Page 62 of Ship Outta Luck

Competent, caring, and cool as a cucumber under pressure? The dash of cockiness doesn’t exactly hurt, either.

I sit, open-mouthed, slightly dumbfounded, as it hits me.

Okay, extremely dumfounded.

I am attracted to him.

I admire him, even. After years alone, too focused on work, on finding theSantu Espirituto make room for a man.Of courseI was going to like him. Dean’s the first man I’ve allowed in my orbit since college, and I couldn’t have picked out a better match from a mail-order boyfriend catalogue. Not that they make those. Not that I’ve looked.

Under all his sharp edges and stubble, under all that bravado hides a secret soft interior.

Now he’s taking orders from me.

A little too easily.

My eyes narrow.

“Why aren’t you arguing with me?” I strip off my dress. No reason to get it all salty.

“Why would I?” He puts his hand over his eyes, shading them from the brutal sun. “You know what you’re doing.”

“You didn’t seem to think that,” I check my watch, which has a dangerously low battery, “about an hour ago.”

“Dr. Legarde, you made your point. I’m choosing to trust you.” The words strike a chord, and I look up at him. He pauses, his golden-brown eyes unflinching from my face, and I tug at the bikini string around my neck. “Why don’t you grab two of the bags and hand them down?” With that, he lets the ladder down from the side of the boat and hops into the water frothing over the sandbar.

Wordless, I duck into the small cabin, ignoring the walls pressing around me. Breathing deep, I haul all three up with a watertight bag, then load the brown bags into the watertight one. Dean takes it easily, tossing the strap around his chest.

“What about the crabs?” He points to the rope hanging off the side.

“They’ll be better in the water till we’re ready for them.” I check to make sure everything is secure before turning back to Dean. “That is, unless one of the locals gets hungry and decides they’re easy taking.”

“Locals?” Confusion wrinkles his brow.

“Sharks,” I clarify.

“Sharks,” he repeats.

“This is their home,” I tell him, gesturing to the ocean all around.

“Well, we better hope they aren’t hungry. He offers me his free hand, that elusive dimple making an appearance as his abs ripple.

I clear my throat, unsure where it’s safe to look.

Not his broad chest, white scars standing out against otherwise tanned skin.

Not the dips between his hips, the tease of dark hair on his lower abdomen.

His smile it is. All white teeth and dimples, promising danger and something much, much, sweeter.

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch you if you fall.”

I scoff. “I’m not going to fall.”

I reach for his hand. Cool water licks my skin, and I shiver as goosebumps pebble my flesh, holding his steady hand even harder.

Water pulls against us, and my eyes lock on his.

“Wave,” I warn.

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