9. Finn
nine
Finn
Vivian
This isn’t going to work.
That’s the text I get the Tuesday after our Friday-night talking-to-men session.
That night, I’d helped her through another interaction before buying Vivian fish tacos and encouraging her to drink more water.
While munching on savory rockfish and crunchy cabbage, we finalized this plan.
Vivian closes her shop early every Tuesday to spend two hours organizing the monetary side of her business.
She finishes her work around six—the same time Atticus tends to pick up his weekly library holds.
Today, she’s going to approach him .
I glance up from my phone, catching her sitting cross-legged on her study room chair and giving me the saddest puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen.
Her purple panda tote—how many of those darn things does she own?
—is crumpled on the floor. Her laptop and water bottle are in disarray, and her empty Skittles bag hangs halfway out of the trashcan.
I give her a playful eye roll.
Finn
You’ll be fine. Just repeat what we practiced in the car.
Vivian huffs, swiping a few remaining Skittles into her mouth and furiously typing.
After checking the library’s study room reservation system, I’d noted that the prior patron was to vacate the room at three.
That gave me enough time to scrub the desktop with Clorox wipes, ensuring that Vivian won’t catch tabletop botulism, hoof and mouth disease, or something worse.
When I was caught by our custodian, Debra, I disinfected all the other open tables in the upstairs reading/study area to waylay suspicion.
Vivian
It’s not going to work. Who goes up to another person at the library and asks, What are you reading? I might as well be asking him if he likes breathing. It’s pathetic. Seriously, why did we not come up with something better?
I fire off my text before glaring through the two panes of glass separating us.
Finn
It’s simple to remember, on topic, and open ended. It’s perfect.
Vivian types for a long time, and my shoulders tighten, anticipating a tirade. The slight defiance that shines when we verbally spar became a full-force stubborn tornado when I suggested my plan over dinner on Friday.
A short message is all I receive.
Vivian
I don’t think I can do this.
My office suddenly feels vacuum sealed, though my door is open like always. I surge to my feet, texting while walking away from Vivian’s study room.
Finn
Find me in the fiction stacks. I’ll look like I’m picking out books. No one knows we know each other, so you can ask me the question. You can pretend I’m Atticus. It’ll be a run-through. Just like last week.
My heart pounds in my throat as I send another message.
Finn
You can do this, Viv.
It’s a struggle not to glance over my shoulder as I descend the stairs, to see that Vivian understands how much I believe in her.
Not wanting Vivian to hunt for me when she’s already flustered, I hover in the same aisle we were in last week.
A book spine tips into my fingers before I push it back.
The process mindlessly repeats until I smell her magnolia-coffee scent.
This time, I let a book fall into my hand to read the back cover.
“What…” She hesitates, nervously clearing her throat. “What are you reading?”
I have no earthly idea. I’d planned on scanning the blurb, but when I caught her strangling the life out of the straps of her tote from the corner of my eye, my mind went blank.
Trying something new is always hard, but the tremble in her fingertips will be my undoing.
It’s taking everything in me not to tug Vivian to my chest.
I flip the book, glancing at the cover. With the battling spaceships in the foreground and the glowing planet beyond, it’s probably military sci-fi. “I was thinking about trying this one. Do you like sci-fi?”
“I, um…” She pauses again, rolling her lips.
Come on, gorgeous. You can do this.
I keep my face open and inviting, though a noose feels like it’s tightening around my windpipe.
All I can think about is Friday—how enjoyable dinner had been even with her trying to undermine my every suggestion, how we laughed over stupid things, how darned easy conversation was.
I hadn’t had that much fun with another person in… I can’t even remember.
“Maybe?” The word comes out high-pitched.
I lean my forearm against the stack. “Maybe?”
Vivian sighs while flopping her hands to her sides. “This isn’t going to work. I keep thinking about how you’re you and not Atticus. It’s tripping me up.” Her antsy fingers tighten her ponytail before straightening her shirt.
She’d texted me earlier today, asking what she should wear—probably because I’d instructed her last time.
Unfortunately, the request went straight to my head.
I liked the idea of dressing Vivian way, way too much.
After fighting internal demons I had no idea I possessed, I told her to wear her most comfortable outfit.
