Page 89 of If All Else Sails
Something still holds me back. A little pocket of fear, a tiny hiccup of hesitation.
If Wyatt kissed me now, I wouldn’t stop him. I wouldn’t be sorry.
But I’m also not sure I’d be ready.
With no warning, he wraps me in his arms and tugs me closer until my cheek rests against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. I stiffen in surprise, not fear, and one of his big hands slides up my back, his palm a comforting sweep of warmth.
“This is called a hug,” he says, and I remember saying this same thing to him a few weeks ago.
I snort. “I’m aware. Thank you.”
Sighing, I snuggle in, allowing him to pull me closer, hold me tighter. When I breathe in his masculine scent, I feel comfortable. Sheltered.Safe.
Yet also like I’m dancing unsteadily on the edge of a blade.
“I’m a patient man. I won’t push you,” Wyatt says then. “At least, nottoohard. Hopefully, just hard enough.”
“How do you know what’s just hard enough?” I ask, my fingers flexing on his lower back.
“You may not realize this,” he says, “but I’ve become an expert in reading you, Josie.”
“An expert, huh?”
“Certified.”
“Or certifiable?”
He hums, a low, rough sound that’s almost a growl. With my face pressed against his chest, I can feel the vibration move through me. I want him to do it again, to feel the rumble on my skin.
“Just know that you’re in charge,” he says. “If I push too much or if you want me to stop or if you don’t feel safe, say the word. Do you understand? It’s about whenyou’reready.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my fingers clutching his shirt, tugging the material into my fists, torn between wanting to be closer and wanting to run away.
“Good.”
Pressing a kiss so quickly to the top of my head that I barely register it, Wyatt lets go of me and strides back to his room. Leaving me standing in the cramped hallway, wondering what I just agreed to and if it’s too soon to tell him I’m already ready.
Or if I want to run to shore, find Wanda, and hitch a ride up north with her and Greg.
Chapter21
Grasping at Tiny Paper Straws
Wyatt
“You only made one real mistake yesterday,” I tell Josie the next morning.
At the flash of surprised hurt on her face, I immediately wish for a large cartoon boulder to fall on my head. Or an anvil. Maybe a baby grand piano.
Because I’m running my idiot flag up the pole and flying it high this morning.
Josie hands me a mug of coffee from the counter with a tight smile. “Just the way you enjoy it—black like your heart. And it’s a little early in the morning for criticism, isn’t it?”
Imeantto be encouraging. To tell Josie she did a great job on her first day sailing. One tiny mistake when she missed seeing the channel markers. We didn’t run aground or hit anything. No biggie—though she beat herself up over it. I meant to reassure her.
But what I just said was the equivalent of a negative performance review. Like some kind of terrible boss. Or a very bad captain.
Per usual, I don’t know how to fix my bumbling words.
