Page 12 of Seas the Dating Coach

That explains how Vivian’s sundress fit her like a bespoke glove. My fingers twitch, remembering the feel of the soft fabric and the way her ribs expanded as I lifted her beyond the coffee spill. Her business listing states hours from ten a.m. to six p.m. and by appointment. If I leave now, I’ll just catch her. After packing up, I lock my office door to stop the ninja librarian from striking overnight.

Robert—looking livelier than I’ve seen him in days—gives me a curt nod on my way to the stairs. Pools of magenta, teal, and citrine light stream from the atrium’s stained-glass windows as I descend. I can’t help but open my palm in a shaft of periwinkle.

Almost every pane of glass contains a nautical tableau: mermaids resting on rocks, ships sailing, schools of striped bass frozen in blue glass. This historic building is undoubtedly the most beautiful library I’ve ever worked in. The urge to protect it and the town’s archives makes me pick up speed.

“Mr. Reynolds?” Patricia’s reedy voice sounds the second I reach the main floor.

“How can I help you?” I ask. Even though it feels like I can hear the ticking of my watch in my eardrums, I force my shoulders to relax.

“I’ve got it from here, Patty. No need for formal introductions.” A barrel-chested man leans over the circulation counter to pat her forearm, giving a charmingly straight smile. “Hey there. You must be the man who’s bold enough to shake things up around here.”

Before I have a chance to launch a polite defense, he barks a disarming laugh and slaps my back like we’re buddies.

“And it’s a good thing. I swear some of the computer towers in the media room still have floppy drives.” His proffered hand is roughly the size of a baseball glove. “Dave Prescott.”

I match his smile and firm handshake with my own. “Finn Reynolds.”

Things arefinallygoing my way.

six

Finn

After casually walking Dave—as he insisted I call him—to his car in the parking lot behind the library, I glance at my watch, knowing I’m too late. It was six o’clock when I subtly edged us toward the exit. I force my feet to continue on a mildly paced trajectory, though I want to sprint like a crocodile is behind me.

Ineedthis unusual agreement with Vivian to work.

Dave wasn’t only accommodating; he was downright friendly—all because Vivian had had a simple conversation with him. I hadn’t realized how starved I was for a polite interaction after almost four weeks of curt brush-offs. And Dave’s donation idea—for me to organize and host a fundraising event at the library, after which he’ll match the total amount raised—seems easy enough. I’d been attending galas before I had chest hair, so I’m sure I can come up with something that’ll meet town approval.

As expected, Vivian’s Alterations is closed when I arrive. A defeated sigh leaves my lungs as I clutch the sun-warmed metal handle and give it a shake. I’ll have to stop by during lunch tomorrow. My fingers release the handle a second before the heavy green curtain is yanked aside, and my gaze crashes with Vivian’s.

A sharp, tingling sensation cascades down my arms as we stare at each other. Then the memory of the last time we were separated by a pane of glass sails to the front of my mind. Vivian’s eyes glaze slightly, almost as if she’s recalling that moment as well. A smirk lifts my lips as my gaze sweeps her frame.

Today’s sleeveless dress is deep lavender. I’m inexplicably drawn to the subtle way the loose fabric cascades down her body and simultaneously grateful this dress isn’t like the form-fitting green one.

Another memory rushes forward, of us between the library stacks as Vivian’s thumb brushed my chest, and how that single touch felt…transformative.

Mentally, I give myself a swift kick in the pants—much like I’ve been doing for the last two days when this particular thought demands my attention. No matter what I think I felt, my relationship with Vivian needs to remain platonic. The chances of finding another Wilks Beach resident to help me with my plans are slim, especially now that I’m in a time crunch.

Still, I can’t help quirking an eyebrow and seeing if she’ll verbally spar with me again.

“How’s that belt memory treating you?” I pause, deepening my flirty smile. “Do you revisit it often?”

The flush overtaking Vivian’s face is the most delightful shade. If I was particular to pink, I’d use that color in the guest room of my rental house. My personal books have been in storage for years, but there’s something about the layout of the upstairsroom overlooking the bay that would make an idyllic home library. The soft-pink color would complement the way the sunset light bends through the windows in the evening.

Then Vivian’s eyes narrow, and a bubble of victory slips over my skin. Nothing is as fun as teasing this woman. Her lips dive into a defiant frown before she flicks the curtain closed.

“I can stand out here all day,” I say, louder than necessary. “I wonder who would notice the evil librarian waiting for—”

The fabric is cast aside as Vivian quickly unlocks and pushes the door open. “Come in. Come in. Just be quiet.”

“Thanks, gorgeous.” I wink as I stroll past her, smiling at the slight growl I receive in return.

The shop is chaotic, garments and fabric strewn this way and that. There are two smaller tables containing various types of sewing machines and another long wooden table littered with zippers, boxes of buttons, and fabric scraps. Dozens of colorful bobbins hang from a pegboard on the wall shared with the coffee shop, while rolls of fabric fill the bookcases running along the other wall. A half-clothed dress form, a rolling clothing rack, and three standing lamps fill out the tiny space.

When I turn, Vivian is still beside the door. The very front of the store is so orderly in comparison that my brows quirk. An octagonal step riser rests beside an antique settee. Beyond those, a tri-fold dressing screen provides privacy. Another standing lamp lights the corner, casting a warm glow on the closed drapes. They’re elaborate, the drapes. Victorian? A second layer of tan brocade fabric swoops over the curtain rod with beaded accents hanging down like fringe.

There’s no natural light now that the drapes are closed. Annoyance runs down my forearms. Vivian shouldn’t be sealed away in this darkened space. She should be radiant in the golden sunlight. I have the strangest impulse to take a sledgehammerto the wall facing Dotty’s Market and replace it with picture windows.

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