Page 77 of Ship Outta Luck

“Stylish.” Not that I care about the clothes. Not when my brain has more than adequately imagined what is beneath them. “How do you feel?”

“Much better.”

“Good.” I smile at her. “Glad to hear that the princess is pleased.”

She tugs the towel from me, then flips her hair into it, twisting it up like a turban on top of her head. “There. Now I’m all done. And starving. And so freaking sleepy.”

I resist the urge to tuck her into my side, to hold her close as we walk back to the campsite, worried it will scare her off. The last thing I want to do is break whatever fragile thing is building between us.

Instead, I settle for hauling the mostly empty water jug over my shoulder and carrying the odds and ends of her toiletries back.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” The force with which I say it surprises me. The fact that I mean it, even more so.

“Tonight, when we sleep together?—”

I whip my gaze to her.

She tugs at the turban, now lopsided, as we walk. “I mean, when we share the tent, can we be careful not to track sand in? I hate sleeping with dirty feet. And you know sand. It’s coarse and gets everywhere.”

I narrow my eyes, lips curving up into a smile. Is she quoting what I think she is?

“Yeah. I’ll put the rest of the jug outside and we can rinse before zipping up.” I adjust my grip on the water bottle and her eyes narrow, seemingly waiting for something.

“Not aStar Warsfan then, huh?” she finally asks.

“Not ofthosemovies,” I answer emphatically, a huff of laughter escaping my lips.

She beams up at me, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to win the lottery.

“Me neither. And that would really be nice. About the water, I mean.”

Warmth floods me.

Nice.

She makes a simple word sound sweeter than anything I’ve heard.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

DEAN

The once-empty icechest teems with the red shells of boiled crab, steam curling into the spice-soaked air. Smiling, I shut the lid, satisfied with a job well done.

“Yourpartner’shere.” Thorne nods at the end of the jetty, a rental cruiser rounding it, coming in hot. A massive wake ripples across the boulders, sending salt spray well over the rocks, and I shake my head in disgust.

Cutting it that close and fast to the jetty is asking for trouble.

“He’s gonna bottom out on the sandbar,” Thorne observes in a non-committal voice.

“Nah, he’ll be fine.” Thompson squints at the boat. “Who’s that with him?”

“Charlie.” June gnaws her lower lip, fiddling with her hands.

“I talked to Pierce on the sat phone earlier,” I say, casting her a concerned look.

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