Page 72 of Ship Outta Luck

He refuses to meet my eyes, instead watching a sandpiper’s progress across the bank of rust-red seaweed. Biting the insides of my cheeks, I stall. I don’t want to say no. Or do I?

Dean Evans is an unknown, and despite my rising suspicion that he hides surprising vulnerability behind his cocky edges, I have no doubt getting more tangled with him would only lead to heartache.

I follow his gaze. The pale little bird nibbles at something in the seaweed, then gobbles it down without a second thought.

“I understand if you say no, but I want you to know, what happened earlier.” He coughs. “It won’t happen again. If that’s what you want, I mean. I respect you. I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured or unsafe or anything like that. So, if?—”

“Dean.”

He looks at me, and there’s hope and something else in his expression.

“You can share my tent.”

“Roger that.” With a soft smile, he steps back, walking away to where Thompson and Thorne manhandle supplies.

The sandpiper, unperturbed by the fact that my chest is suddenly hollow, flits off to the safety of the grassy dune behind me.

But I can’t. A swell of emotions has me grounded in my little hole. Incredibly perturbed. Irritated. Raw.

TheBettyrises on a swell, the men’s boat keeping it company. What would my father think of this? Me, working alongside three former Marines, on a hunt for the storied buried treasure he brought me up searching for?

What would he think of Dean Evans?

It doesn’t matter what he would think, not really.

The wind whips my salt-dried waves across my face, and I peel my hair from my lips, braiding it back as my mind swirls.

Dean Evans is not a long-term relationship guy. If, and this is a big if, we manage to find his precious shipment, he’ll go back to wherever he came from. Or on to the next contract, somewhere no doubt more dangerous than the abandoned stretch of South Texas beach my feet dig into. My chest tightens, and I press my palm to the exposed skin above my heart.

Totally exposed. That’s how I feel.

Like Dean sees every inch of me, and not just because of my bikini. Like he sees who I am, deep down, and after one kiss, said he wanted more.

“Dr. Legarde, we could use some help getting set up for the night and getting veg chopped,” Thorne calls out, his voice the very picture of politeness.

Squaring my shoulders, I turn.

“Point me to the tents. I’m no good at cooking.” Sleeping on solid ground, even in a tent, is better than the boat. An instant later, worry thrums through me. “I mean, y’all are sure it’s safe? To camp here? With—” I wave a hand around, incapable of forming the words that fear pushes to the forefront of my mind.

The men wait for me to finish my thought, and I find myself at the receiving end of three steely stares. I swallow.

“With the smugglers still after us—after me?”

“The only people who know where we are are on this beach already,” Thorne says gently.

My pulse picks up.

“No, that’s not true. Dean called it in to his boss at the DEA. So the person who took the call knows,” I tick off a finger, “the person who relayed the message knows,” another finger, “and Pierce, who you all are acting really sketchy about, by the way, also knows. Not to mention whoever sold y’all all this stuff knows you plan to camp somewhere.” I blow out a shaky breath, familiar fear wending through me.

“Princess,” Dean says carefully, “my people are the best in the business. You are safe with us. They took necessary precautions when purchasing supplies, didn’t you, Thompson?”

Thorne and Thompson nod, their eyes glued on my face, which feels oddly bloodless. Pressing my fingers against a cheek, I will myself to calm. Fear is a funny thing. It sharpens and sharpens and sharpens, until I’m as brittle as can be, always in danger of breaking.

“And you trust Pierce? You trust everyone at the DEA?”

“I trust my crew and myself.” Dean steps closer, into my personal space. “You are safe with us. I promise.”

His men share a look, then nod in wordless agreement.

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