Page 67 of Ship Outta Luck

“Therapy,” I echo.

“You don’t want to hear about it.”

“I think therapy is great. Important. I think it’s great you’re in therapy.” I twist my lips to the side, his words finally hitting home. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

His smile deepens, something dark flashing in his eyes. “I think you’d like it if I told you what you wanted, princess.”

“Oh.” It comes out a squeak, and his dimple deepens, drawing my eyes back to his mouth.

“But what do you want, June?”

The way he enunciates my name, the teasing lilt of his mouth, the promise of what else he can do with it…

Too much. This is a bad idea. He is too much, too fast, and too good.

I will not be undone by Marine Ken Doll Dean Evans.

Not right now, at least, not with the sea glass message so close hand.

“I want to find my ship.” My heart slams against my chest, so rapid there is no way Dean can’t feel it. His hand slips from my neck, grazing my collarbone. “That’s what I want now.”

“Then let’s find your ship.”

“I thought you said this was about drugs.” I squint at him, shielding my eyes from the Texas sun.

He gives a small shrug. His shrugs should be illegal. Public indecency. My gaze sweeps over the empty stretch of shore. Whatever. It’s public enough.

“Why can’t it be about both?”

“Both?”

It can’t be both. Because that would mean my fatherwasa drug runner. The man who kept me safe since… since the unspeakable happened.

Something I keep deep inside—bottled up safe and tight, so secure I refuse to even think about it—leaks through to the conscious part of my brain.

My throat goes dry, my skin somehow too tight.

I don’t want to believe it.

Anything to keep you safe.I can almost hear his voice, the way he looked at me when he rushed me to the hospital after he collected me.

Collected me from the Russian smugglers, the year I turned thirteen.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

DEAN

June’s facepales under her tan. Her perfect mouth is round with surprise as I move closer, gripping her slack arm.

“Breathe, June. Breathe.” I’ve seen this too many times.

Pure fear.

Her eyes are dilated, remembering something. Whatever it is, it terrifies her. My heart stutters.

“I’m going to count to ten. You’re going to breathe in deeply the whole time,” I say before counting. “Now out. Breathe out. Again.”

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