7. Vivian
seven
Vivian
T he only thing keeping me from completely hyperventilating the next night while out with Finn is the sweet, briny breeze flowing through the open floor-to-ceiling windows.
Everything else about this bar makes me uncomfortable—the sheer number of people, the rib-vibrating base of the trendy music, and the upscale decor.
Not to mention the bank-breaking cost of the drinks.
Clara, the owner of Wilks Beach’s sole bar and restaurant, Bayside Table, charges nine dollars for her classic orange crush cocktail as opposed to this Virginia Beach Oceanfront bar’s seventeen dollars.
Maybe they’re upcharging because it’s Memorial Day weekend?
At least I’m wearing my favorite dress. It’s a muted-teal chiffon with capped sleeves.
I’d designed a mini corset into the waistline before letting the flowy, layered fabric cascade to my knee.
The corset is purely decorative, giving the garment visual structure while maintaining comfort.
Like all my dresses, the square neckline doesn’t come but an inch below my collarbones.
Though my mentor, Miss Wendy, likes to say that I’m blessed in all the right places , I still prefer to conceal my top-half blessings as much as possible.
“First round is on me.” Finn’s voice pulls my frowning face from the cocktail menu. “Second round is on”—he glances around, that mischievous smirk deepening—“any number of these gentlemen.”
“Or we could go home and—”
He holds up a finger. “Ah-ah. No more of that.”
Half of the drive here, I tried to get Finn to turn his understated but undeniably luxurious, storm-gray Aston Martin around and abandon this ill-fated plan.
“Let me find you a willing subject.” He lifts his chin, subtly surveying the crowd.
I barely repress my body’s traitorous reaction to him.
Why does he have to be so beautiful? I’m convinced that storybook heroes are modeled after Finn Reynolds.
Earlier, when he’d been casually leaning against the hood of his car, waiting for me, I almost stumbled.
Not because I was walking in the dark. The entirety of Wilks Beach is embedded in my brain.
I could navigate it blindfolded. It was how breathtaking Finn was in the subtle moonlight.
He’d worn tailored black, head to toe, but forsaken his signature vest and socks. The strange pulse of heat that shot through me upon seeing his bare ankles only confirmed that I’m not right in the head.
Finn is as unattainable as the gorgeous three-story ocean-facing homes. Perfect for someone else but never for you. You can always look as you walk down the beach, but that’s never going to be your home.
When I Googled Finn yesterday, double-checking that he wasn’t a psycho in addition to being ridiculously hot, there wasn’t much on him besides glowing accolades from the various libraries he’s worked at after getting his masters.
Brynn must have known a woman who he’d personally wronged to have the details about his dating history.
Though Wilks Beach residents usually stick to our town, many have family who live on the mainland.
I hadn’t asked Brynn for more details about Finn because I knew she’d disapprove of this whole escapade. Brynn’s natural state is to protect me, but I can’t fall in love with Atticus if I’m always at home, reading Regency novels and watching TV.
Since my sister always goes to bed early, I didn’t have to lie to her about leaving tonight.
My night owl personality has always clashed with her wake-at-four-thirty lifestyle.
Fortunately, our bedrooms are above my shop, so the mainland commuters stumbling into Seabreeze Beans first thing don’t wake me at the crack of dawn.
That and I have an impressive ocean-waves sound machine.
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 to all 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 would never consider 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 of Worthington .
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.
I cannot wait for 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 saying he thought I 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.
Finn is…
“Green Polo seems to be buying the drinks tonight, and they’re all getting low.” Finn interrupts my thoughts, casually turning his body toward the bar. “Why don’t you move down to that end? He’ll get thirsty real quick.”
The reality of what I’m about to do slams into me like a freight train. My head starts to shake, slowly at first and then with more vigor as my gaze drops to the floor.
I can’t do this.
