He didn’t look at the tubes. “Structural reinforcement.”
“They’re legs for a shelf.”
He shrugged. “The ship looks flimsy. I thought you might need to prop it up.”
She pressed her lips together hard. She had to admire his bluster and confidence, standing there shirtless and ridiculous, defending stolen garbage with the confidence of a man who had never allowed himself to be wrong in his life.
He was bluffing, and she knew it. And worse, he knew she knew. That tiny crinkle at the corner of his red eyes gave him away. But the slabcrete was hard under her knees, and for the first time since she’d hit atmosphere, she wasn’t braced for impact.
“Thorough,” she said, dropping the tubes onto the heap. “That’s one word for it.”
“I prefer ‘proactive’.”
He unfolded his arms, and she could see the movement cost him. Only a fraction… just a tightening around the eyes before he locked it down.
Laceration on the left forearm, Fred cut in, his timing impeccable as ever. Open wound with ongoing blood loss. Probability of infection is high.
Her eyes widened. Oh shit, the bandage. She hadn’t noticed the dark stain creeping wider.
“Well.” She grabbed the cylinder and pushed to her feet. Her knees cracked. “You got the right one. Eventually.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“You were thinking it. You’ve got a terrible poker face.”
“The only thing in my eyes is grit and a real strong desire to get off this planet.”
Turning back to the open panel, she weighed the cylinder in her hand.
“Hold the light? Unless that’s below your pay grade.”
He stepped in beside her, sheltering her, and the hot wind that had been trying to scour her skin from her bones cut off. He was too close, the heat rolling off him, making everything feminine in her sit up and take notice. But instead of the spike of panic she’d expected, his bulk beside her, blocking the wind, steady and close enough to touch… grounded her.
The cylinder slotted into the housing. She locked the retaining bolts and reconnected the hydraulic line, pulled her diagnostic tool from her pocket, and tapped the interface. The panel lights flickered and cycled. Then went the most gorgeous, steady green she’d ever seen in her life.
Three hours of held breath left her in one long rush.
“Green across the board.” Fred, confirm fuel flow.
Flow is optimal, Fred replied. My objection to the mining drill is logged.
Noted, Fred.
She started closing the panel, hands steady now, the adrenaline draining into a dull ache she could live with. They could leave. Fire the engines and get off this rock. Everything was going to be fine.
Then the alarm went off.
The flat mechanical blare that slammed around the rock walls and rattled through the hull plating under her hands. Her fingers froze on the latch.
Alien Hottie was motionless. That easy swagger vanished so completely that it was like it had never existed. He turned his head toward the garrison lights. Slow. Deliberate. His jaw flexed, and then his gaze snapped back to her.
His face went blank. Customs officer blank. Contraband-in-the-hold blank.
“Just a drill. Standard garrison protocol.”
Garrison alert status is red. Fred said in her ear. There’s a 94% probability that your new friend is the reason.
