Page 103 of If All Else Sails
“Ready?” Wyatt asks, and my mind goes back to our conversation a few nights ago. The one where he essentially told me that I get to set the pace.
I want to yell,Yes, I’m ready!
But he’s asking about dinner, so I nod and smile, deposit Jib in the room, and follow Wyatt downstairs.
Chapter25
Pity Truth with Zero Qualms
Josie
Per my usual since we started the trip, I eat dinner with the appetite of a teenage boy mid–growth spurt. Though our simple galley breakfasts, lunches, and occasional dinners when we’re in an anchorage are fine, restaurant meals feel extravagant to me now. And I’m always starving. Sailing—even if Wyatt does most of the work with the actual sails and lines—is exhausting.
“You decimated your flounder,” Wyatt says, a smile in his voice. “It was good?”
I nod, dragging my fork wistfully over my plate, like it can magically produce more. “Seafood always tastes better by the ocean. Even if they’re importing it from somewhere else. I don’t want to know.”
Wyatt points to a chalkboard menu sign that readsLocal fish caught fresh dailyacross the top. “I think you’re safe there.”
He drops a fried shrimp on my plate, and I snatch it so fast he actually chuckles. I grin, mouth closed while I chew.
“Thanks,” I tell him when I can. “Everything is just better right now.”
My words land with more weight than I intended. I meant everything tastes better, but everything is better. Wyatt’s gaze catches mine. And when he casually extends his hand across the table, palm up in a low-pressure invitation, I slide my fingers between his, easy as breathing.
This I can do. Hand-holding. Flirting with Wyatt. Flirting with theideaof Wyatt.
Anything more or anything having to do with the future and my frontal lobe shuts down, leaving me with the panicked, cortisol-fueled drama of my lizard brain.
Wyatt said whenI’mready.
But what if I never feel ready?
All of the comfortable ease from dinner vanishes the moment we open the hotel room door and are faced, once again, with the one bed.
At least it’s a king?
We pull apart like we’re holding hot potatoes instead of hands. I laugh awkwardly, then walk inside the room to Jib, who is completely oblivious to the sudden tension burning up all the oxygen around us. With a little grumble, she rolls over, offering me her belly for scratches.
“You can use the bathroom first if you want,” Wyatt offers.
“Sure,” I reply, giving Jib a last scratch before ducking into the bathroom, where I give myself a very strong, silent talking to about being a mature adult while toothpaste dribbles down my chin.
While Wyatt’s in the bathroom, I switch on HGTV and watch as two people search for the best bargain property on the beach. I never care about which house the couples choose— they never pick the one I think they should—but I make it a game to guess which one theywillpick. I’ve gotten good too.
Wyatt settles next to me in bed, still a respectable distance away, but so close it sends a shudder through my limbs. Jib is curled up, separating our legs like the perfect little barrier, but she groans as Wyatt messes with the blankets, then hops down and climbs into one of the armchairs. She’s snoring again in seconds.
Traitor! What happened to the ladies sticking together?
“Are you in the market for a beach house?” Wyatt asks.
“On my salary? Please.” I almost tell him about my plans to look for a house in Fredericksburg. But since I still haven’t done more than think about thinking about it, instead I ask, “Do you have a place in Boston?”
“No. I’ve moved around so much, I rent wherever I go.”
“That makes me feel better. Sometimes it seems like I’m the only adult who doesn’t own a house.” He’s quiet so long, I glance over and see a pinched look. “Wait—youdoown a house, don’t you?”
He blows out a breath. “Two. One in Northern Virginia and one in Cape Cod. Plus, now, the murder cottage.” He grins at this last one. “I just don’t happen to live in any of them.”
