Seas the Dating Coach (Wilks Beach #1)

1. Vivian

one

Vivian

Y ou know the feeling you get when Today You needs to pay up on the promises Past You made? It’s a mix of a roiling stomach with a bit of Why do my lungs itch? topped with a sprinkling of charred dread. You know…the sensations you have to endure NOW because Past You was a shortsighted dingbat.

Seriously. The audacity of Past You.

Avoiding the antique wall clock ticking ever closer to seven a.m., I stare at the neon-yellow, spaghetti-strap monstrosity of a prom dress in my hands. It’s probably the wrong alteration garment to distract myself with, especially with my normally dexterous fingers trembling.

“This is such a stupid idea,” I mutter.

The needle in my hand slips, poking my index finger. A cosmic admonishment.

You wanted this , it reminds me.

I woke up last Saturday, on my twin sister’s and my twenty-seventh birthday, and realized that I’ve been living in fear.

No, not of a shark taking a bite of me on one of my open-water swims, but of really living .

Of stepping outside my comfort zone. Of just doing something other than what’s expected of me.

And maybe it’s being closer to thirty than twenty, but the idea of waking up ten years from now and being in the same exact spot made me break out in a cold sweat.

So today, I’m doing something about it.

All I have to do is march from my humble tailor shop into my sister, Brynn’s, bustling coffee shop and finally talk to the man I’ve had a crush on for a year. Easy peasy.

Does the idea of checking off part one of my three-part self-improvement plan make me want to throw up?

Absolutely.

Will I go through with it?

…maybe?

Yesterday, I chickened out. The tick of the clock was like a snare drum in my ear as I kept my head down, pretending to be engrossed in a difficult beaded section of a gorgeous cornflower-blue gown instead of doing what I’d promised myself…what I wished for.

Like most locals, I believe in the strange, mystical undercurrent that runs along our modest strip of beach.

It only pops into existence occasionally, enough to make you doubt a coincidence or question déjà vu.

Either way, it’s shown up enough over the decades to be entrenched in our small town’s lore.

Every local knows that if you really want something to happen, you make an ocean wish.

Taking one of the flat white stones from the library’s landscaping, you write your wish and toss it in the sea.

They almost always come true—almost. Nine-year-old me hadn’t understood that the magical power beneath our sandy shores isn’t strong enough to bring my parents back to life.

My phone alarm blaring my favorite Raven Sacaria song makes me jump, and I nearly stab myself again. Exhaling, I put down my sewing, turn off my work light, and run my fingers over my springy curls.

“You’ve got this,” I whisper in rhythmic repeats as I slide into the slender back hallway connecting our two businesses. The hallway also holds the staircase to our upstairs apartment.

When I push open the door to Seabreeze Beans my heartbeat is in my throat.

The layering sounds of grinding coffee, boppy music, and half a dozen voices are almost overwhelming.

I take a steadying breath, inhaling the lightly caramelized, almost nutty scent of Brynn’s signature roast. Our two businesses and everything in our apartment perpetually smell of the coffee Brynn hand-roasts every Sunday afternoon.

I honestly don’t know why I bother applying perfume, because I end up smelling like coffee anyway.

My sister’s umber eyes widen when they catch mine, her brow immediately pinching in concern.

To be fair, I’m never up this early. I have a tendency to stay up late and rise just before my shop opens at ten.

My sister, on the other hand, is usually in bed before nine to wake an hour before Seabreeze Beans opens at 5:30 a.m.

“I’m fine,” I mouth to her before catching sight of the reason I’m here.

The impact of seeing Atticus Williams in my favorite suit hits my chest like a fencepost. The deep navy of the impeccably tailored garment brings out the blue in his eyes. His blond hair is styled off his forehead, and he’s wearing his glasses today.

My sister doesn’t understand my attraction to Atticus, calling him “nerdy” as if that’s a bad thing.

Since Brynn’s dating history includes a former professional baseball player turned smoking-hot firefighter, she’ll never understand that I prefer a more approachable aesthetic.

Ridiculously hot men fry my brain, making talking to them impossible.

And speaking, in general, isn’t my strong suit.

My heart does an unsteady wobble, like it’s wearing heels for the first time, when Atticus scowls at his watch.

I’ve spent way too many hours fantasizing about Atticus’s long, lean frame on my octagonal step riser as I take his measurements.

I feel a little bad about my imagination firing whoever is doing an amazing job of tailoring his suits now, but otherwise, he’d have no reason to wander in my door.

Perhaps when my tape measure is around his chest, my fingertips inches in front of his heart, he covers my hands with one of his.

“Vivian, I can’t believe you’ve been right beneath my nose this entire time, and I didn’t see you. How could I be so blind?” Then his long fingers brush back one of my curls. “You’re astonishing.” Those perfectly blue eyes sweep my face in wonder as he leans down. “Could I— Could I kiss you?”

A forceful cough yanks me back to the coffee shop. I suck in a noisy breath when I realize my fingertips are brushing my lower lip. Flipping toward the door I’ve just come through, I take two giant steps. “He looks stressed. I should try again tomorrow,” I mutter to myself.

“Viv?”

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 ready to do something about 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 going to 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 the one thing he’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. Finally being 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.