means I don’t have time for... distractions.”

“Distractions?” Mrs. Caldwell pipes up. “In my day, we called them ‘husbands.’”

More laughter. I take another sip of sangria and silently calculate how many pages of research I could be reviewing instead of sitting here being the subject of Cedar Bay’s favorite hobby: matchmaking.

“Let me tell you something,” Michele says, pointing her finger at me with such conviction that sangria sloshes dangerously close to the rim of her glass. “Dissertations don’t keep you warm at night.”

“Actually, my electric blanket does a fantastic job,” I counter, earning a few chuckles.

“Besides,” I add, flipping through the dog-eared paperback, desperate to move on, “if we’re going to talk about unrealistic portrayals, can we discuss how Lady Eleanor manages to have her corset removed in approximately three seconds on page one-sixty-seven? Having studied Victorian clothing, I can assure you it would take significantly longer.”

“Maybe you need someone with experience,” Diane suggests with another wink.

“In Victorian corset removal? I doubt Rowan has that particular skill set,” I say dryly.

Mrs. Caldwell cackles. “Oh, I bet that boy could figure it out.”

I’m about to launch into my prepared discussion points about the novel’s historical context when my phone buzzes. I glance down to see a text from my sister Prue: *How’s the book club? Discussing literature or your love life?*

My sister knows me too well. I quickly type: *The latter. Send help.*

“Ladies,” I say, setting my phone down. “I actually prepared some notes about the author’s treatment of?—”

“Don’t change the subject,” Michele interrupts. “I saw Rowan helping you unload your car last weekend. He carried that massive bookcase like it was nothing.”

I feel myself blushing again. Yes, Rowan had insisted on helping after seeing me struggle with the antique oak bookcase I’d found at an estate sale. And yes, how his muscles flexed under his t-shirt as he maneuvered it through my narrow doorway had been... educational.

“He was being neighborly,” I insist.

“Neighborly would be borrowing a cup of sugar,” Tara says. “That man wants to borrow a lot more than baking ingredients.”

“For the love of—can we please discuss the book?” I’m practically begging now. “There’s a fascinating subplot about women’s suffrage that’s barely been mentioned?—”

“Fine,” Michele sighs dramatically. “But only because you look like you might spontaneously combust if we continue.”

“Thank you,” I say with genuine relief.

“But,” she adds, “we’re not done with this conversation. That man has been single too long, and you, my dear, need to stop hiding behind your books.”

I open my mouth to protest that I’m not hiding—I’m pursuing my career goals—when the doorbell rings.

“Who could that be?” Michele wonders aloud, getting up to answer.

I take the opportunity to gulp down more sangria, grateful for the interruption. The last thing I need is more discussion about my non-existent love life. I have a dissertation to finish, two dachshunds to raise, and absolutely no interest in becoming another notch on Rowan Malone’s bedpost, no matter how impressively he can lift furniture.

I hear voices at the door, and suddenly, the entire room goes quiet. Too quiet. All eyes turn toward me with barely contained glee, and my stomach drops.

“Cilla!” Michele calls from the entryway, her voice pitched unnaturally high. “Someone’s here to see you!”

The universe has a twisted sense of humor. I know exactly who it is before I turn around, but I silently pray to whatever literary gods might be listening that I’m wrong.

I’m not.

Rowan Malone fills the doorway, all six-foot-four of him. The town’s most eligible bachelor, the man who supposedly has women lining up around the block, looks like he might trip over his tongue. “I, uh, was just heading out on the boat. I just heard the J-pod was just spotted near Lopez Island.”

The room has gone entirely silent, which might be worse than the teasing. I can practically hear everyone’s mental calculations as they watch us.

“Was it? Oh my God, that pod has two calves.” I respond, genuinely interested despite myself.

His face lights up. “I wouldn’t interrupt your evening, but I just heard and didn’t want to ship out without giving you the heads up.”

Before I can answer, Michele steps in. “Cilla was just telling us how fascinated she is with local marine life. Weren’t you, Cilla?”

I shoot her a look that could freeze sangria. “I was actually discussing Victorian literature, and Rowan’s already been made aware of my love of orcas.”

Rowan’s grin widens, and there’s something about the way his eyes crinkle at the corners that makes my heart do an annoying little flip. “Just thought you might want to grab your binoculars. I’ve got room on the boat if you’re interested.”

Every woman in the room seems to hold her breath collectively. I can practically hear the silent screaming in their heads.

“I...” My brain short-circuits momentarily. The thought of seeing the J-pod up close is genuinely tempting. Those magnificent creatures, their dorsal fins cutting through the water, the calves swimming alongside their mothers—it’s the kind of research opportunity that doesn’t come along every day.

But then I glance back at the circle of women, their expressions a mixture of glee and expectation, and I know I can’t give them the satisfaction.

“That’s incredibly thoughtful,” I say carefully, “but we’re in the middle of discussing?—”

“Go!” Michele practically shouts, making me jump. “For God’s sake, Cilla, we’ll discuss Victorian corsets next month.”

“Corsets?” Rowan repeats, eyebrow raised, and I want to melt into Michele’s hardwood floors.

“Historical accuracy in literature,” I clarify, feeling my cheeks burn. “It’s a whole thing.”

“She’s very passionate about it,” Mrs. Caldwell adds helpfully. “Almost as passionate as she is about marine mammals.”

I shoot her a betrayed look.

“I have papers to grade tonight,” I say weakly.

“The orcas won’t wait for your grading schedule,” Tara points out.

Rowan shifts his weight, looking suddenly unsure. “I don’t want to interrupt your evening. Just thought I’d offer since you mentioned wanting to see them.”

There’s something in his expression—a genuine disappointment—that catches me off guard. This isn’t the cocky construction company owner who’s been flirting with me since I moved in. He looks like a kid who’s been told Christmas is canceled.

“I need to check on Birdie and Brody,” I say, grasping at straws.

“I can swing by your place first,” he offers immediately. “Let them out while you grab whatever you need.”

“My camera’s at home,” I admit, weakening.

“Perfect. We’ll stop there first.”

The room has gone utterly still. Michele is practically vibrating with excitement.

“Fine,” I sigh, knowing I’ll never hear the end of it either way. “But this is a sight-seeing expedition, not a date.”

Rowan holds up his hands. “Absolutely. Just two neighbors appreciating local wildlife.”

“Exactly.” I gather my things, avoiding eye contact with everyone. "Sorry to duck out early, ladies."

“Oh, we understand completely,” Diane says, smirking.