Vivian’s shallow V-neck shirt tucked into flowy wide-legged pants and canvas shoes gives off an effortless nautical feel with its alternating white-navy-white coloring. Her outfit also unknowingly matches my own navy and white combination.
“And Atticus would never do that suave doorway-lean thing you’re doing right now. Do you even see yourself?”
I almost hit my funny bone on the shelf, I bring my arm down so fast. “I need to be more like him?” That question sends a hot poker sliding between my ribs.
She nods. “I think it might help.”
I tap the book against my chin, as if I’m casually thinking and not eviscerated by the knowledge that even if we weren’t in this situation, I wouldn’t be the kind of man Vivian wants.
“Hold this.” Handing Vivian the book, I slump my posture before unfastening the top button to my navy suit vest and rifling my fingers through my hair. Once it’s flopping down over my forehead instead of in the professional style I always wear, I glance up. “Better?”
Vivian’s gaping mouth sends a frisson of panic through me.
“What?”
“You messed up your hair.”
My forehead wrinkles. “So?”
“You’re always so perfectly coiffed. I didn’t think you…” Her fingertips drift upward before she visibly remembers herself and slides them into her pocket. “I mean, that’s helpful. For our practice.” She swallows. “Thank you.”
Ignoring the heartbeat deafening my ears, I nod. “Okay, good. Now let’s run this again.”
Vivian takes a deep breath, but before she can make a sound, another voice draws our attention. “Huh. Small world.”
Atticus is neither happy nor upset to see the two of us in his designated aisle—he’s completely befuddled. I snap to my full height, running my fingers through my hair. Gratitude blooms when my trusted product locks most of the strands back in place before I extend my hand to Atticus.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Finn Reynolds, the new branch manager.”
“Atticus Beckham,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
It takes all my willpower not to crush his hand. Even so, Atticus grimaces at the pressure of my handshake. I subdue the judgmental thoughts flooding my brain about men with weak handshakes and gesture to Vivian with an easy smile.
“Do you know Vivian Hutchinson?”
Atticus falters a minute but eventually extends his hand. “I’ve seen you around but can’t say we’ve officially met.”
The nearly inaudible noise Vivian makes when his hand slides into hers makes my vision blur at the edges.
Unexpected anti-Atticus gore races through my mind, requiring a concentrated breath to clear it all.
Maybe I should scale back on the boxing classes.
I’ve never been the impulsively angry type before I arrived in this town.
“Happy to have made introductions.” I slide the book back into the stack to give myself something to do.
When the two of them wordlessly stare, I sigh internally and add, “Vivian owns the tailor shop beside Seabreeze Beans.”
“You do?”
Attaboy, Atticus. Welcome to the conversation.
Vivian blinks for a moment then gives an unsteady nod.
I don’t want to speak for her, but I also don’t want her to leave this interaction feeling defeated. If they don’t keep talking, Atticus will walk away like last time.
My insides revolt when sorrow splashes across the slight freckles dotting her nose, as if Vivian has drawn the same conclusion at the exact same time. The air in my lungs draws thin. Before the excruciatingly painful sensation can trip into full panic, I open my mouth.
“Vivian has—” I take a second to even my punchy voice and plaster a charming smile on my face.
“She just confided in me that she’s a Tuesday regular in our study rooms because the scent of books helps her get through a task she hates.
” I huff a good-natured chuckle. “Can’t say I blame her. I love being surrounded by books.”
I tuck my tongue in my cheek over the popular joke librarians share amongst themselves.
The general public thinks librarianship is about the love of reading, but truly, it’s about so much more.
It’s the curation, categorization, and protection of information while vigilantly safeguarding accessibility and protecting the privacy of all who benefit from the library’s free access.
But I’m assuming since Atticus makes a weekly trip to check out new books, he likes to read. Hopefully, he’ll pick up on the conversation topic I’ve placed before him.
His head tilts to the side. “What’s the task you hate?”
Not where I thought this would go but still helpful.
Vivian bites her lip so hard I’m concerned she’ll draw blood. “Bookkeeping.”
The smile stretching Atticus’s face is so earnest and honest I have to pinch my thigh within my pocket to keep myself from doing something rash. “I love bookkeeping. I’m, uh…”—he tugs on his ear—“an accountant. Numbers are my jam.”