20. Vivian
twenty
Vivian
T urns out I didn’t need to set Finn straight last night because he was uncharacteristically quiet, keeping his distance as he helped me move the dress boxes.
And moments ago, when I went on an early morning “walk” which ended at his back door, Finn simply nodded, locked up, and led me to his car.
His body jerked toward the passenger side, almost as if it was instinct to open the door for me, before continuing toward the driver’s side.
At the beginning of the drive, I assumed Finn wasn’t oozing charisma because he wasn’t a morning person, but now that we’ve been sitting in silence for fifty minutes, I’m about to crack.
I don’t want him flirting with me, and calling me gorgeous, and frying the logical part of my brain, but I miss our easy conversation.
His appearance is off too. The dark-gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders is wrinkled as if he slept in it. The warmth of his eyes hides behind sunglasses and a dark baseball hat. And Finn keeps rubbing his temple every few minutes.
Maybe he’s sick?
“You don’t have to stay,” I remind him.
I told him last night that I only needed help setting up this morning and striking my tent at six. He’d mentioned his recent flat and that he’d need to get it repaired while on the mainland. It’d been so weird hearing Finn talk like an islander, like he belongs here.
Finn nods, saying nothing.
Once we arrive for my eight o’clock check-in, setup goes surprisingly smoothly.
The fair doesn’t open for an hour, but there are a lot of people already strolling the boardwalk.
The scents of fried dough and the sour tinge of beer mingle with the briny sea air.
A few blocks down, a guitarist performs a sound check.
My neighboring vendors—a ceramicist to my left and a metal-print photographer to my right—offer cordial good mornings.
I focus on unpacking and organizing, trying not to notice how subdued Finn’s voice is as he asks for guidance on setup, or how helpful his height is for hanging the banner I had screen-printed with my business name, or how he wordlessly pulls a bag of Skittles out of his pocket and sets it atop my cash box.
The opened flaps of my tent flutter in the breeze as my chest contorts. This 10x10 space feels like the size of a bathroom rug with his large body shifting around to hang dresses on the clothing racks.
I step forward, collecting the hangers from him and hugging them to my chest. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” Finn bends to pick up more dresses.
As soon as he straightens, I collect those as well, my small hands overfilled with hangers. “You’re not fine.”
Finn exhales, shaking his head at the ground before rubbing his jaw. “I was up late going over fundraising ideas and didn’t get enough sleep. I’m just tired. It’s going to be a long day with this and getting my car fixed. And…” He sighs, averting his gaze. “I’m doing my best, Viv.”
It feels like he sucker punched me. Finn is helping me, asking for nothing in return, and I’m pestering him.
“I’m sorry. You’ve done so much for me and—” I nearly fall over, surging forward to grip yet another bundle of hangers. Why is he so quick?
“Go get yourself a coffee—on me.” I try to gather all the dresses into one hand so I can reach for the slim card holder in my dress pocket. “There’s a shop off 18th.”
“In a minute.” He takes back the dresses I’m about to drop on the concrete boardwalk.
“Setup is nearly done.” I rush to hang up the clothes in my hands and beat him to the rest. “I can finish on my own.”
“I don’t mind helping. This is important to you. I want it to go well.”
I squeeze the last bundle of hangers to my tight lungs. “Why?”
Finn takes off his hat, running frustrated fingers through his hair. “Hero complex. I warned you about that. Remember?”
He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the way his gaze sweeps my face.
Though the fair hasn’t opened yet, a boisterous group of sixty-year-old ladies swing into my tent on a plume of multiple perfumes.
“Oh, these are just darling,” one says, sliding readers over her eyes to scrutinize a tag. “Not too expensive either.”
The shade of that aqua dress would complement her complexion and the woman’s salt-and-pepper bob.
I don’t tell her, though. I don’t mention that I haven’t set up my digital payment system yet, or that the fair is not officially opened, or that I was having what felt like a very important conversation before the trio arrived.
My mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out.
Panic streaks down my arms. It’s not going to be like this all day, with my voice trapped like it’s been so many times before. It can’t.
You got this. You got this. You got this.
I move to assist the woman looking at the aqua dress when I hear slurred words.
“Diane, tell me how much this one is. I left my eyes at bottomless brunch.”
The woman, tugging on a bright-magenta dress, stops when she catches sight of Finn. “Oh, yummy-yum. Please tell me he’s for sale.”
Irritation rakes every cell in my body at her flagrant objectification, but Finn does that thing where all his honesty gets siphoned behind a glossy facade. It’s strange, watching the subtle changes he makes, like seeing a person shrug on an ill-fitting jacket.
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.” Finn’s charming grin cracks at the corners, unable to completely hide his exhaustion, but the woman doesn’t notice.
“That’s okay. You can help me find the perfect dress.”
When Finn flinches slightly as she grabs his biceps with her bony fingers, my vision nearly turns the color of the dress in her other hand.
“Do you have something like this in blue?” a third voice behind me stops me from lurching forward and peeling the woman’s ring-laden hand from Finn’s skin.
I spin, noting the yellow dress in her fingers. I know I made that one in teal. Depending on her opinion, that might count as blue.
“I think I might,” I tell her, taking the yellow dress from her and moving toward the front of the tent to find the teal one.
Each step away from Finn feels like moving against a riptide.
“Will this work?” I ask, holding out the other option. My gaze flits toward Finn, finding his smile restored to its normal wattage as the woman on his arm looks through the racks.
“I think so.” She places the hanger beneath her chin, glancing at the full-length mirror I’ve fastened to one of the front tent poles. “Do you have a changing room?”
