Page 57 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

I incline my head in affirmation. “That’s my new plan for the evening. Want that second drink I promised you?”

“This was already our second drink.”

“Yes, but the first one was from Laurel. This would be the second one from me.”

He pauses for a moment, then nods. “Sure, why not?”

Forty-five minutes later, the volume at our table has risen several decibels, as we’re down another whiskey and a half each. The nachos are gone, but they’ve been replaced by a platter of mozzarella sticks.

“Did I tell you why I came here this summer?” I ask, far too loudly.

“Was it to fulfill your lifelong dream of working in a bookshop?”

“No, weirdo,” I respond. “That was just a fringe benefit.” I grab a mozzarella stick and wave it around in the air. “Actually, it’s because of a man.”

Oliver nods. “Me?”

I snicker. “Definitely not. It’s because of Kyle.”

“Kyle?” He wrinkles his nose. “He sounds like a douche.”

“You have no idea,” I nod sagely. “He cheated on me. With the school nurse.”

“Wow, those jokes just write themselves,” he says, dipping a mozzarella stick in marinara.

“As it turns out, everyone at work knew but me. Apparently,” I slur a little, “he wasn’t as into me as I’d thought.”

Oliver’s considering me thoughtfully, leaning his elbows on the edge of the table.

“What?” I’m suddenly self-conscious. “Do I have food on my face, or something?”

“Nah,” he says. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I want to know!” I whine.

“Just not understanding how someone could do that to you,” he says quietly.

My heart skips in my chest. “What do you mean?”

His eyes settle on mine. “You’re too good a person for that.”

“Evidently not.” I smile wryly. “Alternatively, that might have been the exact problem. I’m too good, and that’s boring, and so I got taken advantage of.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Nope. There’s no excuse. Kyle’s scum, and you deserve better.” He leans toward me over the table. “Perhaps like the weirdo with the red polo?” His mouth twitches.

“Ew, no,” I say, once again very loudly.

“Shh,” he whispers. “Don’t look now, but he’s making another pass.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I reply. I shoot a glance over my shoulder and see the guy, who looks like a Sperry's Docksiders ad that got trampled under a park bench, walking with intention toward our table once more.

“Let’s go,” Oliver says, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the table.

“Go where?”