Page 75 of Ship Outta Luck

Besides everyone.

“No, you were right to push.” I rub my jawline. The massive pot we hauled to the beach boils furiously, lemons and oranges bobbing next to huge spice packs, and my stomach rumbles. “You might be onto something.”

“That’s good, boss.” Thompson grins, taking a swig from a water bottle. “By the way, I told her you’d help her shower.”

“You didwhat?”

He gives me a shit-eating grin.

“He did say that.” Her clear voice rings out from behind me, and my whole body reacts. “But I don’t need helpwashing. I just need someone to hold a towel up for some privacy.”

June stands off to the side of the fire, flushed from the heat and sun. Her lips twist to the side, eyebrows raised slightly, as if she fully expects me to say no.

“I can squat behind the tent and wash off, but…” Her voice trails off, the hope in her eyes dying. “I’d rather not. I’m gross after being on the boat.”

The woman wants a shower. I can at least be a gentleman about it. I won’t dwell on how she’ll look with water slicking over the curves of her body, soap lathering the soft skin I have no business thinking about.

“Of course, princess.” I dip in a bow, and I catch a hint of a grin on her face.

Her eyes drop to the boiling pot. “It smells so freaking good.”

“Are you ready to shower now?” My heart thumps in my chest, and I force myself to take a long breath in.

“I would love to get clean before dinner so I can crash afterwards.” She coughs delicately, arching an eyebrow at me. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“You heard her.” Thompson shoves me a little, and Thorne, who I hadn’t even realized was sitting behind him, lets out a snort.

“Alright, lemme grab the jug of water. Thompson, Thorne, don’t overcook the crab.”

“Sir, yessir,” they intone in unison, and I roll my eyes.

June’s lips curve in a small smile, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she wanders off, collecting the bag of toiletries I asked Thompson and Thorne to pick up for her. To make her more comfortable.

Because she is an asset. A happy asset is an asset who is more likely to help.

Or, as Thompson so delicately suggested, because I care about her.

I grind my teeth, and I find I can’t deny it.

I do care about her, and it’s time to stop telling myself she’s a means to an end.

She’s more than that already, so much more.

Her hips swish as she walks further down the beach, and I track the movement like my life depends on it. A jug of clean water under one arm, a clean towel under the other, I set off behind her. The sand is soft, leaving graceful footprints behind her, and I step next to them, loath to erase them with my own. Finally, she stops walking and looks around.

The stretch of beach is clear of seaweed, and she inches up toward the dune, light beige sand coating her feet.

“Here okay?” she asks.

“If it works for you, it works for me.” I unfold the towel.

We must’ve walked further than I realized, or I’m hungry, because my knees are a little weak. Carefully, to avoid catching sand on it, I raise the towel up as high as my arms will reach, effectively blocking her from view.

“Wait.” Her voice is soft. “I don’t know if I can pour the water out of that thing.” She points to the five-gallon jug. “I really would like to wash my hair. I’m sorry, I should’ve thought to bring a cup or something.”

“What do you want me to do?” Almost kissing her was one thing. The peck on my lips, that was another. This, her asking for help, her asking me for help withthis, choosing to trust me—is something else entirely.

“Could you,” her throat bobs. “Pour the water on my hair? I’ll wait to take off my—” Her voice falters. “Um, I mean, then you could put the towel back up.”

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