Page 110 of If All Else Sails
I sit up, dropping my hand from his face. “What? Why?”
He sits up, too, and scoots back so far I’m concerned he’ll topple out of bed. The inches between us feel like miles.
“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with me. If you need...space. Physically or otherwise.”
He slides his legs toward the edge of the bed like he’s goingto climb out, and I fist my hand in the front of his T-shirt, tugging him back toward me.
“Wyatt,” I say, a soft admonishment. “Don’t you know by now?”
“Know what?”
“I trust you.”
They aren’t the only three words I could say, but they’re the ones that best fit this moment. The other ones, the ones I suspect are also true, stay tightly curled behind my ribs. Where they probably need to stay. Possibly forever.
“I don’t know why,” I continue, “considering your constant grumbling about everything and the way you answer no to eighty-seven percent of questions you’re asked—”
“That’s a very specific data point. Josie, are you counting my nos?”
“No.”
He chuckles, and I loosen my hand, letting go of his soft T-shirt and smoothing it over his chest. I keep my hand there. Though I can’t feel his heart beating, I know it’s there, steady and strong below my palm.
“Stay,” I whisper. “Please.”
“You’re sure?”
I am.
After a few minutes, Wyatt and I both settle back down on our respective sides of the bed. He makes a joke about building a pillow wall between us. I kick him in the shin. He traps my feet between his.
I don’t think it will be possible to fall asleep, but I must because I wake in the soft hush that exists between midnight and morning. Wyatt’s feet still bracket mine and he has one of my hands clasped in his, right up against his mouth where I can feel the steady whisper of his breath on my fingertips.
Chapter26
Saved by the Air Horn
Josie
When I wake up the next morning with a mild headache and a medium-to-large vulnerability hangover, I’m alone in bed except for Jib, who’s curled up by my feet, snoring softly.
I slide my hand across to Wyatt’s side and find the sheets cool. Disappointment curdles in my belly.
It shouldn’t matter if he’s not here. But after what I told him last night, I’m feeling extra vulnerable. Extra sensitive, too, apparently, because my feelings are hurt.
Did Wyatt freak out because of what I told him? Or because we shared a bed? Did he open his eyes and immediately feel regret? Did I drool on him?
I’m just sitting up when the door opens. Wyatt steps inside, and I suck in a breath at the sight of him, sweat dripping down his bare chest and holding a to-go cup of coffee in each hand.
Sensitivity and hurt feelings and overthinky thoughts evaporate when Wyatt’s gaze softens and his mouth curves up ina rare smile. The sight of him smiling and shirtless and with coffee floods me with warmth. I’m sure my cheeks are pink even before I regain my breath.
“You’re up,” he says.
“And you’ve been busy.” As he approaches the bed, holding out a paper cup, I do my best not to ogle all the shiny, smooth muscle. I take the coffee, then almost drop it. “Wait—were yourunning?”
Wyatt takes a small step back and rubs a hand over his neck. “About that. I need to tell you something,” he says.
The phrase that no oneeverwants to hear. I wait, taking a sip of coffee for fortitude. Only, it’s not just coffee. It’s a latte with one pump of vanilla—my standard coffee shop order. So much for fortitude.
