Page 44 of Ship Outta Luck

“Hi.” My voice is husky. Huskier than it should be.

Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his grin growing.

“How you feeling?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Fine. Wonderful. Never been better in my life. Love spilling all my trauma to a stranger after having my house blown up.”

He arches an eyebrow, one hand gripping the hardtop roof of the cuddy cabin, the other arm cradling something against his chest. His bare chest.

Unf.

My throat bobs. A dull ache pounds against the back of my eyes. I close them briefly, pressing my palms against my eyelids.

“You sure? You don’t look so good.” The arm holding the roof flexes, and I try not to notice.

“A little hungover." I shrug. "Tired. Just girlie things girlies do after a normal night out.”

“Girlie things,” he repeats with a snort.

I grunt. I can’t decide if I am mad at him or myself or maybe even at my dad.

I immediately bury the thought in guilt.

“I found rations.” His eyes, despite the rising sun pinkening the sky all around them, remain fixed on me. Hungry. “There were some tiny toothbrushes in there, too.”

“Oh?”

“Food should help. I bet you have a killer headache today.” The distance between us shrinks, and Dean hands me a wrapped granola bar and a warm Gatorade. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Eyeing the makeshift pallet still on the cockpit deck, heat and embarrassment rush through me.

“About how I slept better than ever with you wrapped around me?” I ask awkwardly. Does he really want to talk about that?

Why?

“Uh, I actually meant about your dad. Or the claustrophobia thing.” Dean shifts, distinctly uncomfortable.

“I, uh,” I fumble with the Gatorade until he takes it, easily twisting the cap off, stepping even closer. Close enough I can feel the heat from his skin. “I didn’t need help with that.”

“Uh-huh.” He squints down, his eyes assessing. “Just thought I’d be nice,” he says, holding the bottle out like a peace offering.

“Oh.”

No doubt my brain is short-circuiting from the amount of gorgeous man flesh right in front of me. Golden skin, rippling six-pack, a light sheen of sweat only serving to further highlight a deep vee of muscles that are probably illegal somewhere.

I will not look lower than his face, I will not look lower than his face.

I am a paragon of hungover virtue.

I mentally pat myself on the back.

“Drink up. You look a little intense.” He grins, and I manage not to choke on the Gatorade.

Last night’s adrenaline must still be making me loopy. Is adrenaline also a sex hormone? Does it make people horny?

Sounds plausible.

I drink. And drink. In fact, I finish the bottle. Dean picks up the cushions one by one, securing them under his arm before putting each back with fastidious care.

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