Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
JUNE
He knew where I live. It’s all I can think, the thought a drumbeat in my head, almost as loud as my heart.
“Who are you?” Steadying my aim, I wedge the butt of the gun in my shoulder. Just as my dad taught me. Just as I perfected over the months after the incident.
Dean raises his hands, his narrowed eyes slipping into a relaxed, amused expression.
He thinks I won’t do it.
I click the safety off, slightly gratified by the way his throat bobs.
“I said, who are you?” The question goes higher, and I will myself to calm down.
“I am who I said I am. My name is Dean Evans. Like you guessed, I am an ex-Marine. I’m currently working with the DEA. Why don’t you put the gun down, babe?” he asks, stepping forward.
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 I really don’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 I seriously been 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 a freaking workout.
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.”
“I guessed where the key was.” His voice is calm, steady, and it sets my teeth on edge. Even more on edge, that is. “A lot of people keep spare keys under their mats or somewhere within reach. June.” He says my name like I’m a feral animal, calm and collected, careful.
It makes me twitch.
“I made us sandwiches.” He sweeps a massive arm to where there are, indeed, four sandwiches. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, my traitorous stomach growling.
“Put the gun down, and I will.” He smiles, like he’s won. “Give me the gun, and we can talk. I know you don’t want to shoot me. All that pretty tile you put up.”
He’s crooning to me like I’m a stray dog growling in the gutter.
Worst part is?
He’s right.
I don’t want to kill him. I haven’t ever actually shot anything alive. Turns out shooting paper targets and clay pigeons at the sterile environment of a gun range is pretty danged different from shooting a hot stranger in my kitchen.
Especially when I can’t quite decide if I want to kiss him or not.
But maiming isn’t entirely off the table.
My gaze drops slightly and he inches closer. “Stay the fuck away from me.” I sight down the barrel. Though this close, there’s no need to bother. Old habits die hard, I guess.
“The fuck away, hmm?” Another step. “What happened to fudge?”
I grit my teeth, lowering the gun slightly, swinging down and left. “I’ll shoot you in the nuts.” My finger lifts off the trigger guard, ready to squeeze.
I let out a little sigh. It would be a real shame to hit him in the nuts.
“I really don’t want you to do that.”
“I really don’t want to mess up my new kitchen either.” My mouth twists to the side. Darn it. That’s not what I meant to say.
He huffs a laugh, and I’m momentarily distracted by the way his eyes light up. His strong, hard body collides with mine, knocking me to the floor.
The gun fires with a bark, the butt of it slamming hard into my ribs.