Page 113 of If All Else Sails
He’s a sight in pads and a jersey and helmet, the smooth line of his jaw—a rarity in a sport that seems to prize beards in equal but opposite proportion to how much it doesn’t value teeth.
Wyatt’s teeth are perfect, for the record. Either he has an amazing mouth guard or a superexpensive cosmetic dentist. Maybe both.
Secretly watching him slam guys into the boards—fun fact I learned: this is what the rink walls are called in hockey—does nothing at all to quell the rising tide of feelings. It should scare me into remembering how my small life doesn’t fit with his big one.
It only leaves me wanting more, acutely aware of all his bird-feather touches.
My self-control is close to snapping when we stop not far from Camp Lejeune the next day. Which, until now, had been a mythic place existing only in commercials about class action lawsuits. Turns out, it’s a real base. And when soldiers are doing firing drills, all traffic on the ICW screeches to a halt. Minus the screeching, of course.
We anchor in the Ditch with a whole group of boats, some I’m starting to recognize from other marinas. Since the drills are taking a while, Wyatt and I head down below for an early lunch and to escape the sun.
I make our lunchtime staple, which Wyatt calls Josie’s Famous Grilled Cheese. It’s honestly just grilled cheese with a unique rotation of ingredients to keep things interesting.
Today it’s extra-sharp cheddar with a little goat cheese, fresh spinach, and sliced tomatoes we picked up at a small market in Oriental. I use Himalayan pink salt (something I insisted on bringing), cracked black pepper (something Wyatt insists I use liberally on everything even though it makes me sneeze), and basil, all topped with a fried egg.
Wyatt groans, shoves his empty plate away, and slumps down a little in his seat. “You’re in the wrong profession,” he says. “You should quit nursing and open a food truck making only this. I hear that chefs rarely have to deal with lice in their profession.”
I laugh, head tilted back, hands gripping the table so I don’t tumble out of the little banquette. “Noted. And thank you for the compliment, even if it’s undeserved. I think being on a boat makes everything taste better. Also? Maybedon’tbring up the L-word around food.”
“Okay, butIdon’thaveany food.” His eyes move from his empty plate to mine, which still has a bite left.
“You’re not very subtle.”
“Never claimed to be.”
I push my plate his way, and he shovels what’s left of my sandwich straight into his mouth. “Hey—slow down and enjoy!”
“Iamenjoying,” he says around a mouthful of sandwich. “Trust me. I’m enjoying.”
His words and the look in his eyes send a little thrill curling through me. Under the table, his knees touch mine. A little bump, then a brush. My skin hums with awareness and our gazes snag. He licks crumbs from his fingers, still watching me intently as the early notes of “These Arms of Mine” play softly through the Bluetooth speaker on the table. It’s almost too apropos.
We’ve been feasting on a steady diet of sixties music: Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Smokey Robinson, Roy Orbison, Woody Guthrie, Joan Baez, and, of course, Elvis. I haven’t asked, but I’m pretty sure Wyatt’s play-list is made up of songs he grew up listening to with his uncle. It’s somehow the exact right soundtrack for sailing. Minus the Beach Boys, who are a little too high energy and feel a little too on the nose.
Wyatt stands abruptly. “Do you dance?”
“Not well.”
“Me neither.” Wyatt holds out a hand, shaking it a little when I don’t immediately take it. “Dance with me.”
Bad idea! Bad, bad, bad idea!the self-protective part of my brain shrieks like a banshee.
Definitely dance with him! Then kiss him!the voice of Toni in my brain argues.
I stay seated, gripping the table for dear life. “We both just agreed we don’t dance well.”
“It’s perfect. Let’s dance not well together.” Wyatt gives me a look. “Josie, it’sOtis.”
I slide my palm into Wyatt’s and get to my feet, legs a little shaky. “For Otis.”
But it’s definitely less for Otis and absolutely more for me as I reach up, running my hands across Wyatt’s broad shoulders. I keep one there and let the other move to the back of his neck, playing with the strands of hair just brushing his shirt collar. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close as we start to sway.
He immediately steps on my foot.
I laugh as he grimaces. “Sorry,” he says. “You okay?”
Then I step on his foot. His good one, thankfully.
“Sorry!”
