Page 52 of Shipwrecked

Jules

Breakfast is porridge and honey, served with fruit and black tea.

Mary offers the tea in a plastic cup. “I don’t know how we survived without the teapot. It’s amazing. We’re already done boiling today’s water, and to have those tubs…” She looks to the five-litre bottles stashed in the shade.

I subtly gauge Mary, but she doesn’t seem at all perturbed by what she saw just now. Neither does Charles.

“Where is everyone?” Mathieu asks, accepting a cup from her too. “Doing a run to the yacht?”

“Nah, they’re off working on projects,” Charles says. “I don’t think anyone else can do that run but you three. We’re not as strong swimmers. You mentioned last night going on a run today?”

Mathieu rolls his shoulders. “We did?”

Is he sore too? My muscles have stiffened during the night. Not that waking up was unpleasant. I can’t believe that they changed my underwear. We’re on an island, and they went to the effort of cleaning me after I passed out on them. Was it Mathieu or Cillian? Both? I can’t ask. Not without combusting.

“Weren’t you and Cillian talking about bringing over the rest of the food last night?” Charles adds.

The moment when that was said is seared into my brain.

Mathieu’s fingers feather over his ribs. His smile loses the dimples. “Ah,” he says. “Yes.”

“My shoulders are spent,” I say quickly. “I can’t handle that swim again today.”

I wait for a remark about lying around all week, and then calling it quits after one day of work. But Darren’s not here. What I get instead is Cillian’s intense gaze, and the certainty that he’s furious all over again about me swimming over while he wasn’t looking…twice. I’m tempted to turn traitor on Mathieu and point out he was an accomplice the second time.

“He has to say that, or else Cillian will tie him to a tree,” Mathieu jokes.

Wouldn’t it make the most sense if Cillian cleaned me? He’s very attentive about practical things. But then again, Mathieu is very sweet. And very experienced. My lips are still tingling from his kisses.

“Maybe you can help me and Charles build our shelter?” Mary asks. “Charles scouted out a nice spot.”

“Babe.” Charles puts a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “He just said he’s tired,” he says in a curiously magnanimous tone. Mary’s brows shoot up. I think she’s offended by the notion that Charles is protecting me from her.

Charles spots that he’s made a mistake. “But I’m sure you have something sensible in mind,” he adds quickly.

“Yes,” she says. “I do. He’s going to hang out with me, and we’ll entertain ourselves while you build everything.”

Charles nods. “Excellent plan.”

I grin. “I can do that.” I have a notebook that I’m hoping will dry in good shape. I want to take an inventory, but I have the entire day.

Charles and Mary head off first, Charles looping Mary’s arm over his shoulder so she doesn’t put any weight on her twisted ankle, and I’m left with Cillian and Mathieu. There’s a charge in the air. Something sweet and crackling. I think of Mathieu kissing me. Of Cillian admitting he was thinking about fucking my thighs.

“I can give you a massage,” Cillian says.

That shivery awareness spreads, my skin becoming sensitive against my clothes.

He meets my eyes and rubs a hand over his jaw, a muscle fluttering. His exhale is slow and controlled, but not calm. “Your shoulders.” He drops his hand. “Seán’s mom is a masseuse, and I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

“That would be nice.”

Cillian sets his empty cup aside. He crooks his finger, gesturing for me to turn around on the log. I straddle it, which leaves me facing Mathieu, as Cillian sits behind me.

Cillian sets his hands on the top of my shoulders; they’re large and warm. He presses down, barely touching sore muscles. My erotic mood cracks.

“Urgh.”

“You have knots on both sides up here,” Cillian says, the grit and tension vanishing from him. His fingers flex, and I feel, intimately, those knots. “Mathieu, can you grab the painkillers?”