Page 85 of Ship Outta Luck

“I trained them to,” Dean answers simply, his fingers hitching on the waistband of the decidedly unsexy shorts they bought me. The way he says it, all casual confidence, matter of fact—whew. It does something to me.

Dean is ridiculously competent. Smart. Brave. But the kindness under his cocky exterior? That’s what’s going to do me in.

Unsexy shorts or not, patriotic cat shirt or not, I have never been more ready to climb a man in my life. My good judgment’s slipped away with my energy.

Outside the tent, the water jug glints in the moonlight.

Dean unzips the flap. “Ladies first.”

I crouch, setting my butt inside first. Dean tosses the sleeping bag onto the floor of the tent while I remove my flip-flops. Kneeling next to me, he unscrews the cap of the water jug, then carefully puts my feet on his knees. Cold water sloshes over them and he rubs at them, careful to remove the sand from between my toes.

He remembered.

He tucks my feet inside the tent, careful to keep more sand from getting on them. Grabbing my hands, he flips them over, scrubbing at a smear of roasted marshmallow on the back of one.

Dean kissing me was incredibly, searingly hot. But being cared for? Cleaned off? This is better, way better. The flare of desire I attempted to bank is replaced by a hollow ache, a desire for something more than his body.

Once he is satisfied that my hands are clean, he places them gently in my lap. His eyes meet mine, and I can’t look away.

“That was really nice of you.” Nice doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Can’t have you pulling an Anakin in the middle of the night, what with all the sand around.”

I tip back my head, laughing, and when I look back, he wears a self-satisfied grin, his eyes intent.

“I’m going to wash my feet off, too. Why don’t you unzip the sleeping bag and make a pallet? It’s too hot to sleep in it.”

I try to speak, try to say thank you or sure, but all I can manage is a nod. His eyes slip to my lips, and I force myself back into the tent. If he kisses me now, I will pull him into this tent, and then there will be sand everywhere.

Not like he has a condom on him anyway. Not that we would have sex, but in case—I shake my head.

“Are you okay?” He leans back in. “You have a funny look on your face.”

“Just tired,” I lie.And ready to jump your bones.

“Then go to sleep.” He grins at me. “Easy as that.”

“Easy as that,” I repeat, grumbling. “Go to sleep, June, it’s so easy to sleep.”

“Nah, I’d say, ‘Go to sleep, princess, I’ll watch your back so you don’t have to worry.’”

He lets out a laugh as the sound of water splashes.

I grunt in annoyance at his tone, but secretly, I’m pleased.

When he curls up next to me, one arm thrown over my waist, I snuggle close to him, enjoying the cuddle.

And promptly fall asleep.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

JUNE

I sit straight up,panic in my throat, gasping for air. The heavy night presses around me and I rub my eyes, trying to dispel it. Confusion clouds my awareness as I take in my surroundings. Dean lies next to me, shirtless, wearing the same tactical pants he unzipped into shorts. The unmistakable scent of Irish Spring rolls off him as he sleeps, his chest moving with deep breaths.

“Dean!” Thompson’s voice sounds a long way off. “Dean, June, we gotta go or we gotta make a stand. Get a gun and a pack and get on a boat!”

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