I don’t know why I ever thought I could do something like this. I should get used to solo snuggling on the couch because there’s no way any of this is going to work. Maybe I should just get another cat. Pepper is ridiculously territorial, but—
“Viv,” Finn says, lightly touching my wrist to get my attention. “Just walk down the bar. You don’t have to do anything. He’ll come to you. When he starts talking, just smile and nod. We’ll work on words with the next guy.”
I press my lips together to tamp down the swell of nausea.
Finn’s gaze is steady on mine. “I believe you can do this. But if this first time is terrible, we can come back another day, okay? Just try this once, and I’ll take you home after.”
There’s an unbearable sweetness to his tone, in the way he gives my wrist an encouraging squeeze before letting go. It’s completely incongruent with the suave version of himself he’s shown me thus far.
My shoulders collapse with a shaky exhale. “All I have to do is walk down the bar?”
His mouth softens, that wisp of pride resurfacing. “Just walk down the bar.”
“Okay,” I murmur, turning before I lose momentum.
When I weave past the eighth person, my steps become even more hesitant. But then, the guy separates from his friends, and as I arrive at the end, he finds an open spot beside me.
“Three more,” he says to the bartender before smiling at me. “Hey.”
My “hey” is little more than a croak, and I can’t help glancing at Finn. He’s turned so his back and elbows rest on the bar, watching me.
“Is that guy your boyfriend?”
My focus snaps from Finn’s flinty eyes to the man’s face.
I wasn’t supposed to have to answer questions.
I was supposed to smile and nod. My lips tremble at the edges as I force them up, focusing on the man’s features to distract myself.
Paying attention to colors and textures usually settles the buzzing that hovers at the base of my skull.
The man’s beard has some red in it, as does his sandy hair.
It complements his green shirt nicely. His features aren’t remarkable, but he seems friendly.
I shake my head, hoping it’s enough.
“Because I don’t want to get caught in between—”
“No.” I’m so shocked by my sharp refusal that my teeth chomp on the inside of my cheek. “Um…”
Think. It shouldn’t be this hard to think. A bead of sweat slides down my spine beneath my dress, and then an answer pops through the haze clouding my mind.
“He’s my brother.”
An uneven breath sneaks into my tight lungs.
When the man’s brows pinch, I amend, “Half brother.”
His face relaxes, kindly not commenting on how I sound like a six-year-old being interrogated by the principal and two seconds from peeing herself.
“That makes sense.” He laughs, and I force my lips higher in response. “He’s got some serious bodyguard vibes.”
My gaze flips to Finn’s again. The man is right. My dating coach looks protective and… My forehead wrinkles. I must be misinterpreting the hard set of his jaw, because Finn can’t be looking at me possessively .
“Nice dress.”
I snap my head back so quickly my neck pinches. “Um…thank you.”
My mind offers me helpful details to mention like that I made it myself, or that I spent hours getting the bodice just right, but I can’t get the syllables beyond my teeth.
“Care for a drink?”
I nod, much too aggressively. Any second now, my head will pop off my body and roll on the floor, ruining the effort I put into my half-up style. “Rosé, please.”
While the man orders for me, I turn slightly to give Finn a shaky thumbs up.
He’s chatting with a leggy blonde who does not think heels are the devil. Can those even be categorized as heels? Stilts, more likely. Her core strength must be insane.
When Finn’s gaze snags on mine, I decide to make the gesture overt, lifting my raised thumb to my shoulder.
I’m fine. This will all be fine. I will not die talking to a stranger. And if I do keel over, I’m pretty sure Mr. Librarian Bodyguard could scoop me off the floor with little difficulty.
The man beside me laughs again. It’s a nice sound, bright and throaty. “Letting him know you’re okay?”
I give—what I hope looks like—a casual shrug. “Yeah.”
“I’m Dylan, by the way.”
At the last minute, I decide to use my sister’s name. She’s always been the confident one. The one who can stand up for herself and anyone else who needs it.
Who better to emulate tonight?
“I’m Brynn.”