Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
JUNE
Stars, brighter here than they have any right to be, twinkle overhead, the moon low and heavy against the light-studded sea.
I inhale deeply, sleepy and stuffed to the gills from the huge dinner. Empty paper plates crackle in the bonfire, and chocolate oozes from the half-eaten s’more on my lap.
Pierce and Charlie retreated back to their boat not long after dessert, borrowing the inflatable dinghy to get off the beach. Pierce barely spoke to me since I called him out at the bonfire.
A real loss. Not.
“I can see why you didn’t get the grant.”
The words left an ugly smear in my mind, and I wish I could put my finger on what else it is about Dean’s partner that irritates me so much.
I have no idea what the heck Charlie sees in him.
Or maybe, just maybe, I really don’t know Charlie as well as I think I do. Maybe I read her wrong from the start, ignored any red flags in favor of having a friend.
Behind me, metal and plastic clink as Thorne and Thompson sort a ridiculous amount of weaponry and food into backpacks with price tags still on them. Guns, knives, and something that looks frightfully like a hand grenade.
It’s not like they sell those at Wal-Mart. And why the heck do they think we each need a survival bag? I’m not entirely sure I want to voice that question.
Ignorance is bliss and I sure as heck could use a blissful night of sleep.
Dean says I’m safe with them. If that means a backpack full of weapons and protein bars, then I trust his judgment. Which, I do. I do trust his judgment.
I’ve gone from panicked to soothed all because these men, especially Dean, make me feel safe. Cared for. His men trust him implicitly, are loyal to him. Protective of him. He inspires them, a natural leader. Heck, he inspires me.
And despite our conflicting beliefs about what my father was leading me toward, Dean never makes me feel stupid for hoping. He’s been accommodating and kind and careful.
Affection swells in me.
I like him.
I like how he makes me feel. His men are right; Dean is a good man.
As long as I don’t think too hard about why they want to keep me safe, I’m… content.
Biting my lower lip, I push clean hair out of my eyes. The fire dances against the dark night sky, brilliant oranges and reds. Thorne is deep in conversation with Thompson as they continue sorting supplies.
Sneaking a peak, I look at the man settled next to me on the sand, swigging from a Gatorade, a sleeping bag rolled up under his arm.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” It should sound silly, greeting each other after all the time we’ve spent together today. But the deep rasp of his voice, the simple word, and the weight of his presence by my side is a comfort.
I turn the fishing lure we found over in my hand, firelight dancing off the metal.
“Still no idea what that means, huh?”
Gently, he takes it from me, dangling it so the poison-green strips float behind it.
Thompson walks over.
“Think fast.” He tosses me a protein bar, and I catch it easily. “Good reflexes.”
“I’m full. I couldn’t possible eat any more.”
“Keep it. You might wake up hungry.” He winks, and Dean throws him a murderous look. “Going fishin’ for amberjack, boss?” He stuffs his hands in his pocket.
“Amberjack?” It comes out a whisper, barely audible over the crackling fire. I smack a palm against my forehead. Of course.
“What?” Dean asks.
Even Thompson wanders over, and the three men stare at me. Waiting.
“Amberjack. It’s a fish.” I gesture at the lure. The puzzle pieces start to click together in my head.
The gigantic patriotic cat t-shirt slips off one shoulder as my mind races.
What did my dad tell me about amberjack? I know, I know he mentioned it. I’m sure of it.
Dean reaches over, heat rising in his eyes, to slide the shirt back up my shoulder, but doesn’t move away.
“It is a fish. A damn big fish, too. We used to call them the money fish where I grew up. Hard to find, harder to land,” Thompson supplies. Thorne shoots him a silencing look.
Dean’s knee nudges against me, leaving it there, and I lean into him. “You said your dad used to take you fishing, that he was a fishing guide.”
“And you said my dad was a drug runner.”
Thompson shifts from foot to foot, and Thorne settles in the sand next to us.
“Why would he have left an amberjack lure for you?” Dean’s voice is soft, low. Gentle.
