26. Saved by the Air Horn #2
I don’t understand the game aside from the idea that the puck needs to get into the net, but it doesn’t matter.
There is no shortage of Wyatt Jacobs highlights on YouTube.
Wyatt Jacobs playlists organized by fans.
A few full games, but I quickly realize following a game is beyond my pay grade.
I can’t ever tell where the puck is. Too fast.
But I can’t take my eyes off Wyatt.
He’s a sight in pads and a jersey and helmet, the smooth line of his jaw—a rarity in a sport that seems to prize beards in equal but opposite proportion to how much it doesn’t value teeth.
Wyatt’s teeth are perfect, for the record. Either he has an amazing mouth guard or a superexpensive cosmetic dentist. Maybe both.
Secretly watching him slam guys into the boards—fun fact I learned: this is what the rink walls are called in hockey—does nothing at all to quell the rising tide of feelings. It should scare me into remembering how my small life doesn’t fit with his big one.
It only leaves me wanting more, acutely aware of all his bird-feather touches.
My self-control is close to snapping when we stop not far from Camp Lejeune the next day.
Which, until now, had been a mythic place existing only in commercials about class action lawsuits.
Turns out, it’s a real base. And when soldiers are doing firing drills, all traffic on the ICW screeches to a halt. Minus the screeching, of course.
We anchor in the Ditch with a whole group of boats, some I’m starting to recognize from other marinas. Since the drills are taking a while, Wyatt and I head down below for an early lunch and to escape the sun.
I make our lunchtime staple, which Wyatt calls Josie’s Famous Grilled Cheese. It’s honestly just grilled cheese with a unique rotation of ingredients to keep things interesting.
Today it’s extra-sharp cheddar with a little goat cheese, fresh spinach, and sliced tomatoes we picked up at a small market in Oriental.
I use Himalayan pink salt (something I insisted on bringing), cracked black pepper (something Wyatt insists I use liberally on everything even though it makes me sneeze), and basil, all topped with a fried egg.
Wyatt groans, shoves his empty plate away, and slumps down a little in his seat. “You’re in the wrong profession,” he says. “You should quit nursing and open a food truck making only this. I hear that chefs rarely have to deal with lice in their profession.”
I laugh, head tilted back, hands gripping the table so I don’t tumble out of the little banquette. “Noted. And thank you for the compliment, even if it’s undeserved. I think being on a boat makes everything taste better. Also? Maybe don’t bring up the L-word around food.”
“Okay, but I don’t have any food.” His eyes move from his empty plate to mine, which still has a bite left.
“You’re not very subtle.”
“Never claimed to be.”
I push my plate his way, and he shovels what’s left of my sandwich straight into his mouth. “Hey—slow down and enjoy!”
“I am enjoying,” he says around a mouthful of sandwich. “Trust me. I’m enjoying.”
His words and the look in his eyes send a little thrill curling through me.
Under the table, his knees touch mine. A little bump, then a brush.
My skin hums with awareness and our gazes snag.
He licks crumbs from his fingers, still watching me intently as the early notes of “These Arms of Mine” play softly through the Bluetooth speaker on the table. It’s almost too apropos.
We’ve been feasting on a steady diet of sixties music: Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Smokey Robinson, Roy Orbison, Woody Guthrie, Joan Baez, and, of course, Elvis.
I haven’t asked, but I’m pretty sure Wyatt’s play-list is made up of songs he grew up listening to with his uncle.
It’s somehow the exact right soundtrack for sailing.
Minus the Beach Boys, who are a little too high energy and feel a little too on the nose.
Wyatt stands abruptly. “Do you dance?”
“Not well.”
“Me neither.” Wyatt holds out a hand, shaking it a little when I don’t immediately take it. “Dance with me.”
Bad idea! Bad, bad, bad idea! the self-protective part of my brain shrieks like a banshee.
Definitely dance with him! Then kiss him! the voice of Toni in my brain argues.
I stay seated, gripping the table for dear life. “We both just agreed we don’t dance well.”
“It’s perfect. Let’s dance not well together.” Wyatt gives me a look. “Josie, it’s Otis .”
