Page 50 of Seas the Dating Coach

I lift my chin, my confidence returning. “Just because youcan,doesn’t mean you alwaysshould.”

Finn’s gaze bounces over my face, brows drawn, as if he’s trying to understand quantum mechanics.

“Vivian Hutchinson?” a voice calls from beyond the plastic behind me.

My eyes close with an exhale. Time to take accountability for my actions. It’s weird that I’m oddly excited to defend my choices to the fair staff member beyond my tent. Now that I’ve stood up for Finn, it feels that much easier to do it for myself.

“Hi! I’m Wren.” The woman in an orange Oceanside Artisan Fair staff t-shirt beams once I’ve opened the flap. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re settled. I’m sorry I didn’t come by earlier, but I was held up by an incident between two wood carvers.” She widens her eyes like I should understand that last statement before quickly continuing, “Anyway, here’s your commemorative vendor tote, t-shirt, and my card. Feel free to call if you need anything. Okay?”

I blink at the proffered items, unable to move my leaden limbs. I’m not in trouble? She’s not going to haul me away to some artsy jail cell with crocheted bars and a hammock bunk?

“Thanks.” Finn accepts the items. “She loves totes—has a whole collection.”

“Wonderful!” Wren beams before shuffling off to check in with the metal-print photographer.

My brain feels like it’s overheating in the mid-morning sun. Finn knows about my tote collection? Before I can ask, I’m pulled into a conversation with another attendee. Finn gives me an encouraging nod over the woman’s head and retreats to the back corner where the cash box sits beneath a lone stool. He looks utterly ridiculous, folding his large frame onto the wooden stool. The woman distracts me for a while, but when I glance back a moment later, Finn is hunched over a hardback library book.

Where did that come from? I’ve always assumed that Finn is a reader—he’s alibrarianafter all—but we’ve never talked about it. Funny, since we both love books. I wonder if every corner ofhis room is stacked with books too. Probably not. Finn probably has them properly organized and cataloged into the nicest bookshelves.

His large hands cover most of the book cover, so I can’t see what he’s reading. Then the corner of his mouth quirks like he’s just read something funny, and my stupid heart tries to scale my windpipe and scuttle over to him.

It’s several long minutes and two electronic sales later—Yay me!—before I can interrogate Finn about what’s occupying his attention. Before I do, I take a moment—okay, several moments—to watch him read. It’s probably creepy, but Finn utterly engrossed in a book should be immortalized in marble for future generations to enjoy.

There’s also this quietness to him today that’s incongruous with the charismatic persona he usually shows the world. It’s more appealing than Skittles. And I’ve dreamt about swimming through a pool of Skittles Scrooge McDuck-style. When Finn is dripping with magnetism, only supermodels and rockstars should be in his orbit. But when he’s like this, hunched over a novel, his features relaxed, Finn feels more real.

He doesn’t look up until I’m right beside him, and wow, our faces are in perfect alignment with him seated. “What are you reading?”

It’s not until my words drift into the sea air that I realize I’m using the pickup line we’d crafted together.

Onhim.

Blood sloshes clumsily in my ears. I’m about to backtrack when I finally catch the book’s title.

“Wait. You’re reading that?”

twenty-one

Finn

“Please tell me you’re a fan.” Vivian does that bouncy thing she does when she’s excited, and my heart twists to the point of pain. This would be so much easier if she wasn’t so darn adorable all the time.

Watching her defend me had been an out-of-body experience. It had taken several heartbeats for my sluggish brain to realize that it had actually happened. Vivian might show the world one version of herself, but her strength is always there, simmering beneath the surface. It felt like an honor, having Vivian use that steadfastness on my behalf.

After years of striving on my own, of trying to win this race against time, against my father’s puppet mastery, the raw gratitude of having Vivian in my corner almost capsized me. I wanted to hold her against my chest and never let go. I wanted to whisper thank you over her soft curls. My fingers had flexedat my sides in preparation, but then the fair staff member interrupted.

Instead, I made a decision. I’m not leaving Vivian’s side today. Repairing my tire can wait another day. Heck, the rotation of the Earth can wait until Vivian checks this off her list—part two of her self-improvement plan. I firmly stand by my opinion that she’s perfect as is, but I also understand the desire to achieve one’s goals.

I close the book so we can both see the cover of the Regency romance, using my index finger to keep my place. “I haven’t read one of these before,” I admit. “But even after a few chapters—”

“You’re hooked, right?” Her luminosity nearly burns my retinas.

I’m so familiar with the falsehoods I weave on a daily basis that I almost lie out of habit. This pattern began long before I signed my future away. Early on, my father insisted that no one wanted the nerdy boy who read when they could have a charismatic athlete. Excelling academically was an expectation, but the foundation of true success laid in being likable and making connections—something you can’t do while reading at home. Alone.

The sad thing is, Dad was right. I push away the memory of the one disastrous time I thought someone loved the real me. Since then, I’ve kept everyone out. Even among other librarians, I focus on the social services aspect of librarianship. No one knows about my fascination with historic bookbinding or that once the library closes, I don protective gloves and leaf through Wilks Beach’s oldest texts.

But maybe I can start with small doses of truth.

See what happens.

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