Page 45 of Ship Outta Luck

He’s taking care of me.

Feeding me, calming me down last night, being a gentleman.

Certainly a better partner than most of the men I’ve woken up to.

My lips twist to the side as I consider it. Sure, he wasn’t really able to get up and just leave my bed… seeing as how we’re on a boat in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico.

Still. Gratitude wells, a deep-seated wave of emotion nearly overwhelming me.

The bar must be in hell. I snort.

When he bends over, though, showing off his spectacular government-issue butt, I decide the bar has been decidedly raised.

I refocus all my attention on keeping the granola bar from disintegrating before I can eat it.

Not nearly as fun, but definitely safer.

“June, if you want to talk about it…” The cushions click back into place on the bench seat.

“It meant nothing, probably just an involuntary reaction,” I snap, then wince, not meaning it to come out so rudely. Especially when he has been nothing but nice this morning. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’m going to talk about how we may or may not have been cuddling.

For warmth!

“Your panic attack seemed pretty serious. But yeah. I guess that’s normal for a civilian after what we went through last night.” He scratches his stubble with a free hand before ducking back into the cuddy cabin with the rest of the cushions and blanket.

Okayyyy.

He didn’t want to talk about how we woke up entwined, or that I was staring at his half-naked body like he was a piece of meat and I was a starving dinosaur.

“I’m going to brush my teeth.” I start to stamp around him, but he performs some kind of magic trick and the tiny toothpaste and travel brush appear in his hand. Scowling, I grab it from him.

“Thanks.” I bite the word off, and he snorts in amusement.

“There was a tiny bottle of shaving cream and a razor too, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to shave your beard or talk about last night.”

I scoff at him. “Rude.”

It’s easier to call him rude than admit what it is we’re dancing around.

Talk about it? Talk about that I wanted to make out with him last night until I lost all self-control? Or about the fact that he even might just be a nice guy when I sort-of want to hate him for calling my father a criminal?

I give my teeth the most aggressive teeth brushing they’ve ever hand, delicately taking the proffered water bottle from Dean to swish and spit.

“Don’t look at me,” I tell him, then spit overboard.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he drawls back.

Sure enough, a quick glance tells me he’s turned his back to me. Heisnice.

I should be nice back. I set the toiletries down on top of the control panel and stare at his broad back, before finally making up my mind to call a truce.

“How’s your shoulder?” I look down to where he’s still putting things away in the cabin.

His fingers tentatively touch the bandaged wound. “I’m sore, but not bad. You did a good job patching it up.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“Why? You worried about me, Legarde?”

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