Page 2 of Seas the Dating Coach

I look over my shoulder, catching my sister’s gaze from where she’s steaming milk. She flicks her focus to Atticus before returning it to me with a slight head tilt.

My chin dips in a small nod.

I’ve told my sister and a few locals about my crush on Atticus. I just haven’t informed my sister that I’m finally readyto do somethingabout it.

A shadow wisps over my sister’s cheeks before her jaw tightens, just like it does before she tackles—and usually conquers—something challenging.

“Could you come here a second?” Warmth infuses the question, and it’s like Brynn is giving me a hug. She’s also giving me a perfect excuse to cross right in front of Atticus, who’s next in line and beside the espresso machine.

“This is just like when she helped you learn to drive or be brave enough to try contacts,” I murmur to the door. “Sometimes you need a nudge.”

Honestly, I need two earth movers working in tandem to get me over this hurdle.

“You’ve got this,” I whisper.

My fingers release their death grip on the door handle as I glance over the wildflower-green sundress I’m wearing. Like almost all my clothes, I made it, so it fits my curvy frame perfectly. It also makes my green eyes pop and cools the reddish undertone of my pale skin. Regardless of my smart clothing choices, my hands shake, and I run one down the bodice before turning.

“Of course,” I call out cheerfully.

I take several—I’m hoping elegant-looking—strides forward, passing a handful of two-top tables. But then, Joe Matherson slams his knobby hand on the table where Leroy Bates has just won their morning chess game, and his mug tumbles off the edge. Hot black coffee burns my toes and seeps into my white canvas shoes before the broken handle part of the mug almost slices my skin. I jump back with a yelp, kicking my foot in the air to lessen the pain, and hit something solid.

“Are you okay?” The low-toned question comes a second before my other foot slides from beneath me.

My heartbeats slow to a crawl. The room swirls in a slow-motion twist when Atticus glances up, brows anxious. He’s goingto watch me fall into a puddle of coffee. This will be his first memory of me. I’ve orbited around him a thousand times, but this will be theone thinghe’ll remember. Resigned to my fate, I close my eyes. The sooner I’m on the ground, the sooner Atticus can swoop in and pick me up.

Then we can begin our love story.

I slip six inches before two strong hands brace around my ribs, pulling me off the ground and backward until I’m standing beyond the mess. My mind sprints in opposing directions. I’m overjoyed that I’m not in a coffee spill, but I’m also disappointed that Atticus isn’t the one rendering aid.

My eyes fly open to catch Atticus stepping forward like he was going to intervene. A hiccup shakes my chest as our gazes catch, because I’m certain—absolutely certain—that this is our beginning. The rest flows so easily. Snuggling on the couch while we both read. Long peaceful walks by the sea.Finallybeing someone’s everything.

The moment shatters when Sandy, the barista, calls for the next customer, and Atticus turns to order his double shot Americano with a half-pump of butter pecan flavor syrup.

The mystery hands twitch and then release me as Atticus takes a phone call, paying and moving to the small area near the door to wait for his drink.

Instantly, I feel myself transitioning back into wallpaper. Invisible. Unnoticeable.

“That’s one way to start the morning. It’s not every day I get to rescue a damsel in distress.” The mirthful voice directly behind me hits my stunned brain before the scent of books momentarily overpowers the ubiquitous coffee smell.

I instinctively inhale. The scent of books—particularly that of older books like the ones holding the town’s archives—is the best smell in the world. No, I will not be taking questions, and, yes, I will die on this hill.

It’s then that I realize that this whole thingis a dream. It smells like books because I fell asleep with a paperback Regency romance over my face again. I’m cozy in my tiny bedroom, barely big enough for a twin bed and a dresser, stacks of books in every corner. Any second now, my gray tabby, Pepper, will swat me with her tail. Then my alarm will go off so I can attempt speaking to Atticus.

A relieved laugh tumbles from my mouth.

“I’m so sorry, sugar.” I startle when Joe tries to dry my coffee-stained shoe with a wad of paper napkins, but since his ancient spine can’t really bend, he’s just waving the paper over my knees and fluttering the hem of my dress.

My gaze whips around the noisy shop as a boulder settles low in my stomach.

Not dreaming, then.

“I got it, Joe.” Brynn takes the napkins from him, pushing them against my toes as she crouches to place the ceramic pieces in a dustpan.

My cheeks flame, unable to do anything but stand stock still as Atticus collects his to-go cup and rushes outside. He doesn’t glance back once. The gentle clink of my sister’s seashell door chime reverberates like a nail in a coffin.

“What’s your name?” The tone of the deep voice behind me is lower—unmistakably intimate—almost as if his lips are right beside my ear.

An involuntary shiver slips down my spine before I remember I need to thank this man for his quick reflexes. Otherwise, I’d be completely humiliated, forcing me to abandon my plan to talk to Atticus.

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