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“You’re sure she’s okay?” She inhales deeply, worry creasing her brow. “Why would he bring her out here? I don’t want her to get involved… well, any more than she already is.”

“Pierce thinks the Russian smugglers might latch onto her, use her as leverage.”

I’d like to see them try.

“Keeping her with him was the best solution he could think of in the short term,” I finish.

“Or so he says,” Thompson interjects.

Toting a civilian along on an active mission is a fool’s errand, and there is no way Charlie would have let on she was anything but that.

“You think they would do that?” Guilt colors June’s words.

It’s an emotion I know all too well.

“Do I think they would use a friend as leverage to get to you? Yeah, I do, princess. How well do you know Charlie?” There’s a hint of judgment in the question, but I make my tone as neutral as can be. This woman has a blind spot where friends and family are concerned.

June’s face pales under her mild sunburn. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Her forehead wrinkles, her frown deepens, and the wild urge to wipe it away grips me.

The boat pulls up short, and Charlie’s unmistakable white-blonde hair bounces around her as she throws the anchor out on the sandbar.

“Think they need help?” Thorne doesn’t seem able to tear his eyes away from the tall woman.

Pierce appears, waves a few times, and drops the ladder off the side. Helping Charlie splash down the ladder, their laughter carries on the sea breeze.

This doesn’t feel right.

Sure, Charlie’s safe, and Pierce is the DEA-sanctioned head of this op, but… I can’t put my finger on what feels wrong, exactly.

I tear my eyes away from the two of them.

“Nah. No way does Charlie want help.” Thompson picks up a paper plate and piles it with crab, then grabs an entire package of salad.

“June, wanna share this bag of salad with me?”

“Sure.” She grabs her own plate of crabs and a plastic fork and plops on a towel in the sand next to Thompson. Frowning, she looks at the steaming crabs. “Are there crab crackers? You know, to get the meat out?”

“Nope.” Thompson fishes a water bottle out and hands it to her. “We forgot those. But your body comes with these little things called hands? I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.”

An ember of frustration ignites in my chest as June stares, crestfallen, at her plate.

She’s not used to the usual teasing of my crew, and I give him a reproachful glare.

In half a second, I’m at her side, thigh brushing against hers, her plate in my lap, cracking open her crab for her, throwing the discards into the crackling fire. White meat piles high on her plate.

Without a word, I hand her plate back.

Her eyes are round, and wishful thinking tells me that’s not just sunburn that’s pinking her cheeks.

“Thanks,” she says around a mouthful.

I drag my gaze away from her long enough to see Thorne and Thompson grin at each other over their own plates before they notice me looking.

Am I that predictable?

Maybe I am.

Standing, I force myself to pile my own share of blue crab on a plate, adding a second plate full of hot boiled potatoes to share with June.