Page 74 of Ship Outta Luck

I don’t think it’s just adrenaline, not anymore.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

DEAN

I didmy best to tamp down the jealousy that rose when June took off with Thorne to scout a good location for the tents.

As if I could control my unreasonable emotions through sheer force of will. Cutting up oranges and prepping the boil helped. That kind of monotonous work always does, giving me something else to focus on.

Except, now my focus is broken, my attention returning to her again and again.

On the grass-speckled sand dune, her hair slips loose of the tight braid she managed, whipping around her face in a riot of waves.

“Stop it,” Thompson drawls, opening a cooler.

I just grunt.

“Yep, that’s what I thought. You got it bad for her.” Thompson sits a six-pack of Gatorade on top of the lid, pulling one off for himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t act like that. You two need to get it out of your system. Whatever it is.”

“Don’t even think about her system.” It was low, a warning. The driftwood fire crackles, accentuating my unspoken threat.

“I wasn’t. Jesus, Dean, I’m your friend. Stop acting like an asshole. Talk to the woman. If you want to be with her and she wants to be with you, you’ll make it happen. And if not, I’m more than happy to talk to her.”

“This is just a job,” I say. “It’s part of the op.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”

I swallow thickly. I won’t be sleeping tonight, not with June curled up next to me again, my emotions a tangled knot of distrust and need. And bitter, bitter hope.

“Just a job, my left ass cheek,” Thompson continues, clearly not caring about my discomfort.

“Drop it.” It comes out colder than I intended.

“Yessir.”

Fuck.

A moment passes, Thompson swigging the drink, checking on the status of the crabs.

“James.” I clear my throat. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

Thompson turns back, an eyebrow lifted in surprise.

“I’m sorry.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder. “No worries, man. I know that whole clusterfuck with Fiona messed you up. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Fiona. The mere mention of her name typically sends me spiraling into anxiety and regret and I wait for the feeling to come, the sensation of drowning on dry land. The regret is still there, the hurt, a small, coiled thing in my chest. I suck in a breath, the drowning never coming. Fiona is gone, the relationship over as dramatically as it started.

Therapy might be working.

Who knew?

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