Page 15 of Seas the Dating Coach

Finn leans his elbows on the white marble bar, pulling my attention back to the present. His perfect-black shirt is Italian cotton. I just know it. Which designer, I’m not sure. Kiton? Zegna? Either way, Finn isn’t exactly hiding that he comes from money. No one with a librarian’s salary could afford this caliber of luxury menswear.

“What is it?” Finn asks.

The amusement in his voice doesn’t fluster me like it usually does. Perhaps I’m developing an immunity to his effortless charm. Since we’ve officially embarked on this crazy dating-coach adventure, I suppose that’s a good thing.

“Who designed your shirt?”

“My shirt?” The corner of his mouth quirks.

I nod, my gaze flowing from the lapels to the sleeve where it’s rolled just below his elbows.

“Brioni.”

“Should have guessed,” I mutter.

“What’s that?” He raises his voice to be heard over the din.

“Can I touch the fabric?”

Expecting Finn to poke fun at me, I’m surprised when he simply extends his arm. My thumb and forefinger pinch the cuff and roll it as I let out an approving hum. Even though the evening is warm, he’ll be comfortable in this decadent, breathable shirt. My fingers slide to assess the seam, and the heel of my hand brushes his exposed forearm. Finn pulls his arm back like the slight contact was painful.

“You probably shouldn’t do that while you’re trying to talk toall the men.” His roguish smile lifts. “They’ll think we’re a couple.”

“Right,” I say, even though his suggestion is ludicrous.

Someone like Finn wouldneverconsider dating someone like me.

Before I can fully tailspin, I’m saved by a bartender who’s a dead ringer for the actress starring in season two ofWorthington. The next book being adapted into the popular Netflix series is one of my favorites. Bluestocking Elizabeth begins a clandestine dalliance with a gruff soldier, emotionally scarred from the Battle of Waterloo, only to find that he’s secretly a duke. Icannot waitfor season two to release later this summer.

After we’ve both had a sip of our cocktails, Finn asks, “See the group of three men at the high top?” He turns his back to the men and points to his left shoulder. I stand on tiptoe to glance over. Since heels are the devil, I’m wearing sparkly ballet flats.

“Yeah.”

“The one in the green polo has been eyeing you for the last two minutes.”

My gaze catches Finn’s. “He has?”

“Yes, gorgeous.” This time, his smile isn’t flirtatious or teasing. There’s this dark, indiscernible undertone. “And the one in the ill-fitting suit at your four o’clock, the two men in dress blues, the bald guy who could be your father at your six, and the—”

“Stop.” I frame my face with my hands, closing my eyes.

“Vivian.” The amused wonder in my name has me glancing up. “Do you really not know how beautiful you are?”

My lungs can no longer bring oxygen into my body. This seventeen-dollar cucumber-infused gin and tonic must be laced with toxins. My eyelids seem to work, however, since they’re blinking like I’m stuck in a dust storm.

Finn’s eyes survey my face in a quick swoop before he winks.

Right.

Finn wasn’t sayinghe thoughtI was beautiful. He’s just bolstering my ego before I attempt something I’ve never done before.

Like a good coach.

The fact that disappointment swims in my stomach is so juvenile. I don’t even want this perfect specimen of human masculinity. I want Atticus with his glasses and floppy hair and soft demeanor.

Atticus is attainable.

Safe.

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