Page 11 of Seas the Dating Coach

Finn saying my name jolts me back to the room, but instead of looking up like a normal person, I rocket to standing, not realizing that Finn is hovering over me. He reels back, holding his nose, as a stinging sensation radiates through the crown of my head. One hand flies to my forehead as the other grips his upper arm.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” But then blood drips between his fingers, and little gray spots flood my vision.

Self-protective instincts have me fleeing to the door, slipping on my sandals while I talk. “I’m sorry. I really am, but we’ll have to go another time. Blood makes me—” I dry heave. Even saying the word makes me nauseated. My hand grips the glass, leaving a sweaty handprint as I double over and suck in an uneven breath.

“It’s okay,” Finn says as I hear the kitchen sink running. “Go if you need to. I’m fine.”

I take his words at face value, nod toward my stricken reflection, and let myself out in the balmy evening air.

five

Finn

Someone is playing a joke on me. Or maybe this is a Wilks Beach hazing ritual? Either way, one of my librarians has some serious ninja skills and a dry sense of humor because books keepappearingon my desk each time I return to my office.

I pick up today’s third book,Leading with Compassion, frankly offended. Being a strong leader wasn’t just something that’d been drilled into me since before I attended kindergarten; it’s a skill I excel at. I stack the book atop the other two:A History of Wilks Beach,which I intend to check out this weekend, and a random book on decor for the seaside home.

Yesterday’s books were all Regency romances—four of them, delivered separately but from the same series. After returning from lunch, I’d asked Patricia if there was a particular reason I’dreceived them. As the head of circulation, maybe she was putting together a collection for a display and wanted to run them by me.

The middle-aged mom of five—see, Ialwaysget to know my staff—blinked from beneath her wrinkled brow and then told me to ask Robert. I simply returned to my desk, doubtful that the septuagenarian who has a habit of falling asleep at the reference desk was the one giving me bodice rippers.

Maybe the mysterious book giver is Trudy, the children’s librarian?

I collapse behind my desk, agitating my computer mouse and bringing up the budget that I’d been examining earlier. Not for the first time since I drastically altered the course of my future, my molars grind at the fact that my father’s money could easily fix the funding issues I’ve spent the last five years trying to finagle through proper channels.

All I want is to keep this infrastructure alive, to ensure that libraries stay open and free, allowing anyone the ability to findanything. I want to help them continue to resist censorship and protect knowledge, especially in a world with so much misinformation on the internet. I might have initially chosen librarianship because of my love of literature, but I truly believe it’s one of the noblest professions.

Noting the blinking light on my desk phone, I check my messages. The tension in my temple upticks when it’s another scathing voicemail from Carol Cook instead of one from Dr. Prescott. He hasn’t called in the two days since Vivian and I struck up our unusual agreement.

I sit up straighter as my second voice message plays. Lynnette, the reference librarian from my former library, who—though thirty years my senior—has always had a tiny crush on me, informs me that the timeline for my plan has changed.

Ralph might be retiring sooner than expected. Alotsooner. Pressure builds behind my left eye, threatening to fullyencapsulate my exhausted brain. When I had a whole year to enact my plan, it seemed feasible. Now, I need all the pieces to fall into place flawlessly, or it’s not just me that’ll be affected.

My younger sister’s life will be ruined.

I ignore the white-hot flare that burns each time I think of how my father tethered our little agreement to Cordelia’s future and close my eyes to reorganize my thoughts. I need to focus on what I can achieve right now.

The library voice message system cuts off the rest of Lynnette’s meandering phone call, updating me on her ferrets’ most recent dental issues. As I hang up the receiver, I allow the other person who’s been taking up too much of my mental load to float into my mind.

Vivian.

Surprising, captivating Vivian.

I don’t believe she’d lie about Dr. Prescott wanting to donate money, but I hardly know anything about her. Even the contents of her discarded tote—a single magnolia- and coffee-scented hoodie—were unhelpful. There was no wallet. No cell phone. No hint to where she might live.

Nothing.

And since we all know how much the locals love me, my casual questions about Vivian were ignored. An elderly man in the checkout line at Dotty’s Marketactually reshelvedhis two items and walked out rather than talked to me.

Normally, my cultivated charm would have done the trick by now. Years of practiced charisma almost never fails you. I’ve never struggled to fit in, because I’ve known exactly which parts of my personality to subvert, how to play by everyone else’s rules, and give them exactly what they want, tell them precisely what they want to hear.

I’ve got to hand it to the people of this town; their dedication to a cause is admirable. Now, if only I could get them to focus on the necessary library updates instead of hating me.

I sigh, mousing to another page. Vivian’s information is sitting right there in the library system—full name, address, phone number, email—but finding her that way feels slimy. Instead, I open a web browser and type inVivian, Wilks Beach.

A laugh bursts from me as I read the first result.

I hadn’t noticed that the tailor shop beside Seabreeze Beans is named Vivian’s Alterations. With the long hours I’ve been keeping, the drawn-curtained store had seemed perpetually closed. And according to the photo posted online, the shop’s name is only painted in small green script on the glass door.

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