Page 54 of Ship Outta Luck

“Men, this is Dr. Legarde.”

“Oh, so not princess, now, huh?” I mutter, low enough so that only he can hear me.

“You’re not princess to them,” he says roughly.

The other men dip their heads, their eyes never leaving my face, telegraphing the possibility of violence you wouldn’t see coming until it was too late.

“They’re not DEA.” They look like a CrossFit gym and Dwayne Johnson had babies. Nothing like Pierce.

Why didn’t he radio his partner? Where the hell is Charlie?

Unease nestles inside me.

“No, we’re not DEA,” Thorne offers, his bright blue aviators glinting in the sun. “I see you’ve got a bushel of blue crab back there. Looks like y’all have had quite a morning. Sorry if we spooked you, ma’am, but would you mind lowering the gun?”

Ma’am. Definitely military.Or at least used to be… maybe even ex-Marines. My mouth twists to the side.

“Where’s his partner? Where’s Charlie, huh?”

“Evans trusts us. Charlie’s fine. I’m sure he’ll be in touch with his DEAhandleras soon as he’s sure you’re both safe.” Thompson spits the word out, his mouth curling with something like disgust.

Handler?

“How do you know Charlie is fine?”

“She’s with Pierce, isn’t she?” Dean answers. “She’s safe, princess.”

Thompson’s eyes tighten slightly at his response.

I dare a glance at Dean. A quick confirmation nod from him, and I automatically lower the barrel.

It’s like my body knows I should trust him even when my head’s fighting it.

My hands shake from clutching the gun tight, but I hide it. Pretending I’m fine. The men loose a collective sigh of relief before tethering the boats together and making small talk, as though I hadn’t been about to shoot each of them.

“That’s a good haul of crab, y’all thinkin’ bout sharing, or what?” Thompson asks. “Be a shame to waste it.”

“If you play your cards right.” Dean hops off the catwalk and into the cockpit and I stand stiffly, the shotgun still at my side. I wrap the towel around me, all too aware of the bare expanse of skin still electrified from Dean’s attention.

Beneath the men’s gentle ribbing and catching up, there is an undercurrent of unease. They’re ready to descend into violence at the drop of a hat.

They’re built for it.

Carefully, I balance the towel and gun, stepping down from the boat’s catwalk and into the cockpit. Bending, I retrieve my hastily abandoned dress. Conversation slows to a stop as I unwrap the towel to throw the dress back on.

Ugh.

Distraction from the bad guys in theory is one thing. Being the center of attention of all the men now idly chatting is another. Men who’ve seen me kissing Dean Evans, resident donkey, is yet another.

Heat spreads across my face, moving down my chest and neck. Dean snaps the towel up, blocking my body from view. Conversation restarts, and I dare a look up at Dean, grateful for the assist.

He’s glowering at them.

I’ve read the word before, of course, but seeing Dean perform it, all hard lines and flinty stare, it’s now indelibly attached to the syllables. My own personal Dean Pictionary.

My stomach clenches.

No, not my own personal anything.

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