Closing my eyes, I pull my legs in tight to my chest. As though my knees might stave off the deep hurt in my chest. A hurt that only seems to get worse the more I learn about my father’s past.
Our past.
I suck in a shaky breath. How much of it is real? My father loved me, I know that. Could feel it, see it in the way he’d look at me. It was as quick and sure as breathing. But did I really know him? Can a child ever truly know their parent?
“June?” Strong arms wrap around me and I look up, squinting at the stars spangling the surface of the water, breaking and foaming in front of our makeshift camp. Thompson and Thorne wander off, talking in low tones next to the cooler of supplies.
“Listen. I know this must be hard for you. I don’t know what you’re going through. Not exactly. But,” Dean pauses, then scoots so close I can smell the pine-scented soap he washed up with. “But I’m happy to listen, if that’s what you need.”
“If he did this… it was my fault.” I choke on the words, hot tears flooding down my face, eyes never leaving the horizon. Unable to look at him.
“No, no, princess.” Dean pulls me onto his lap, and I bite my lip. He strokes my back through the thick blanket as Thompson and Thorne start walking down the beach. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“They took me. The Russians. Right before high school.”
Dean stiffens underneath me, then resumes stroking.
“I thought… I thought it was a boy from school I had a crush on texting me to meet him at the mall. That’s all it took.” I need to get it out before it swallows me whole. “To get me out there, for them to grab me. They put a bag over my head.” I bury my face in his neck.
It’s been years since I let myself think about it. Sure, I took some self-defense, know how to handle a gun, a knife, but it takes more than physical competence to erase the scars.
I don’t think they’ll ever really be gone.
Dean tightens his grip, his fingers ghosting along the back of my neck.
“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
“Dean, he paid the ransom. But that must not have been all they wanted. I’m not an idiot, but I’ve been so stupid. I should have seen it. They must have forced him to do it. Right? That must have been the payment they wanted.”
“Could be.” I expect him to be patronizing, but he genuinely sounds like he is chewing it over, analyzing everything. “Doesn’t change anything.”
“No, no.” I bite off a harsh laugh. “Doesn’t change anything, does it?”
Dean places his hands on either side of my face, forcing me to look at him, to really look.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant it doesn’t change the fact that your father loved you. Look at you, princess. You’re one of the most intelligent, capable people I’ve met. Beautiful. Smart. Infuriating.” His low chuckle sets butterflies off in my stomach. “Deadly shot. Fearless.”
I try to shake my head, but his hands make it nearly impossible. He’s the incredible one. His thumbs sweep over my cheeks, wiping away the salty tracks of my tears. His eyes glitter with refracted starlight. His lips so close we must be breathing the same air.
“I’m not fearless. I’m so afraid.”
“That’s good.” He grins, that damned tempting dimple blooming in his cheek. “Fear makes you quick. Keeps you alive.” His lips brush against my temple. “So, what are you afraid of, professor?”
His thumb continues swiping across my cheek, though my tears have dried. I swallow as he massages the back of my head with his fingertips. Finally relaxing, the tension slowly ebbing from me.
“I’m afraid they’re going to catch me again. I’m afraid there is no wreck, only the smuggling. I’m afraid I’ve made a fool of myself for a long time.”
“What else?” His clever fingers work a small knot in my neck and I sigh, closing my eyes.
“I’m afraid you’re going to hurt me.”
His hands stop moving, and I open my eyes.
“June.” The way he says my name, like it’s a promise, makes me weak in the knees—it constricts my heart.
I press a finger to his lips, not wanting him to lie. Whatever happens next won’t end with us together. Our lives are too different. We are too different.
But I don’t care. Not right now.
His gaze encourages me, the heat I saw earlier blazing to life. I look around, but Thompson and Thorne made themselves scarce.
“Kiss me.” I reach up, fingers feather-light against his skin.
Dean leans forward, repositioning me so I straddle his hips, and I let out a small moan as he places a gentle, searching kiss against the side of my neck. My jaw. His fingers press into my backside, still massaging, sending heat spiraling through me.
His eyes lock with mine, then fall to my mouth. God, I want him to kiss me. Need it. And finally, he does.
