Page 61 of Ship Outta Luck

There’s no judgment in Dean’s voice, but the question rankles.

Words stick in my throat, so I nod, silent.

Past the jetty, the remote beach, the very tip of South Padre Island, clean sand stretches as far as I can see. Patches of dark brown line the edge of the surf, seaweed left glistening on the shore as the waters recede. Sea glass hides among the tendrils of washed-up vegetation; at least, it used to.

My father always loved pointing it out. He’d signed me up for jewelry making classes, brought me supplies and endless sea glass when I was in middle school and fascinated by the stuff.

We spent countless mornings searching for it, washed ashore after stormy nights, too many lazy afternoons spent picnicking on this very beach to count.

“This is it, huh?”

“Yeah, it is. What about it?” I ask softly, waiting for him to call me on the way I’ve been happy to bury my head in the sand all these years.

He peers at me, his gaze softening. “It’s beautiful.”

His eyes never leave my face.

I take a deep breath, slowing the boat even more as we approach the shallow sandbar.

“Grab the anchor for me?” I turn it into a question at the last minute. My fingers rapping against the wheel. “We don’t want to risk running aground. We’ll anchor here and to swim in.”

He doesn’t respond, and for a moment, I wonder if he has it in him to obey. Finally, he nods. A strange look passes over his face, like he wants to say something, and then he simply climbs up to the front of the boat and opens the hatch where the anchor lies coiled and waiting.

“I’m going to cut the engine and angle onto the sandbar,” I yell up to him. “Hang on.”

He nods once, squatting low.

I promptly forget what I’m supposed to be doing.

His thick legs are a sculptor’s dream, or a personal trainer’s, likely rock-hard like the rest of him.

My lips part on an exhale, my fingers grip the wheel more tightly.

Get it together, Horny McHornster.One wrong move and the strong riptide along the jetty could push the boat too far off...

I cut power to the engines, pushing another button to raise the dual propellers. The mechanical whine of the bilge pump replaces the sound of the diesel engine.

Thank god that’s still working.

Checking the depth finder, I allow the boat to continue cruising forward on momentum alone. Fifteen feet, now eight, five, and?—

“Throw it now,” I bark out.

Dean reacts in an instant, tossing the anchor with skill that only comes from years of practice.

That might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.

The rope uncurls near his feet, and he keeps one hand on it as it sinks into the water. Snapping taut after a few seconds, he ties it off on a bracket.

I am a sucker for a competent man, and Dean is about as competent as they get.

He grins back at me, and I realize I’ve been staring. The cocky wink that follows makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline.

A wave, stronger now that we’re in shallower water, breaks on the sandbar, rocking the boat, and I force my gaze away from him.

“We need to get the crabs back in the water. If they die on the hot deck, our dreams of a crab feast go with them.” My voice comes out slightly strangled.

“Got it.” He heaves the sack over the side, like he’s done it all his life. His forearms flex as he ties the rope off to the boat with ease.

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