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Phillip is standing beside me, all silent judgment at my plan. He’s in navy slacks and a blue linen button-down, like we’re going to a sit-down restaurant, even if the sleeves are rolled up and his top button undone.
He also looks handsome. Masculine in a way Caleb rarely was, with his sailing shoes firmly planted on the cracked sidewalk.
“We can take a real taxi home,” I say. “But this is part of the experience.”
The next route taxi stops, and a guy jumps out of the front seat. He opens the sliding door to a minivan packed with Bajans and tourists alike. Loud soca music blasts out of a hidden speaker.
“There’s no space,” Phillip says.
“Oh, there sure is! Yes please!” the guy says and pulls down a foldable seat from the wall. Three people are already seated next to it. “Gentleman first!”
Phillip sits, hesitancy in his movements. The guy beside us gestures for me to hop on in after him. But there’s no space.
“Um, where, exactly?”
“On his lap!” the guy says.
On the street around us, someone honks. We must be holding up traffic.
I get in, crouching to avoid hitting my head on the vehicle’s roof and leaning over Phillip. I can’t sit on his lap, can I? The guy pulls the sliding door closed and jumps back onto the front seat. A second later the route taxi starts moving again, pulling out on the trafficked road to the heavy beats of music.
“Come on,” Phillip mutters behind me and puts a hand on my waist. I’m tugged backward, and then I’m there, sitting on his lap.
I turn. “Sure this is okay?”
There’s a yes somewhere close to my right ear. The half-open window sends air through my hair, whipping it back. It’s hard to think over the loud music.
“I’m sorry,” I say and tug it around to my right shoulder. “You okay?”
There’s no response, probably because he can’t hear me. I’m perched on the very edge of his knees. This must be so uncomfortable, and I’m abruptly regretting this whole thing. Suggesting it, bringing him along, being so set on this. He must be wondering how the hell he ended up in a packed minivan with a weird girl sitting on his lap.
A hand curves lightly around my waist, and then his voice is by my ear. His breath tickles my skin. “Sit back properly, Eden,” he says. “It’s safer.”
The words send a shiver down my spine. I’m about to ask him again if he’s sure about that when the hand at my waist tugs, just slightly. So I do what he says. I shift over his thighs and rest my back against his chest.
I’m mortified.
I twist my head to say that I’m sorry only to find the sharp edge of his jaw. I twist further toward his ear, and the scent of shampoo and cologne hits me.
“I’m sorry about this,” I say.
He shakes his head. It’s a tiny movement. “It’s fine.”
“Sure? I’m not too heavy?”
His scoff reverberates through my body. “No.”
I settle back against him as one song blends into another; this one has a beat that rattles the sides of the van.
We drive past houses and hotels and take a curve. I shift sharply to the right, only to be stopped by an arm around my waist. Phillip’s hand rests lightly on my upper stomach.
“This okay?” he murmurs.
I can’t breathe. “Uh-huh.”
He’s warm behind me and big, and the strong thighs under me carry my weight. I tilt my head back and rest it against his shoulder. As if in response, the arm around my waist tightens a bit more.That’s okay, too,I imagine him saying.
It’s the first time I’ve touched him, I realize, if you don’t count the hand he’d given me back up onto the fishing boat. The tanned arm around my waist feels strong. Fitting.
