Page 94 of Ship Outta Luck

“I think this is where he was trying to steer us.” Why is it still so hard to believe he did this? Led a double life where he worked for the very people who hurt me, who kidnapped me?

“What now, princess, do we just hop in the water with the scuba gear and hope for the best?”

“No. We eat something. Drink something. Keep the fish finder on and mosey around.”

He gives me a blank stare. So I stare back.

A little laugh rips out of my throat.

“You want to go fishing?” he asks.

“What? No.”

“Then why the fish finder?” Dean tears into a protein bar and hands me one already opened, glancing at my bandaged hand.

Oh.

“Thanks,” I sputter. “The fish finder will show us anything weird below us. Not just fish.”

“Okay.” He unscrews an energy drink and hands it to me too. “It’s not coffee.”

“I would kill for coffee right now.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The words sound like a joke, but it doesn’t feel like one. “Urgh.”

“Princess, look at me.”

Rubbing a rough spot on the white pleather, I tug at the jagged edge of the start of a tear. Who am I becoming? I felt powerful last night, setting the beach ablaze, taking some small measure of revenge.

This isn’t me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my stomach roiling.

“June,” he says my name on an exhale.

Finally, I meet his eyes, my stomach twisting uncertainly. The boat continues to rumble, untroubled by my discontent.

“This is survival.” Dean puts his hand on the back of my chair. “Tell me about how you like your coffee.”

“Coffee.” My nostrils flare as I inhale, sucking down a great big breath and blowing it out. Another breath. The protein bar feels chalky against my teeth, and I grimace.

“That’s right, coffee. Latte? Pumpkin spice? Mocha café Frappuccino whipped chip abomination?” Dean sits back down on the pallet of blankets and cushions, tearing into a third protein bar.

“I know what you’re doing, Mr. Ex-Marine.” I scowl at him.

“What’s that?” he asks innocently.

“Trying to distract me.”

“Maybe I just want to know what kind of coffee you like on mornings you’re not out to sea with a,” he taps his temple like he is trying to remember, “a Ken Doll? So maybe the next time you wake up next to my ugly mug, I can make you your favorite.”

Something tightens inside my chest, my stomach filling with that tell-tale fluttery feeling. “You’re assuming a lot.”

“Maybe I am.” His gaze seems glued to my face, toffee brown in the late morning light. Why does he have to be so dang good-looking? It really isn’t fair.

“I like it any way I can get it,” I answer.

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