Page 42 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

I just can’t. I can’t do whatever this is. It’s a bad, bad idea. The way sparring with Oliver makes me feel isn’t compatible with the duration of my tenure here, nor with our status as coworkers.

And besides, I don’t need him. I have egg salad and several smutty romantasy books to get me through the night.

twelve

The rest of the week flies by, thanks to the seemingly endless throngs of vacationers eager to find their perfect beach reads. I’m loving every minute of working at Shoreline now, maybe even more than I adore the languid afternoons I’ve been enjoying on my days off, stretched out on the beach with my books.

The shop is almost always busy, and my mind rarely has time to feel stagnant. It’s just me and the challenge of reading people and matching them to their literary soulmates, over and over and over again.

I can’t get enough of it.

On Saturday, Oliver and I are finishing our project with the staff pick recommendations when the bell on the door rings. I straighten up, ducking out of the New Release shelves so whoever just came in can see that there’s help to be had, if they need it.

It’s Laurel.

“Ivy!” she shouts, as if we haven’t seen each other since college and we just happened to show up at the same restaurant.

“Laurel?” I’m puzzled. She’d been so focused on her work this week that I’ve barely seen her, but she’d made it quite clear that she couldn’t take the time to do anything else.

Not to mention, she looks more than a little disheveled at the moment. Usually, Laurel is very concerned about curling her hair and applying several coats of mascara before she goes out in public.

Right now, though, her Venetian blonde locks are gathered loosely in a ponytail, and she’s wearing an oversized Brookline Youth Soccer t-shirt that features at least four stains of dubious origins. Her neon purple yoga pants clash with her orange running shoes, and it doesn’t even appear that she has her purse.

“Just taking a little break.” She grins, and I can’t help but notice that she looks a little bit deranged. If you’re allowed to say such things about your beloved relatives, that is.

I assess her face for some indication of what made her change her mind about having to work all day today, but I find none. “I’m glad,” I reply honestly. She really seems like she needs some time away from her laptop.

“Also, I’ve finalized our plans for the evening,” she continues.

My brow quirks up. “Oh?” Because she’d blown me off last weekend, other than our Marginal Way walk, I’d made her swear she would pick something recreational for this weekend instead.

Just then, Oliver strides out from between the bookshelves, carrying the most recent James Patterson novel. “You’d think he’d be ready for a break by now,” he’s saying, clearly expecting me to be somewhere besides in the entryway of the shop, talking with my cousin.

“Oh,” Oliver says. “Hey, Laurel.”

“Hi, Oliver!” Laurel beams. “You’re just in time to hear about Ivy’s evening plans!”

“Alleged plans,” I mutter.

“See, I knew you were sassy,” Oliver jokes.

“No one asked your opinion,” I shoot back.

He waves a staff pick notecard in my face. “True, but I was kind enough to ask yours.”

I smirk. “Let me guess—now you’re starting to regret it?”

“Is there no mystery left?” He shakes his head in mock exasperation.

Laurel is watching us, an intrigued look on her face. She tries very hard to make eye contact with me, presumably to communicate some sort of subtext about how I’m flirting with Oliver. I purposely ignore her and stare at the book that’s still in my hand.

She clears her throat. “I’ve decided that we’re going to the dance hall tonight.”

She’s talking to me, but Oliver answers her. “The dance hall? Is this 1950?”

“Clearly not,” I respond. “Rachel and her friends love it there, and you said they’re only children. Thus, the dance hall is ageless.”

Laurel’s face is rapt on us as we banter; she’s obviously feeding off this drama, bereft of any social interaction whatsoever as she’s been of late.