“Unfortunately, no.” I offer an apologetic smile. “It’s against Oceanside Artisan Fair’s policy. They want to prevent public undressing.”
“I’d like to undress this one.” The woman still gripping Finn’s arm bounces her eyebrows.
“Joyce! He could be your son,” Diane admonishes.
“He could be my third husband.” Joyce leans into Finn, and I drop the dress I’m holding to stomp over.
“Let go of him.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard my voice so low and angry at the same time. I’m practically growling.
“Oh, honey—” Her rings glint as she waves me off, but I step closer, undeterred.
“Let. Go. Of. Him.”
If I was outside of this situation, looking at myself, I’d probably shiver.
All five foot five of me is vibrating with furious energy.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this outraged in my life.
I usually quietly accept whatever life throws at me, but I’ve started a domino effect with each small change I’ve made since my ocean wish.
Now, I’m a warrior goddess who stands up for what’s right.
Joyce’s drunken, blotched eyes widen. “But—”
“Let go and get out.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
Diane steps between us, corralling her friend and whispering apologies.
I follow the trio until they’re beyond the borders of my tent and then draw the flaps to “close” the tent.
Once secured, I stare at the opaque plastic covering.
Those three will probably tell the fair officiants I threw them out.
I’m going to get kicked out of this event before it even starts.
If that happens, there’s no way I’ll make enough to give Brynn a day off.
I wait, but remorse doesn’t ribbon through my ribs.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Finn’s perfectly neutral voice makes this whole situation worse.
“Aren’t you mad?” I ask, twirling around. “Aren’t you upset that she was leering at you, touching you? You’re a person, Finn, not an object. It doesn’t matter that you’re ridiculously hot. She should sneak furtive glances at you, like the rest of the world, not treat you like her personal toy.”
Finn stares, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His piercing eyes never stray from mine.
Kiss me , my body begs. I rescued you. March over here and kiss me.
But then I realize that maybe Finn didn’t want to be rescued. After all, I’m sick of people doing that to me. That’s why I’m here, doing something way outside my comfort zone that no one from town knows about.
“I’m sorry.” I drop my gaze, twisting my ring.
Tension surges as Finn slowly steps closer, and by the time I can see his sneakers in my eyeline, I’m pretty sure my lungs are going to give out.
“Don’t be sorry. No one—” He clears his throat of its grit. “No one has ever done anything like that for me before. I’ve always fended for myself.”
I lift my chin, my confidence returning. “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you always should. ”
Finn’s gaze bounces over my face, brows drawn, as if he’s trying to understand quantum mechanics.
“Vivian Hutchinson?” a voice calls from beyond the plastic behind me.
My eyes close with an exhale. Time to take accountability for my actions. It’s weird that I’m oddly excited to defend my choices to the fair staff member beyond my tent. Now that I’ve stood up for Finn, it feels that much easier to do it for myself.
“Hi! I’m Wren.” The woman in an orange Oceanside Artisan Fair staff t-shirt beams once I’ve opened the flap.
“Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re settled.
I’m sorry I didn’t come by earlier, but I was held up by an incident between two wood carvers.
” She widens her eyes like I should understand that last statement before quickly continuing, “Anyway, here’s your commemorative vendor tote, t-shirt, and my card.
Feel free to call if you need anything. Okay? ”
I blink at the proffered items, unable to move my leaden limbs. I’m not in trouble? She’s not going to haul me away to some artsy jail cell with crocheted bars and a hammock bunk?
“Thanks.” Finn accepts the items. “She loves totes—has a whole collection.”
“Wonderful!” Wren beams before shuffling off to check in with the metal-print photographer.
My brain feels like it’s overheating in the mid-morning sun.
Finn knows about my tote collection? Before I can ask, I’m pulled into a conversation with another attendee.
Finn gives me an encouraging nod over the woman’s head and retreats to the back corner where the cash box sits beneath a lone stool.
He looks utterly ridiculous, folding his large frame onto the wooden stool.
The woman distracts me for a while, but when I glance back a moment later, Finn is hunched over a hardback library book.
Where did that come from? I’ve always assumed that Finn is a reader—he’s a librarian after all—but we’ve never talked about it.
Funny, since we both love books. I wonder if every corner of his room is stacked with books too.
Probably not. Finn probably has them properly organized and cataloged into the nicest bookshelves.
His large hands cover most of the book cover, so I can’t see what he’s reading. Then the corner of his mouth quirks like he’s just read something funny, and my stupid heart tries to scale my windpipe and scuttle over to him.
It’s several long minutes and two electronic sales later—Yay me!
—before I can interrogate Finn about what’s occupying his attention.
Before I do, I take a moment—okay, several moments—to watch him read.
It’s probably creepy, but Finn utterly engrossed in a book should be immortalized in marble for future generations to enjoy.
There’s also this quietness to him today that’s incongruous with the charismatic persona he usually shows the world.
It’s more appealing than Skittles. And I’ve dreamt about swimming through a pool of Skittles Scrooge McDuck-style.
When Finn is dripping with magnetism, only supermodels and rockstars should be in his orbit.
But when he’s like this, hunched over a novel, his features relaxed, Finn feels more real.
He doesn’t look up until I’m right beside him, and wow, our faces are in perfect alignment with him seated. “What are you reading?”
It’s not until my words drift into the sea air that I realize I’m using the pickup line we’d crafted together.
On him .
Blood sloshes clumsily in my ears. I’m about to backtrack when I finally catch the book’s title.
“Wait. You’re reading that?”