Page 137 of Ship Outta Luck

“Dean.” Charlie’s voice is urgent. “I’m going to call Thompson. Thorne can turn back too, he can’t be too far out of pocket.”

“No. We need Thorne after Pierce and the next drop location. Call Thompson.” My skin is on fire. June is alone. Thompson is there, yes. But this… getting me out of the room with her, dividing the two of us could be an attempt to get to her.

And Pierce is a loose end I haven’t tied up. I’ll pay for it, for not turning him in as soon as I could, distracted by feeling.

Nausea churns in my gut, and I swallow it down. I don’t have time for that.

June is in danger, and I fucked it all up.

CHAPTER

FORTY-ONE

JUNE

The wine isn’t great.But after half a bottle, I hardly care. I swirl it in the glass, watching the light from the TV bounce off the crimson liquid. My steak is long gone, and I’m not sure if I even remembered to chew.

Earth-shattering sex gives quite the appetite, apparently.

After Dean left, I tripped over the gorgeous green-gray silk dress wadded up unceremoniously on the floor, floated happily into the bathroom, and ran a scalding tub full of lavender bath salts.

I only made myself get out when I worried I might be turning into boiled crab.

It would be embarrassing if room service showed up to discover I’d turned into a giant crustacean. Better than a roach, I guess. Thanks for the nightmares, Kafka.

I snort at my own unsaid joke, still so happy it almost hurts.

I lean my head against the back of the chair, the room too bright. My eyes close and I remember the way our bodies crashed together.

Like we’re some inevitable force of nature, tangling together perfectly.

I don’t regret for one second that we had sex. I don’t regret helping him find the narcotics, and finding theSantu Espirituis a memory and feeling I’ll treasure more than the ship itself.

Probably. Maybe.

Finding Dean might be just as good, and I didn’t even know I was searching for him.

He cares about me.I mean something to him, he said we’d figure out how to make it work. A happy sigh parts my lips, my heart aching with hope.

The napkin scratches across the still-sensitive skin of my lips. Then floats back to the table, settling between the dirty dishes and covered plates of Dean’s food. Tugging the hotel robe closer, I smirk at my glass.

Finally, I pick up his uneaten order and shove it in the mini-fridge.

The TV on the wall mirrors my image: tousled hair, black streaks where my fancy makeup ran from the boiling bath.

Somehow, probably thanks to the combination of a massive meal and the emotional lubrication of red, red wine, I’m convinced.

Dean Evans cares about me. He cares for me.

Helikelikes me. I snort.

We’re going to make it work.

Walking into the white expanse of the bathroom, I turn the curling iron back on. No reason not to fix my hair, my face, before he comes back. Cool water splashes over my cheeks, helping bring down the effects of the wine.

I want to look pretty for him.

A deep, shaky breath wracks me.God. I haven’t really even processed everything yet.

---