Page 28 of Ship Outta Luck

I step back, blood pounding through my veins.

Instinct and training tell me letting him get close would be a mistake. That being within reaching distance would be the end of it. He’s too big, and my rudimentary self-defense knowledge would be useless against him.

The shotgun is my only real defense.

Too bad Ireallydon’t want to shoot anyone.

“Stay the fudge back,” I yell, hiding a grimace.

Seriously, fudge? Maybe fuck needs to become part of my vocabulary. It seems more appropriate than fudge in these situations.

Not that I would like more of these situations, thank you very much.

A hint of a smile crosses his face as he edges closer, hands still up.

I swallow, fingers tightening around the gun. “Listen, I just redid the damn tile in there, and I really don’t want to bleach the grout. You’ve already ruined laundry night.” The knot from the bikini top under my dress digs into my neck, an obnoxious reminder of how badly I needed to do laundry.

“Laundry night sounds like a good time.” Dean grins down at me, that cocky dimple flashing.

“Don’t talk about my laundry like that.” Irritation makes my hands tighten on the gun. Had Iseriouslybeen about to kiss him?

This night has taken a mother fudging turn.

“The tile looks nice.” He glances over his shoulder at it, and a feral noise surges out of my throat. “Your dad teach you how to do that? Did he teach you how to shoot? Ever shoot skeet?” He waggles his eyebrows. “That’s a nice gun. Remington Tactical?”

“You sexist jerkface. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” My smartwatch dings, and I can’t help but glance at it.

It looks like you’re doing cardio. Do you want to record a workout?

I grit my teeth, holding back a scream.

No, I do not want to record afreakingworkout.

Readjusting my hold on the shotgun, I look back at Dean, and he just keeps smiling at me, like being held at gunpoint by a woman who had to put on her bikini because she didn’t have enough clean underwear is commonplace for him.

Maybe it is. I don’t know what he’s into.

“I think you’re scared,” he says, taking another step closer.

“What gave it away?” I laugh, giving the shotgun a little wiggle, my dizziness coming back. “Was it the shotgun? Was it the fact I’m pointing it at you? Or was it that you knew where I live and where I keep my spare key?”

I make a mental note to take his advice and stop putting the key under my mat.

And with any luck, the last of the ridiculous amount of tequila I ingested is burning off with this new adrenaline surge.

Dean lets out a raspy laugh, lifting an eyebrow. A muscled shoulder shrugs, and I gape at the sheer size of him. Just a little admiration, as a treat.

Good thing shotgun pellets spread wide. Maybe he’ll catch ‘em all.

“June, we are on the same side.” His voice is calm, low, like he’s done this a million times. Like my gun aimed at him isn’t a threat. “I don’t want to hurt you. You don’t want to hurt me.”

“This is not good. It’s worse than not good, because I don’t know what you’re talking about. On the same side of what? We’re not on the same side of the business end of this thing.” My throat tightens, knuckles white against the black shotgun. “If you step any closer, I’ll shoot you.”

Dean freezes at the threat.

Ha! Satisfaction courses through me.

“Explain. Now. Explain how you knew where I live. Where the key was.”

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