Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
JUNE
The black and silver inflatable dinghy the guys brought to ferry supplies skids across the shoreline, the surf rushing and foaming alongside it. Tugging the ropes, I help haul it onto the sand. Though, with the three-massively-muscled-man squad, I’m not sure I’m actually helping at all. My hair, mussed from salt and sand, sticks to my eyelashes, and for the fifteenth time, I wish I had an extra hair tie.
“Back again, huh?” I say, twisting my hair into a low knot. There. Maybe it will stay put.
Thompson grins. “You’re stuck with the two of us.” He dips his chin at Dean. “Three, if you count him.”
I flick my gaze to Dean, who, alongside Thorne, is stacking supplies on a massive beach blanket. His muscles ripple in the late afternoon sun, and my throat goes dry. The sticky, wet sand underfoot gives way as I dig a little pit in it with my toes.
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
It might have been the best kiss of my life, but everything is mixed up and harder than it needs to be. He’s barely looked at me since his team got here.
“You guys thought of everything, huh?” I nod at the loaded Zodiac raft. “Smart to grab the inflatable, too.”
“Well, we tried to, at least.” Thompson points at the supplies already offloaded. “Propane tank, fire starter, cooler with ice and drinks for tonight, some groceries to go with the crab…” He pokes around the raft, snagging three overflowing plastic grocery bags. “Here. Some shampoo and soap, clean clothes for you, and…” he clears his throat, “some unmentionables.”
I peer at him. “Unmentionables?”
“Stuff to wear, you know? Just take it, will you? We even brought Sir Shirtless over there something clean to wear.” He thrusts the bags at me. “Have Evans set you up a makeshift shower when you’re ready.”
Peeking into the bags, I see a bright blue loofah, some herbal shampoo, soap, and as promised, new underwear and clothes.
A shower sounds incredible.
“This was really—” I cough as my throat closes up. “Really thoughtful. Thank you, thank you so much.”
On an impulse, I throw my arms around his neck, his wet t-shirt clinging to my skin. Sniffling, feeling gratified that they thought of my comfort, that I’d at least sleep clean tonight.
“Thompson, did you want to help? Or were you two going to stand around all day?” Dean’s voice sounds from directly behind me.
Thompson pushes me away and I realize, with a start, I’d clung to him. The hole I dug with my feet is half full of water now, my chipped pink nail polish barely visible under the sand.
“Honey, we better get to work.” Thompson gives an exaggerated wink before brushing past Dean.
“What’s in the bags?” Dean’s voice is causal, nonchalant, and I turn, confusion settling in.
“They brought us some clothes to change into and some soap to wash up with.”
“Good.” His throat bobs, his mouth a thin slash across his face. “That’s good.”
He says good, but he looks pissed. I frown, wondering what the heck changed.
“Don’t get too close to those two,” Dean says, and my eyes go wide as he stares daggers at Thompson’s back and I realize what’s wrong.
Thompson, himbo crew member, who I just hugged.
“Are you jealous?” I tilt my head, incredulous.
“That you get to shower?” One side of his mouth turns up. “No, I’m glad.” He raises an eyebrow and looks meaningfully at my armpit.
“Shut up.” I push the bags at him, laughing, and he catches my forearm, pulling me close. The sand and water suctioning around my feet.
“I was maybe a little jealous,” he admits. “It looked like a nice hug.”
“Well…” I trail off, flustered. “Jealousy isn’t a desirable trait in a partner, just so you know.”
“Is that so?” His hands grasp my elbows now, and he steps closer. “You trying to say you want to be my partner, princess?”
“I just mean, ah, we’re working together. As partners. Partners.” I shove at his shoulder a little, making a finger gun, the bags falling to the crook of my elbow. “Pardner. Like a cowboy, howdy pardner.”
Dean steps even closer, close enough for me to see the sweat beading across the dip between his collarbones.
“I knew you were into roleplay,” he says roughly.
“Am not,” I tell him, shooting one more finger gun for good measure.
He laughs, and before I can do anything about it, he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“Cut it out, you two,” Thorne yells. “We’ve got shit to get done if you wanna eat anytime soon.”
“Get a room,” Thompson adds from where he is sorting supplies into four identical backpacks.
“Speaking of rooms.” Dean’s eyes shift from my face to the sky and back again. “They bought two tents. They each sleep two.”
A wave crashes against the shoreline, seafoam chasing up to us. The two boats, anchored to the sandbar, bobbing on the horizon.
Dean is silent. Waiting.
“Oh. They sleep two,” I finally repeat, cottoning on.
He nods, the smile gone. “I know you’re claustrophobic?—”
“Tents don’t bother me.” The words slip out in a rush. “They breathe.”
“They breathe,” he echoes, hooking a hand on his hip. And I try not to get distracted by the muscle packed against the tips of his fingers. Focus . “I can sleep under the stars, if you want privacy. Or to be alone.”
Oh. Oh .
“Are you trying to ask me if I’ll share a tent with you, Dean Evans?” A smile curls around my mouth.
He refuses to meet my eyes, instead watching a sandpiper’s progress across the bank of rust-red seaweed. Biting the insides of my cheeks, I stall. I don’t want to say no. Or do I?
Dean Evans is an unknown, and despite my rising suspicion that he hides surprising vulnerability behind his cocky edges, I have no doubt getting more tangled with him would only lead to heartache.
I follow his gaze. The pale little bird nibbles at something in the seaweed, then gobbles it down without a second thought.
“I understand if you say no, but I want you to know, what happened earlier.” He coughs. “It won’t happen again. If that’s what you want, I mean. I respect you. I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured or unsafe or anything like that. So, if?—”
“Dean.”
He looks at me, and there’s hope and something else in his expression.
