Page 46 of Ship Outta Luck

“Dr. Legarde. And no. Maybe… Professional curiosity.”

“I didn’t realize PhDs had professional medical curiosity.”

“Okay fine, I was a little worried,” I grumble, out of sorts. Why is he so good at getting under my skin?

He grins over his shoulder at me.

I scrub a hand over my face, forgetting about the granola wrapper still in my hand. Dumping crumbs down my shirt.

Incredibly rude of him to be gorgeousandnice.

Selfish.

Simply thinking about it made my head hurt worse. The start of a killer hangover, thanks to Charlie’s margarita obsession?—

Holy hell. Charlie.

“Do you think Charlie is okay?” I blurt out, too loud. “They wouldn’t have gone after her, would they?”

“She’s fine,” Dean says, sounding completely sure of himself.

“How do you know?” I squint at him.

A beat of silence passes, and a muscle in his temple twitches. “Pierce would have made sure of it.”

Something about his tone bothers me.

A sudden vibration distracts me, and I blink a few times before my eyes dart to my watch.

“The bilge pump.” I scramble to the driver’s seat, flipping the bilge switch. Fresh relief courses through me at the whine of the mechanism starting up. Thank goodness the boat’s battery hasn’t died, otherwise we’d be floundering in deep water.

Under the sea.

Flounder.

And we’re about to be searching for crab. Might even encounter a seagull. All I need now is red hair and a seashell bra.

“Mermaid tails and coconut shells.” I slap my hand over my mouth as a hysterical high-pitched laugh trickles out of my mouth.

Breathing slowly, I finally regain control of myself, and the gravity of the situation truly hits me.

This is so bad.

Endless water sparkles around the boat, equally endless blue sky stretches overhead. And it’s just the two of us, on this very old boat, hunted by Russian smugglers.

All of this is so very bad.

“What is with that?” Dean re-appears, the cabin door slamming shut behind him.

“With what? Like you don’t laugh hysterically at sudden vivid visions of yourself as a princess thanks to stress and a slight hangover? Sure, sure.”

“No.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why don’t you cuss? Though I’m open to discuss your imaginary roleplay.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that, though discussing roleplay isn’t off the table, is it?”

“I’m going to choose to ignore that,” I tell him.

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