Page 48 of Ship Outta Luck

Damn, we’ve been lucky.

“Those have to be the most ridiculous shorts I’ve ever seen.” Her small laugh accompanies the criticism, a slight smile spreading on her face.

“They’re practical.”

“They’re absurd.”

“Says the woman wearing a bikini and a dress while being hunted down by so-called bad dudes.” My mind snags on the memory of searching her yesterday, of trying not to be an asshole while trying to make sure she didn’t fulfill her promise of shooting me in the nuts.

“They fit enough ammo yesterday, didn’t they?” She tilts her head. “And don’t even get me started on the travesty of women’s pockets.”

“Fair point.” I shrug, gaze wandering over her backside as she steers, slowing as we reach the crab trap.

June eases the big boat close enough for me to easily reach out and hook it. She cuts the engine and flips the bilge switch again. Smiling to herself, she launches herself up the bow, dropping the anchor. Despite the fact she’s barely spoken to me, she seems happy.

Hell, I’d be happy too if I had someone to do the backbreaking work for me. Hauling these crab pots is hard, dirty work.

I drag my eyes away from her legs and focus on the trap.

Seagulls swoop above the boat and several pelicans drift in the water alongside us, long beaks ready at a moment’s notice in hopes of a free meal.

With a grunt, I grab the barnacle-crusted rope, hauling the trap up hand over hand. Without gloves, my hands are worse for wear, but it is what it is.

Behind me, several mesh sacks writhe as dozens of crabs from our previous catches struggle to get free.

June’s eyes misted when I suggested dumping the crabs back in.

That was all it took for me to agree to keep part of our haul. A now much larger haul. My shoulders burn, this pot fuller than the last ones.

“Sure you don’t want me to do it?” June twirls the end of her hair, nibbling her bottom lip.

“No,” I manage, kicking the spare rope out of the way. “I’m fine.” My wound seers from the strain, but pain is nothing new. “Can’t have the princess getting tired.”

She makes a strangled noise of frustration at that, and I grin.

I like getting under her skin.

I probably like it a little too much.

I’d like to touch that skin again, and every passing minute with her on this boat has me considering what it would be like.

The top of the trap breaks the surface, and several gulls divebomb, splashing saltwater across my face. I grunt again, heaving the trap up the side of the boat. The wire frame scrapes against the fiberglass hull. The trap contents come into view, and I raise a brow.

It’s full enough—a dozen or so adult crabs bubbling as they hit the air, a stunned catfish flopping around—but it feels heavier than the other traps.

“Huh,” June says, close enough now that when the gulf breeze catches the ends of her ponytail, the bright scent of her lemony shampoo teases me.

“There,” I say pointing to the middle of the trap. Surrounded by bad-tempered crabs, the bait pot holds something new. “Look.”

“It’s a dry box for diving.” June’s voice comes out strangled, and I cut my gaze to her. She looks stunned… stunned and sad. “Waterproof, so you can store stuff in it. Sorry, you probably know that. Oh my god. He really found the ship.” She takes asharp breath, her excitement chasing away the storm clouds of her grief.

“It might not be the wreck, princess,” I say quietly.

“Why didn’t he just tell me he found it?” she asks at the same time, and I briefly wonder how someone so intelligent can be so deep in denial.

“I say we find out what he has in here.” I squat over the crab trap, my pulse accelerating. So close now, so close to finding this thing and getting my reputation back, getting my business off the ground.

“Let’s do it.” She nods at me, opening a mesh sack.

---