“You can share my tent.”
“Roger that.” With a soft smile, he steps back, walking away to where Thompson and Thorne manhandle supplies.
The sandpiper, unperturbed by the fact that my chest is suddenly hollow, flits off to the safety of the grassy dune behind me.
But I can’t. A swell of emotions has me grounded in my little hole. Incredibly perturbed. Irritated. Raw.
The Betty rises on a swell, the men’s boat keeping it company. What would my father think of this? Me, working alongside three former Marines, on a hunt for the storied buried treasure he brought me up searching for?
What would he think of Dean Evans?
It doesn’t matter what he would think, not really.
The wind whips my salt-dried waves across my face, and I peel my hair from my lips, braiding it back as my mind swirls.
Dean Evans is not a long-term relationship guy. If, and this is a big if, we manage to find his precious shipment, he’ll go back to wherever he came from. Or on to the next contract, somewhere no doubt more dangerous than the abandoned stretch of South Texas beach my feet dig into. My chest tightens, and I press my palm to the exposed skin above my heart.
Totally exposed. That’s how I feel.
Like Dean sees every inch of me, and not just because of my bikini. Like he sees who I am, deep down, and after one kiss, said he wanted more.
“Dr. Legarde, we could use some help getting set up for the night and getting veg chopped,” Thorne calls out, his voice the very picture of politeness.
Squaring my shoulders, I turn.
“Point me to the tents. I’m no good at cooking.” Sleeping on solid ground, even in a tent, is better than the boat. An instant later, worry thrums through me. “I mean, y’all are sure it’s safe? To camp here? With—” I wave a hand around, incapable of forming the words that fear pushes to the forefront of my mind.
The men wait for me to finish my thought, and I find myself at the receiving end of three steely stares. I swallow.
“With the smugglers still after us—after me?”
“The only people who know where we are are on this beach already,” Thorne says gently.
My pulse picks up.
“No, that’s not true. Dean called it in to his boss at the DEA. So the person who took the call knows,” I tick off a finger, “the person who relayed the message knows,” another finger, “and Pierce, who you all are acting really sketchy about, by the way, also knows. Not to mention whoever sold y’all all this stuff knows you plan to camp somewhere.” I blow out a shaky breath, familiar fear wending through me.
“Princess,” Dean says carefully, “my people are the best in the business. You are safe with us. They took necessary precautions when purchasing supplies, didn’t you, Thompson?”
Thorne and Thompson nod, their eyes glued on my face, which feels oddly bloodless. Pressing my fingers against a cheek, I will myself to calm. Fear is a funny thing. It sharpens and sharpens and sharpens, until I’m as brittle as can be, always in danger of breaking.
“And you trust Pierce? You trust everyone at the DEA?”
“I trust my crew and myself.” Dean steps closer, into my personal space. “You are safe with us. I promise.”
His men share a look, then nod in wordless agreement.
Realizing I’ll either have to trust them or spend the night a hair’s breadth away from a panic attack, I nod. “Well, I can’t cook. So tents it is.”
“That’s okay.” Thompson grins, pushing back his sandy blond hair. “Dean’s the best cook out of the three of us. He’ll handle the food.”
My gaze sweeps back to Dean, but he doesn’t look at me, just grunts.
Agreeing, I guess.
He strides off towards the groceries, turning his entire focus to sorting them.
That’s fine. I don’t want to talk either. Knotted like an abandoned fishing net, my emotions need time and space to breathe.
Moving to the supplies, I reach for the first tent and still.
He never said if he trusted Pierce or not.
After some trudging around, Thorne and I find a relatively level location to set up the tents. It doesn’t take long at all to get them together after that. As for Thorne, he’s content to work in peace, offering up words only when completely necessary. Strong and silent, he makes good company for the mood I’m in.
“It’ll do,” I say, dusting sand from my thighs. Sweat trickles down my neck.
On the main stretch of beach, Dean and Thompson have the propane tank fired up. Citrus and the unmistakable scent of spiced crab boil waft through the air. Gulls flock overhead, drawn to our dinner in the hope they’ll be able to share in the scraps.
I inhale deeply, hair falling over one shoulder. Seriously. I can’t believe I didn’t remember to ask for a hair tie.
“He’s a good man, you know.”
“What?” I scrunch my nose in confusion.
“Evans. I saw the way you two looked at each other.”
I sputter in surprise.
Thorne waves a big hand, a serious expression on his face, eyes crinkling as he studies me. “I know he comes off hard sometimes. He had a rough time of it with another woman.”
I step closer, curious despite myself.
“I’m not responsible for what anyone else has done to him.” My voice is soft, so quiet I almost don’t hear myself over the waves on the beach. Embarrassed, I look down at the sand still sticking to my hands.
“It’s his story to tell. But he’s a good man. He’d treat you right if you let him. And he didn’t lie to you on the beach. You are safe with us.”
Some of the tension leaves my body at his words, and I wait for more—for an explanation. For any hint of what Dean is going through, of why Thorne is so convinced of his leader’s intentions with me, of his ability to protect me.
Thorne just smiles at me.
“Thank you,” I finally say.
It’s true, though, what Thorne said.
Dean is a good man.
The kind of man I could see myself falling hard for. Every moment with him is a revelation, the discovery of new facets of his personality as addictive as his mouth’s proven to be: his protectiveness, his loyalty, his competence and kindness.
Thorne nods at me once before making his way carefully down the dune to the beach.
My gaze darts to the massive bonfire Dean and Thompson built. A thrill goes through me as Dean glances up to where I stand on the dune, his face contemplative, his body still.
I’m anything but still.
In fact, my entire body seems to tingle.
I don’t think it’s just adrenaline, not anymore.