Page 98 of If All Else Sails
“Boat shoes suit you,” Wyatt says, nodding down at my feet.
It’s been a few days since he gave them to me, and we’re having coffee on deck again—our new morning routine and one of my favorite parts of every day. Jib is curled up in his lap in her pirate outfit. She fell asleep a few minutes ago after ripping off her eye patch and chewing it up. I can’t even be mad.
Because I actually agree with Wyatt on this point: The eye patch was ridiculous.
“Thanks.” A pleased flush rises in my cheeks. I wiggle my feet, showing off the light brown leather shoes with their rubber soles. The ones I’ve barely taken off for the last few days. I would have slept in them, but they aren’tthatcomfortable.
But fit isn’t the reason I don’t want to take them off. It’s the same reason people joke about not washing their hands after touching a celebrity. Or—sort of the same reason.I’m still getting over the fact that Wyatt bought me the shoes I’d been stressing over just before we left.
And then had them mailed ahead to one of our stops.
“I’m not sure I want to know how you knew my shoe size.”
Wyatt smirks. “Please. I just picked up one of your shoes and looked.”
“Hey! That’s an invasion of privacy.” I poke him in the arm, tempted to leave my hand there. It’s a very nice arm.
But I’m still a little hesitant with my touches. Not because I’m nervous or feel uncomfortable. It’s more that I don’t know yet where we are. Or where I want us to be.
One minute, I’m totally feeling like I shouldn’t worry about the ending. About what comes after this trip. I want to enjoy the moment and whatever is blossoming here.
Carpe diemand all that.
The next minute I’m terrified to let anything blossom here because if something goes wrong, we’ll be stuck on a boat together for the next few weeks. Also, he is my brother’s best friend and client. Who plays a sport in another city hours away. A professional athlete. One who has never shown any interest until now. In fact, he actively didn’t like me until recently.
Maybe most importantly, after not dating for basically my whole adult life, is this where I should start—withWyatt?
So, yeah—I can’t decide how much touching is too much. How much to share. How much to allow myself to daydream or flirt without pulling myself back to safety. My question is not the classicShould I stay or should I go?It’s moreShould I hope or should I nope?
Only now, each time I pull back, I’m disappointed in myself. I’m the Cowardly Lion personified. And wearing boat shoes.
“Should I send them back then? Since they were gained by invasive methods?” he asks.
“That’s okay. I’ll keep them. Just don’t let it happen again.”
“No promises,” he says, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach flutter. “But I wasn’t talking about the fit. I mean theysuityou. All of this does, Josie.”
He glances around, and I do too. The water is glassy, and other than the occasional bird calling or fish breaking the surface only to disappear faster than we can see it, it’s a quiet morning. Cloudy, so even the sun is on mute.
Last night the marina at the River Rat Yacht Club where we planned to stay was crowded and loud, with a large group having some kind of reunion or meetup. I was relieved when Wyatt suggested we press on a little in the fading light and anchor at the mouth of Campbell Creek—after a brief stop at the club for showers, a meal, and laundry. I don’t know if the yacht reciprocity thing still works or if Wyatt just flashes his famous face and his wallet around.
Either way, I’m not complaining. I’ve never appreciated showers so much. Ones where I’m not cramped in a space so small I’m forced to wash my body with T. rex arms in the boat’s tiny shower. I don’t know how Wyatt fits in there at all.
It’s quiet here in a little inlet off the Ditch, and since the other boats pulled away this morning before I was even out of my bed, it feels...private. The perfect kind of morning.
I could do this forever, I think, looking back at Wyatt. He wears a soft smile as he looks at Jib.I could do this withyouforever.
The words stay lodged in my throat. For now. Though the idea behind them is starting to expand, growing larger by the day, too big to be held inside my body. Even if there’s another part of me—the part that’s been playing protector for years— urging me to run. My feelings for Wyatt kick my fight-or-flight instincts into overdrive, which I’m pretty sure is not what’s supposed to happen when you like someone.
It shouldn’t be terrifying, right?
I realize Wyatt is studying me, his gray eyes soft in the morning light. How much of my inner struggle is written all over my face? I get the sense he knows me maybe better than I know myself. At least some parts of me.
Others I’ve hidden away, blocked from his view, burying them so deep no one could know. Not without some kind of excavator to unearth them. Or by dosing me with a truth serum.
I could talk to Wyatt. It’s strange to realize when I think back to how I’ve always viewed him, but I may trust Wyatt as much or even more than Toni. And if I decide to ignore my fight-or-flight instincts and consider exploring the feelings I think are mutual, I’llneedto talk to him.
I’m looking forward to that about as much as I’m looking forward to the stinky task of pumping out the boat’s holding tank at the next stop.
