Page 55 of If All Else Sails
“Wyatt,” she snaps back, her fingers shifting and squeezing. “This is ridiculous. Please just—”
It happens. Her fingers hit the exact spot I hoped they wouldn’t and a giggle bursts out of me. Not a laugh, but a giggle.
I suck in a breath and clench my teeth.
“Did you just—”
“No.”
“But was that—”
“It wasn’t.”
“Agiggle. It totally was. Yougiggled, tough guy.” Josie laughs, and I feel the vibration of it move through me where she’s pressed against my back.
I sit up, taking Josie with me since she’s still latched onto me.
“I did not giggle.”
Her fingers flex, and it happens again. Why am I not laughing like a normal person? Have I ever giggled in my life? I feel certain I have not. And now I can’t stop.
The giggles turn into laughter as Josie’s fingers move and dance over my T-shirt. Normally, I sleep bare chested, but it felt weird to do so with Josie in the house. Now I’m very grateful for even this thin barrier.
Although I have to wonder if she would have come this close or touched me at all if I didn’t have a shirt on. I have a feeling she’d have taken one look at my bare torso and gone running.
That’s the thing about Josie—she’s bold about so many things. Until she isn’t.
Her hands find another spot, then another, moving faster than I can swat them away. I swear she’s all arms. Like an octopus. A relentless one.
“Stop,” I wheeze through a laugh, twisting to catch one of her wrists in my hand.
“Can’t,” she pants, doubling down with her free hand. “Too fun.”
I’ll showherfun.
I’ve been holding back. I mean, the reality is that I’ve got inches and pounds on Josie. Muscles I’ve trained and honedfor years in the gym and on the ice. Even with my foot injury, someone like Josie is no match for me.
And I don’t need my foot for this.
Before she can react, I’ve spun us, flipping her onto her back. I cup my hand behind her head so it doesn’t hit the hardwood. Which means my knuckles take the brunt of the impact. And maybe pick up a few more splinters.
Josie makes anoomph, all traces of laughter disappearing as she blinks up at me.
I freeze, hovering over her, one hand under her head and my other circling her wrist. “Are you hurt?”
“Don’t think so,” she whispers.
We’re both breathing hard, like I’ve pinned her after an hour-long wrestling match, not flipped her like a pancake after a tickle attack.
It’s silly. Yet I can’t catch my breath. Pressed into the floor under the weight of her head, my knuckles throb. My other hand is still curled around her wrist.
When Josie came in, her hair was in a ponytail, but it’s loose now. A pink rubber band sits next to my thumb on the floor. Her hair is everywhere, wild and unfettered in a sweep of caramel. The urge to run my fingers through it hits me with a blast of heat.
Is my fever returning?
Nope. Not a fever.
I’m staring, pinning Josie in place as much with my gaze as with my hold on her. This is as close as we’ve ever been, and the weight of the moment hangs between us.
