Page 29 of Ship Outta Luck

“I guessed where the key was.” His voice is calm, steady, and it sets my teeth on edge. Even more on edge, that is. “A lot of people keep spare keys under their mats or somewhere within reach. June.” He says my name like I’m a feral animal, calm and collected, careful.

It makes me twitch.

“I made us sandwiches.” He sweeps a massive arm to where there are, indeed, four sandwiches. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, my traitorous stomach growling.

“Put the gun down, and I will.” He smiles, like he’s won. “Give me the gun, and we can talk. I know you don’t want to shoot me. All that pretty tile you put up.”

He’s crooning to me like I’m a stray dog growling in the gutter.

Worst part is?

He’s right.

I don’t want to kill him. I haven’t everactuallyshot anything alive. Turns out shooting paper targets and clay pigeons at the sterile environment of a gun range is pretty danged different from shooting a hot stranger in my kitchen.

Especially when I can’t quite decide if I want to kiss him or not.

But maiming isn’t entirely off the table.

My gaze drops slightly and he inches closer. “Stay the fuck away from me.” I sight down the barrel. Though this close, there’s no need to bother. Old habits die hard, I guess.

“Thefuckaway, hmm?” Another step. “What happened to fudge?”

I grit my teeth, lowering the gun slightly, swinging down and left. “I’ll shoot you in the nuts.” My finger lifts off the trigger guard, ready to squeeze.

I let out a little sigh. It would be a real shame to hit him in the nuts.

“I really don’t want you to do that.”

“I really don’t want to mess up my new kitchen either.” My mouth twists to the side. Darnit. That’s not what I meant to say.

He huffs a laugh, and I’m momentarily distracted by the way his eyes light up. His strong, hard body collides with mine, knocking me to the floor.

The gun fires with a bark, the butt of it slamming hard into my ribs.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

DEAN

Grunting,I land, her body beneath me. A quick mental check says she missed. My body is still intact.

Thank fuck.

I really didn’t want to deal with shotgun pellets in my nuts.

Plaster falls, dusting a white halo in her hair, and I grip the barrel of the gun. It’s hot as hell, but better some burns on my hands than castration by Remington Tactical.

“Fuck.” I swear at the heat, then toss it behind me, where it clatters against a cabinet. “Looks like you’re going to have to put your handyman skills to the test on your ceiling now, Dr. Legarde.”

“I missed?” She blinks, her pupils nearly blown from a heady mix of adrenaline and tequila. She stills beneath me, except for shallow breaths pressing her breasts against my chest. She wiggles, and I nearly groan.

Shit.

Talk about new things to discuss with my shrink. I can just imagine it, me explaining how I nearly got shot, and how I was immediately turned on when I tackled the shooter.

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