“Oof!” He’s already splashing toward the beach by the time my brain has fully comprehended what he’s doing, but by the time we reach the shoreline, I’m steaming mad. He sets me on my feet with a self-satisfied smirk.
I swat at his chest. “Don’t pick a woman up without her consent, caveman.”
Dean just grins at me like I’m adorable and digs his shirt and shoes back out of his backpack.
Ass.
He puts his shoes on first, anything to go shirtless a minute longer. The muscles in his tan back twist and flex, tapering down to what surely has to be the greatest ass to ever sit under a pair of swim trunks.
I need to look somewhere else. Literally anywhere else. If he catches me staring at his ridiculous body one more time, I might actually die of embarrassment. So I start walking.
Short rocky cliffs shelter the sandy cove on both sides and there’s a gentle slope up the beach to the scraggly underbrush and a small stand of pine trees. My heart beats faster when I spot a straight line of stones and some rotted boards. Oh my god. That might have been one of the shacks.
Dean tromps after me as I dig my camera out of its waterproof bag.
“You can wait on the beach,” I say. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I doubt you’ll find it very exciting since it’s not wearing a bikini or throwing itself at you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He squints at me, the little crinkles next to his eyes deepening.
“Never mind,” I mutter. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. Just because someone throws something in my direction doesn’t mean I catch it, Sutton.” He stands by my side and I can feel his eyes on me, so I glance up, feeling like a jerk until he gives me a wolfish grin. “Besides, maybe I want to see what excites you.”
And there it is.
“Suit yourself.” I shrug, walking away so he can’t see me blush.
We move slowly, Dean asking questions while I snap photos of everything I can find. He seems genuinely curious and when he forgets to be a cocky douche canoe, he’s actually pretty decent company. I shouldn’t like that he’s interested in my project, but it seems I can’t help myself.
We get to the high point of the little island a couple hours later and take a break in the rocky clearing, both of us muddy and sweaty. Dean has been watching the sky all afternoon. He hasn’t said anything, but I can tell he’s paying attention. As we sit, the wind shifts from blowing softly in my face to a hair-whipping frenzy at our back.
Dean’s eyes go wide and he gets to his feet, shoving stuff back into his pack “We need to go, Sutton. Right now.”
“Why?”
Dean points at the dark clouds in the distance. “The storm is coming early.” He places a hand on my lower back, gently pushing me back the way we came.
Knowing all too well not to test Mother Nature, I follow Dean back through the forest toward the cove at twice the pace we hiked up.
By the time we reach the shore, the sky above us is darkening. The wind is swirling in the cove, wrapping my hair around my face as we strip our shoes off on the beach.
“I’m going to pick you up unless you’re in the mood to get wet,” Dean warns. I’d say we need to work on his vocabulary, but no matter how he worded that, it was going to make me blush.
“No, it’s fine.” I take my backpack off and hold it against my chest as we wade into the water. Halfway to the boat, the water is already over the hem of my shorts. Even in the protected cove, the waves are kicking up, and I’m struggling to stay on my feet.
Dean watches me struggle for a minute before he’s had enough. He takes my bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He hooks an arm through mine, pulling me close so he can steady me. His arm is warm against my skin and as much as it kills me to admit it, I don’t hate the way it feels.
Between the rising tide and waves, I’m soaked by the time we reach the ladder. Dean puts a hand on my ass, boosting me up on the boat as a wave crashes over me. Somehow, he keeps my bag dry, handing it up to me and climbing the ladder at record speed.
“Put your bag in the cabin if you want it to stay dry,” he says, flipping switches on the dash. I stash my bag and grab my life jacket as he turns the ignition on the boat. The engine revs once and then sputters. Dean’s eyes widen ever so slightly and he turns the key again.
Nothing.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“Shit… what?”
He doesn’t say anything, but leans down and sniffs the panel under the steering wheel. And then I smell it too. An acrid, burning odor drifts on the wind.