Page 73 of If All Else Sails
I’m much slower than he was descending what I’d describe as a stair-ladder, but a moment later, I’m inside. Wyatt is still smiling, casually leaning against a counter.
“This is the saloon,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “A.k.a. the living room, dining room, and galley.”
I’m already moving around the galley, peering inside the tiny oven and running my fingers over the miniature burners.
“Good thing those weren’t hot,” Wyatt says.
“Why would they be hot right now?”
“Maybe I was making soup while waiting for you to climb down.”
“I wasn’t that slow,” I say. “Is soup something you eat a lot of on the boat?”
Wyatt leans over, opening one cabinet, then another. He makes a face as he pulls out a can, frowning at the labels. “One of the things. But we’ll need to restock. I think they stopped selling this brand in the nineties.”
“I can make up a menu,” I say, opening another cabinet. This one contains only spiderwebs. I close it quickly. “And if something isn’t as easy to make with this setup, you can tell me.”
“Sounds like a plan. We’ll also stop at various marinas with restaurants. There are some great ones along the way.”
Probably ones Wyatt ate at with his uncle. He sets the can back on the shelf and closes the cabinet door slowly, resting his palm flat against the wood for just a moment. Both corners of his mouth are turned down. A few weeks ago, I might have just thought this was his normal grumpy—or IBS—face, but now it seems like something else.
“Where’s the bedroom?” I ask. “I mean, the cabin?”
I hadn’t thought about the sleeping arrangements before now and am relieved when Wyatt says, “There are two. The first is right through here. After you.”
The first cabin we see is right off the saloon. There are two berths, or beds, a dressing table or desk between them. The walls are lined with little built-in shelves and cabinets, and there are narrow windows all along the top.
“Cozy,” I say.
“This is where I slept,” Wyatt says. “And where I’ll sleep. Unless you decide you’d rather have this cabin. Lady’s choice.”
“Can you fit?” I ask. It’s not exactly cramped, but Wyatt is large and has to duck through the doorways.
“Well enough.”
The other cabin is at the front, and we stop to look at the engine and the head, or bathroom, on the way. Everything feels so small, especially with Wyatt’s big body putting off heat like an engine. He’s everywhere, and with every step and movement, our arms brush or our hands touch or our hips slide against each other.
You’re going to have to survive three, maybe four weeks of this, I realize.
It will be the most delicious—and dangerous—kind of torture.
“This little hallway is known as the captain’s quarters,” Wyatt says, stopping just outside the second cabin’s open door. “Some people hire a captain to sail the boat. I’d never do it, but if I did, they would sleep here.”
He pats a flat, shelflike area, which I suppose could be a bed if there were a tiny mattress.
“It would have to be a short captain,” I say.
“Perfect for you if you don’t like this cabin.”
“As I keep trying to tell you, I’m not short.”
Wyatt stretches to his full height, which means his head touches the ceiling. Looking down his nose at me, he says, “Okay. You’re not short.”
“Shut up, Sasquatch.”
I walk ahead of him into the second cabin, which has barely a shoebox to stand in because the whole thing isbed. Probably a double? Like the other cabin, there are small windows along the top of the walls and various storage cubbies.
Wyatt is suddenly behind me, and the small room seems even smaller. And hotter. Literally and figuratively. There’s no escape either, with him blocking the whole doorway and his Wyattness suffocating me.
