Page 53 of Ship Outta Luck

What. The. Fudge. I push him away, staring at him with pure hatred in my eyes. He knows them?

“Youdonkey,” I mutter, furious. Mostly at myself, because damn, that was a good kiss.

“You liked it. I liked that little noise you made,” Dean tells me, not even bothering to look up at the men calling to him from the other boat.

Well, I won the battle, but at what price?

“Hell, I’d give her a hand,” a second speaker says before a chorus of laughter.

The price of absolute, utter embarrassment.

Dean practically vaults from the bow, the searing heat of his body replaced with the cold slap of instant regret.

“Shut up, Thompson,” Dean barks, and the laughter dies. “How did you guys get here so fast?”

Propping myself up on an elbow, I shield my eyes, attempting to see justwhois on the other boat. To see who knows Dean enough to make fun of him for kissing me.

Oh god, the kissing. Unf.

Dean stands at my side, a grim expression on his face as I take in the other boat. Their fancy double decker cabin cruiser pulls alongside theBetty, giving me the perfect view of the hulking bodies still smirking at us, all built similar to Dean. Like they’ve spent years of their lives packing on muscle.

He’s glaring at them. He looks pissed.

Huh. Not entirely happy to see them, then, is he?

It shouldn’t make my stomach flutter with butterflies.

Reaching back lazily, my hand lands on the barrel of the shotgun. In one smooth motion, just like my father taught me, I’m sitting up, the butt of the gun resting in the hollow of my shoulder.

“Woah, woah, woah. Uh, Evans, your girl is loaded for bear.” The man with the Southern accent, reflective aviators showing just how good a shot I have, tilts his head to where I sit. He raises his hands, his eyebrows joining them.

“I’m not his girl,” I grind out. I nudge the gun sideways until the other man on the boat raises his hands as well. “And who the heck are you?”

Dean gives an exasperated sigh that I promptly ignore.

“We’re the heckin’ cavalry, darlin’.” The one who said he’d give me a hand smiles. I move the gun to him, and his eyes widen slightly, darting nervously between me and Dean.

“The cavalry better keep their hands to themselves.” I shoot a look up at Dean, who appears to be suppressing a laugh.

That is about enough of that and his stupid dimple.

“Is something funny about this, Dean?” I aim a kick at the back of his knee, but he dodges before it lands. “Who are they, and how the hell did they know where to find theBetty?”

“Don’t be pissed, June. I radioed them while you were asleep with our coordinates. The one in the glasses is Thorne. Thompson’s the jerk.”

His little wave doesn’t stop me from keeping the gun leveled at him. I grin at him, but it’s not a very nice one.

He pales a little.

Ha.

“They’re part of my team. They’re assisting on this. Trust me, we’ll want the help.”

That’s the problem, though. Trusting him.

If I do, it means admitting he might be right about my father—about his involvement with the Russian smugglers.

My throat tightens, the ache in my chest returning full force.

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