Page 128 of If All Else Sails
“We should probably get below deck,” he says, lips brushing mine with every word.
“We’re already drenched,” I say. “What’s the point?”
“The point,” Wyatt says between kisses, “is that I’d like to kiss you without fear of either one of us falling overboard or being struck by lightning.”
“Reasonable,” I say, while pressing a kiss to his jaw.
“Also—I don’t want this jersey to get ruined,” Wyatt says, pulling back to look me up and down.
I’d forgotten I was wearing it.
“How does it look?” I ask. “It’s way too big.”
“It’s perfect,” Wyatt says, bending forward to kiss me again before gently turning me around and brushing my hair away from my neck. “My last name looks good on you, Rookie. Maybe we can find a way to keep it there.”
Chapter30
WAG Pants
Josie
We definitely should have started kissing earlier. I’m amazed by how it makes everything instantly more enjoyable. Like magic.
Planning our day’s route over coffee? Better with kissing. (After we’ve both brushed our teeth, of course.)
Piloting the boat? Better with kissing.
Calling another boat to let them know we’re passing? Better with Wyatt’s lips grazing my neck.
Even waiting for an hourly bridge to open while fighting a wicked current is better with kissing.
Releasing more of Uncle Tom’s ashes? Okay—we didn’t kiss while doingthat. But we did hug, which led to kissing later.
When we reach Savannah, our turnaround point for the trip, it starts to sink in that we’ll be heading home. But I stomp out that thought like it’s a little fire and choose to focus on my excitement about visiting the historic, romantic city I’ve heard so much about.
Doing a little touristy shopping sounds great too.
We check Jib into a doggy day care so she can spend a few hours running freely while we head to the waterfront. Thankfully, Wyatt had the foresight to bring paperwork we got from the vet.
Tugboats and a large steamboat motor past as we stroll hand in hand. Wyatt doesn’t complain once when I drag him into shops that line the cobbled street along the river. Even though it’s clear from his ever-present scowl he is not a shopping kind of man. No surprise there.
“Wyatt, you’ve got to look at this.”
“Another kind of fudge?” he asks from the doorway of the candy shop, where he’s been hovering, waiting to leave. “I think you already sampled them all. And bought several.”
“Not fudge.” I wave him over. “Come here!”
He sighs heavily but crosses the low-ceilinged shop with its wooden barrels of candy, eyes burning into me as he does. The moment he’s close enough, he reaches for me, wrapping an arm around my waist. His fingertips lightly dance along my side. With a sigh, I lean into his chest and he drops his chin to the top of my head.
His touch has become comfort to me. Safety. Something I can trust. And yet I’m not sure if it will ever stop making my heart race. Wyatt is the best kind of addiction.
“Now what am I supposed to be looking at?” he asks.
“This arch!” I point up toward the doorway connecting the candy shop’s two rooms.
“You called me over to look at the architecture?”
“It’s amazing, right?” I run my fingers along the brick arch, surrounded by walls made of chunky black stone with thick grout that looks like nothing used by builders today. “How old do you think this building is?”
