Page 75 of If All Else Sails
“Boo,” I say, even as I’m wiping sweat from my forehead. He’s right. But I already love being on the water.
“If you’d like, we can start going out daily. If not hoisting the sails, I can at least show you some things and teach you to pilot.”
“I’ll get to drive the boat?” I ask.
Wyatt raises his brows. “Absolutely. There’s no way I can do it the whole time. Just...don’t call it driving again. Piloting, steering, or navigating. Not driving.”
Wyatt lets me help tie up as we return to the dock, which I manage, even though it turns out to be a lot more stressful than I thought it would be. I have a feeling I’m quickly going to find that my book and video knowledge barely scratches the surface of preparing me for the trip.
When we get inside, an Amazon truck rumbles down the drive, going a little faster than is necessary. I’m glad Jib isn’t out there. Jib barks her little head off from a perch on the back of the couch.
“Did you order more books?” Wyatt asks as I grab the packages and thank the driver.
“Not this time,” I say, tearing into the first one and pulling out pink ru?ed fabric. “It’s clothing.”
“A little small, don’t you think?” Wyatt asks, frowning as I shake out the dress.
“For me, yes.” I take great delight watching his expression shift as I say, “These are for Jib.”
Chapter18
Fight, Flight, or Kick
Josie
The night before we’re set to leave, I have a nightmare.
I thrash awake, a scream caught in my throat, my conscious brain trying to grasp hold of anything to pull me out and tell me where I am while my fight-or-flight instincts are telling me I need to move. Now.
It’s dark and I scissor my legs, trying to get free from whatever’s holding me—sheets, my brain tries to tell me, though it does little to quell the panic—when there’s a sound and then a hand on my shoulder.
“Josie,” a voice says.
Wyatt.The knowledge sinks in along with a wave of reassurance.
But it takes a moment for my body to get the message. As my feet break free from the sheets, still kicking wildly, I make contact with something solid yet soft.
There’s a groan, and Wyatt’s hand on my shoulder tightens for a moment.
I go still, my brain clearing enough to take in all the data points, flushing out the fear and leaving me panting, heart racing, adrenaline drunk.
I’m with Wyatt at his uncle’s cottage. This is his guest room bed. We’re leaving in the morning. I had a nightmare.
And I just kicked Wyatt.
Kicked him in the...Oh no.
“Wyatt?” I whisper, trying to sit up.
His hand releases me and the bed dips as he sits on the edge, facing away from me, bent at the waist.
The room is velvet darkness, the only light a tiny gray glow from the window. It was overcast when I went to bed, and I’m guessing it still is. The night before, the moon shone like a spotlight through the blinds. Jib, who apparently sleeps like the dead, lets out a snore from her dog bed in the corner.
I tuck my legs under me—Stupid, stupid legs!—and hesitantly flatten a palm against Wyatt’s back. He groans again but leans a little into my touch. I slide my hand over his soft T-shirt, rubbing his back.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry! I had a nightmare. And I was— Did I...kick you?”
“Yep,” he grunts, his voice strained.
