Page 43 of Ship Outta Luck

If my father even knew I was missing.

It felt like months.

It was only six days.

Placing a hand on my side, Dean eases me onto the boat’s seat and I sink onto it, clutching his forearm for balance. A cold sweat breaks over my skin, despite the heat of the night.

Dean’s gone from my side, and I try to breathe normally, try to exist in this moment. I’m not trapped. I tip my chin up, looking at the stars in the clear night sky.

The engine dies before a splash signals Dean casting the anchor overboard. The boat lurches delicately as the anchor catches the murky bottom.

His eyes meet mine, dark and full of understanding.

Without a word, he hands a fresh water bottle to me.

I take it, tipping it and savoring the cool, clean water on my tongue, like it can wash away the bad memories.

Only then do I register that Dean’s brought the cushions from the cuddy cabin, spreading them across the deck in a snug, makeshift pallet. I settle myself down on one, giving up.

He tosses the lone blanket over me. It’s somewhat musty but soft, and his hand brushes my side as he tucks it around me.

The cushions squeak slightly as he lies down next to me.

The sound of him counting down from one hundred quietly, over and over, soothes me. Settles me. Until exhaustion claims me.

I wake at some point, as fingers of early morning pink across the horizon. I re-adjust, slinging the blanket aside, too warm.

A little too late, it hits me. The warmth curling through me isn’t thanks to the barely rising sun.

It’s thanks to Dean.

His strong, warm body cocoons mine. A muscled arm’s tossed over my torso, his fingertips lightly grazing my wrist.

I can’t quite bring myself to move away.

Eventually, the rhythm of his breathing and the sound of water against the hull lulls me back to sleep.

The sun sears across the horizon as I attempt to scramble up from the deck. The light fleece blanket tangles around my ankles, and I struggle for a moment before sinking against the rails.

I passed the heck out. My head throbs, and I wince as I remember the tequila.

The tequila definitely remembers me.

The rest of last night crashes over me and I sag, tired all over again.

“You’re up.” The deep pitch of Dean’s voice rolls across the boat, and I spin on my heel, ignoring the heat spreading through my stomach.

“Did we cuddle?” I blurt out.

He cocks his head, white, even teeth glowing against dark stubble as he throws a half-smile at me. “If we did, it was probably just for warmth.”

“Right,” I echo.

It’s already hot, and it takes a lot of energy not to smile at his easy joke, but I manage it.

Don’t want him to get the wrong idea and think I liked cuddling him, or let him know I slept better with him around me than I have in a long time.

“Good morning,” he says, and dang if that stubble doesn’t make him look even more delicious.

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