So gentle at first, as though I am some fragile thing. Wiggling closer, feeling the hard evidence of his desire between us, I can’t take it anymore. I run my hands up under the shirt he tossed on after he showered, reveling in the dips of his muscles, the way he groans as I rock against him. The way his mouth opens, his tongue sliding into my mouth.
Promising pleasure.
Breaking the kiss, my hands fist against his chest, my head following, resting against his collarbone. “I think I should get some sleep.”
“I’ll come with you.” The intensity in his voice sends a shiver through me.
I peel my forehead from him, memorizing the lines of his face in the moonlight.
“Okay.” It’s hesitant. I’m still afraid.
Dean’s expression smooths out, banked desire in his eyes. “We can sleep. I’m tired too, you know, recovering from a bullet wound and all that.”
A smug half-smile triggers the dimple’s appearance, and I reach for it before I can stop myself, tracing where it appears in his cheek. His stubble has grown out, making him look rougher. More dangerous.
He catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm, and I let out a surprised gasp, lust threatening to overwhelm me. He tugs me up with him. Unsteady on my feet, he wraps the blanket around my shoulders.
“I put your swimsuit in your pack.” He nods at the backpacks lined up in the sand before snagging two of them.
My head spins from the sudden change of conversation. Exhaustion tugging at me, I lean on Dean, wrapping my arm around his waist.
We walk across the dune in silence, our new flip-flops crunching against bleached out shells.
“They really thought of everything, didn’t they?”
“I trained them to,” Dean answers simply, his fingers hitching on the waistband of the decidedly unsexy shorts they bought me. The way he says it, all casual confidence, matter of fact—whew. It does something to me.
Dean is ridiculously competent. Smart. Brave. But the kindness under his cocky exterior? That’s what’s going to do me in.
Unsexy shorts or not, patriotic cat shirt or not, I have never been more ready to climb a man in my life. My good judgment’s slipped away with my energy.
Outside the tent, the water jug glints in the moonlight.
Dean unzips the flap. “Ladies first.”
I crouch, setting my butt inside first. Dean tosses the sleeping bag onto the floor of the tent while I remove my flip-flops. Kneeling next to me, he unscrews the cap of the water jug, then carefully puts my feet on his knees. Cold water sloshes over them and he rubs at them, careful to remove the sand from between my toes.
He remembered.
He tucks my feet inside the tent, careful to keep more sand from getting on them. Grabbing my hands, he flips them over, scrubbing at a smear of roasted marshmallow on the back of one.
Dean kissing me was incredibly, searingly hot. But being cared for? Cleaned off? This is better, way better. The flare of desire I attempted to bank is replaced by a hollow ache, a desire for something more than his body.
Once he is satisfied that my hands are clean, he places them gently in my lap. His eyes meet mine, and I can’t look away.
“That was really nice of you.” Nice doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“Can’t have you pulling an Anakin in the middle of the night, what with all the sand around.”
I tip back my head, laughing, and when I look back, he wears a self-satisfied grin, his eyes intent.
“I’m going to wash my feet off, too. Why don’t you unzip the sleeping bag and make a pallet? It’s too hot to sleep in it.”
I try to speak, try to say thank you or sure, but all I can manage is a nod. His eyes slip to my lips, and I force myself back into the tent. If he kisses me now, I will pull him into this tent, and then there will be sand everywhere.
Not like he has a condom on him anyway. Not that we would have sex, but in case—I shake my head.
“Are you okay?” He leans back in. “You have a funny look on your face.”
“Just tired,” I lie. And ready to jump your bones.
“Then go to sleep.” He grins at me. “Easy as that.”
“Easy as that,” I repeat, grumbling. “Go to sleep, June, it’s so easy to sleep.”
“Nah, I’d say, ‘Go to sleep, princess, I’ll watch your back so you don’t have to worry.’”
He lets out a laugh as the sound of water splashes.
I grunt in annoyance at his tone, but secretly, I’m pleased.
When he curls up next to me, one arm thrown over my waist, I snuggle close to him, enjoying the cuddle.
And promptly fall asleep.