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“Tide’s going out,” he says at the same time, grinning down at me. “We need to make it fast.”

“I know.”

“Race ya?” Dean’s eyes flick over my body. “Winner take all.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re on.” I’ve never been able to resist a challenge, and I’m certainly not going to start now.

Without another glance, I dive into the water, slicing through the waves with sure strokes born of years of practice. Maybe my watch will even deign to consider this my exercise for the day.Unlikely. As I break the surface for air, angling my head from the surf, I waste a split second looking for my competition.

Dean is in line with me. He barely seems to notice the waterproof bag he’s towing behind him. He’s matching me stroke for stroke, massive arms and shoulders working like he’d been born to swim. Of course he’s a good swimmer, he’s a Marine.

Losing to him suddenly doesn’t seem so bad.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

DEAN

The beach,strewn with seaweed and crushed shells provides a less than comfortable landing spot. But I sprawl across the sand, dropping the bag next to me, before propping up on my elbows, feet still submerged below the foamy water. June stayed right beside me, matching my pace until we hit the shallower water. For a second, I worried she would beat me, but I won. And I can’t wait to collect on our bet.

She emerges from the ocean, her ponytail lost to the saltwater waves. Water trickles from the ends, running in tantalizing rivulets down the curves of her body.

I get it now, the myths about mermaids and sirens, because I would let this woman do about anything to me.

She flashes a hint of a smile in response to my steady gaze. Heat rises deep in me, desire making me fist my hands.

It’s a struggle to look away.

All she has to do is smile, and I turn to mush. Well, not mush. Something much harder than mush.

“You lost.” I smile.

“So it seems.” A quick nod, and she settles next to me. Her chest rising and falling.

“Winner take all.” I shouldn’t push her, but I can’t seem to stop.

“What do you mean by that, exactly?” She pushes one palm against the sand, leaning back and inspecting her other hand.

“What’s wrong?”

June leans forward, her wet hair hanging in a sheet against her cheekbone, examining her palm. “Nothing. A cut.”

Before I can stop myself, I grip her hand, inspecting it. “It’s not bad.”

“It’s nothing,” she agrees.

When I run a finger along her palm, though, she shivers.

“Are you cold?”

“A little.”

The sun on the sand is anything but cold.

Her chest rises and falls with her quick breaths. She tilts her head, and my gaze drifts from her hand to her face. To her lips, parted slightly, to the way the water slicks across the angles of her cheekbones.

“What does ‘winner take all’ mean, anyway?” Her voice is breathy.