Page 64 of If All Else Sails
“Okay.” I slip my hand from his because the contact and the late night and the whole conversation and the idea of being alone with him on a boat is too much.
But before I even take a step, Wyatt says, “Also...I think I have a few splinters in my knees.”
With a sigh, I sit back down.
Chapter15
This Is Called a Hug
Josie
I’m not sure what to expect the next morning when I see Wyatt in the light of day. The vulnerability of our middle-of-the-night conversation, plus all the physical touching, has me feeling jittery with nerves. I’m staring into the refrigerator, wondering what I should make for breakfast, when Wyatt crutches into the kitchen and says, “I made an appointment.”
I look over at him and freeze. Even when cold air gusts over my bare feet, I can’t move.
Because Wyatt shaved.
The dark blond stubble I’ve just gotten used to seeing is gone in favor of a cleanly shaven sharp jawline. His dark blond hair is damp, and the scent of his body wash wafts through the room. I can almost picture it like a cartoon with its tendrils snaking across the room and wrapping around me like some kind of spell.
“What?” I work to rearrange my face so I’m not staring at Wyatt’s jaw.
“For physical therapy,” he says. “I called my doctor.”
“You did?”
“Yep. How was your morning walk? Did you bring home any fresh bacon?” he asks like this whole moment isn’t revolutionary. Like he wasn’t just telling me no the day before in this very same room. And like me being here and taking morning walks is a given.
A shaved face and calling the doctorandhe’s teasing me? I wonder if the fever’s back. But Wyatt looks totally healthy. No sign of pain or fever. Just a smooth, sharp jawline that’s somehow throwing me for a loop.
“No pigs were harmed, but only because I haven’t taken my walk yet. I slept in.Someonekept me up last night with his splinters.”
“Only because you kept me up with your bed squeaking.”
“Only because your stupid bed squeaks. So, when is the appointment?”
“This afternoon.”
“Can I come?” I should have thought before asking, but Wyatt’s whole thing this morning is throwing me off. It’s possible I might need to up my coffee intake to three cups, not just two.
He hesitates but then shocks me even more by saying, “Yes.”
“Cool. I was going to go to the library later this morning if you want to come with me. No pressure. Oh, and what do you want for dinner?”
“Surprise me,” Wyatt says, then nods toward the still-open fridge. I have officially cooled the room at least a few degrees by forgetting to close this door. “Don’t throw that away, okay?”
I follow his gaze. “Do you mean the Cool Whip that says DO NOT THROW AWAY? I don’t know—notes like that make me want to do the exact opposite.”
His expression shifts. “It’s not Cool Whip.”
I wait for him to say more, and when he doesn’t, I sigh heavily.“Are you going to tell me whatisin the Cool Whip container that I shouldn’t throw away?”
There is a long pause before Wyatt finally says, “My uncle.”
“Who keeps their dead uncle’s ashes in a Cool Whip container?” I ask Toni when I’m taking my walk after the whole kitchen insanity of the morning. “Serial killers. Murderers.Hockey players, that’s who.”
“I doubt that’s a general statement you can make about hockey players,” Toni says. “A better question is: Who agrees to go on a sailing trip with a hockey player who keeps his uncle in a Cool Whip container? Also, why Cool Whip?”
“He says that’s what he had on hand.”
