Page 26 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

If I go to bed now, I can probably even make time for a leisurely jog on the beach before it gets too crowded. Maybe I can puzzle through this mystery a little more then.

eight

When I get to Shoreline at eleven o’clock on the dot on Friday, the sign on the door is flipped to open, but it doesn’t look like anyone is inside.

Anyone, that is, except Oliver, who is unpacking a cardboard box of books and shelving them in the children’s section. Taking a deep breath, I walk up behind him.

I’m greeted by the sound of Andrew W.K. blasting through his noise-cancelling headphones.

“Hi!” I say, hoping my voice is loud enough for Oliver to hear over the sound of his party anthems.

Apparently it isn't.

I start to walk around him so he’ll notice I’m there at the precise moment he turns to face the shelf at his back.

He collides into my chest, dropping an armful of Frog and Toad books all over the floor when he throws his arms up to stop his momentum.

“Fuck!” he swears, instinctively grabbing my shoulders to steady himself. His cerulean eyes are inches from mine when it seems like he finally registers what’s happened.

My voice catches in my throat with the feeling of his warm breath on my cheek. “Hey,” I finally manage.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, looking down and stepping backward.

“No, I’m sorry,” I say, bending down to help him pick up the books that are all over the floor. My legs, sore from my run this morning, protest the squat the whole way down. I definitely need to exercise more.

I almost bump into him again when I stand up, easy readers piled in my arms.

“Shit.” Now it’s my turn to swear. “I promise, I don’t usually cause so many collisions.”

Oliver shoots me a wry smile. “I certainly hope not.”

Okay, maybe Laurel was right. This isn’t so bad.

Maybe she was also right that Oliver is just a little bit hot. My chest dips as I take in his dark eyelashes and the moody stubble that’s growing in across his cheeks.

“You can finish shelving these.” He nods toward the box and turns as if to leave.

I furrow my brow. “I thought you were training me.”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “Do you need me to teach you how to put these books on the shelf?”

Okay, maybe Laurel was wrong. He’s still a douche.

Shaking my head, I reach down to grab another pile of paperbacks. “No, I think I’ve got it.”

“Awesome,” Oliver says, checking his watch. “I’m going to go pack up some online orders.”

“Okay,” I reply, and I watch, puzzled, as he walks away.

Most of the afternoon continues in this vein, with Oliver finding menial tasks for me and then rushing off to do other things. While I’m glad he isn’t hanging over my shoulder, being a jerk, I also feel like I’m not really learning a whole lot.

I reshelve books and muse about the diary entries I read last night. I’m probably overthinking things. A lot can happen to a book in 66 years. Maybe the pages were removed by accident. Perhaps the journal was damaged, or something.

Most likely, it really was just my grandmother, deciding she was too embarrassed about some sort of unholy thing she wrote about in there, and deciding to tear the pages out so nosy granddaughters like me would never read them.

I’m amused, both at the knowledge that she was doing unholy things at all, and that she was savvy enough to make sure no one ever found out.

And that’s about where my amusement runs out in the bookstore today. I quickly grow weary of picking things up and moving them around. Even though it gets very busy in the shop for most of the afternoon, I only get a chance to talk to three customers, and none of them are looking for a reading recommendation.