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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 wasmaybea 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.