I slide my palm into Wyatt’s and get to my feet, legs a little shaky. “For Otis.”
But it’s definitely less for Otis and absolutely more for me as I reach up, running my hands across Wyatt’s broad shoulders.
I keep one there and let the other move to the back of his neck, playing with the strands of hair just brushing his shirt collar.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close as we start to sway.
He immediately steps on my foot.
I laugh as he grimaces. “Sorry,” he says. “You okay?”
Then I step on his foot. His good one, thankfully.
“Sorry!”
“I see how it is.”
“That wasn’t retribution! I swear. I told you—I don’t dance well.”
“I think you’re doing just fine— ow .”
I drop my forehead to Wyatt’s chest after stepping on him again, hiding the flush in my cheeks as I laugh. “How about this? We don’t lift our feet and just sway?”
“You think we’ll be able to handle a small shu?e?” he asks.
“Probably not. It’s weird you’re bad at this when you’re so good on the ice.” I realize my mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth.
His eyes glitter. “Rookie, have you been watching hockey?”
“No.” I’m sure the flush in my cheeks will give me away, so I duck my head. “No more talking. We’re ruining Otis.”
“Otis cannot be ruined by bad dancing or by talking.” With a sigh that sounds more contented than frustrated, Wyatt tugs me a little closer. He dips his chin so his cheek rests near the top of my head. “And I know you’re lying to me, Josie. I heard the videos. I know what hockey sounds like.”
I pull back. “I was wearing headphones!”
His wicked grin does things to my stomach. I drop my head to his chest again so I don’t have to see it. “You are the worst.”
“Not at hockey. You said so yourself.”
I grumble but don’t try to argue. It’s futile. So is, it seems, my resistance to Wyatt.
His hands move ever so slightly, tightening on my hips.
I’m practically vibrating with tension, suddenly aware of how small the space in the saloon is, the galley on one side and the seating area on the other.
How close Wyatt and I are. How firm his hands feel against my back.
How good he smells. The heat of his skin.
The way his fingertips flex lightly, as though they’re itching to move and explore.
But what I’m most aware of is the thrum of my own impatience like a plucked string.
I like Wyatt. I trust Wyatt. He’s been nothing but amazing on this trip. The kind of imperfect perfect I didn’t know he could be.
So what if this can’t be long term? So what if he leaves for Boston once we get back and I head home? Why can’t I just enjoy the moment for once?
Maybe Toni was right. Not about the running—she’s wrong there. Definitely wrong. But maybe she’s right about the kissing. What’s the harm in a kiss?
Plenty of harm! So much harm! the same protective part of me screams.
I hit the Mute button.
Tilting my head back, I scan Wyatt’s handsome face, his smooth jaw and gray eyes. His full, frowning lips. That’s when I notice it.
“You’ve got egg on your face,” I say, brushing it away with a fingertip. “Literal egg. Not figurative egg.”
“Can’t have that,” he murmurs, eyes locked on my mouth.
“Your a?iction is catching,” I tell him.
He frowns, and the little divot appearing between his eyebrows is adorable. I want to press a kiss there, to smooth it out beneath my lips.
“What a?iction?” he asks.
“Foot-in-mouth disease.” I pause, tell myself to be brave. Lick my lips. His eyes track the movement. “I’m not very good at saying what I mean.”
“What do you want to say, Josie?” The husk in his voice tells me he knows what I meant to say. Or, at least, he suspects. Hopes.
“I don’t want to say anything.”
I also don’t know that I’m brave enough to kiss him first. Or that we should be kissing at all. But I’ve passed the point of no return, of letting logical thought steer the ship. I’ve stepped over the edge and am in free fall.
Wyatt sways closer, his face dipping down as I lift up on my toes. His nose bumps mine and then—
“Let’s goooooo!”
The moment is rudely interrupted by blaring horns and cheers and shouts. There’s even an air horn in the mix. Or is that a bullhorn? I think it’s actually both.
Bullhorns or matterhorns or whatever, they do the hard work of ruining the moment—or saving it, depending on which part of my brain I’m listening to at the moment.
“Guess we should get moving!” I say, and with what I know is probably a disturbingly wide and completely insincere smile, I scramble up on deck.