Page 31 of Ship Outta Luck

“You’re interrogating me now?”

Surprise and respect mingle with suspicion as I look at her.

“You’re the one literally lying on top of me. Least I can do is ask why.”

Shaking my head, I resume searching for potential weapons. A quick check of her dress pocket reveals several shotgun shells and what looks like keys to the big boat out back, an orange floatie hanging from the keyring.

I slide them into my own pocket, readjusting my position on top of her. She grunts as my weight shifts, and we both freeze at the noise.

“I’m going to let you go now. We need to talk.”

“No kidding,” June grinds out.

My mind races.

How much information am I cleared to give her? What can I say that won’t make me sound like a stalker? How can I prove that she’s not about to fuck me and this op over?

With all the blood rushing to parts that are not my brain, I’m not exactly thinking straight.

“Are you going to run, or can we eat the gourmet meal I made for us like civilized people?” I finally settle on that, and it sounds stupid.

When she lets out a surprised laugh, though, I feel like I’ve won a fucking prize.

I much prefer her laugh to her tears.

“Gourmet? You made peanut butter and jelly.” Her stomach growls again, and I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

Something moves under me. Is her hand on my leg? My hip?

I shift, frowning, and the slight pressure disappears.

“Are you going to hurt me, DEA Dean?”

“Not unless you’re allergic to peanuts.” Tilting my head at her, I smile, but she looks away. “Are you going to try to shoot me again?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She knees me in the groin, my eyebrows rocketing up. “If you stop poking me withthat.”

My smile disappears, embarrassment surging through me. Standing up, I offer her a hand, which she declines.

June crosses her arms, hugging herself, looking up at the ruined ceiling. The t-shirt sliding further off her shoulder, I pull another piece of ceiling from her hair.

“Explain,” she orders.

“Eat, and I will.”

“Why are you so hellbent on getting me to eat? Are you planning to drug me before carting me off somewhere?” She shakes out her hair, and more plaster dust falls out of it.

“Why are you so hung up on me kidnapping you?”

“You’re the one who carried me out of a bar, knew where I live, and made sandwiches in my kitchen, you weirdo.”

Exasperation sends my eyes rolling. “I am trying to keep you safe. And even though you seem more sober, a protein bar isn’t enough.” I point at the hole in the ceiling, unsure if I want to tip my hand to the rest yet. “And, frankly, your drunk decisionmaking doesn’t seem to be the greatest. Case in point, you throwing tequila in the eyes of the Russian hitman.”

An exasperated sound gusts out of her, and she rolls her eyes before stomping into the kitchen. Where the shotgun lies.

---