Page 53 of Shipwrecked

“I’m not using up the painkillers because of sore muscles.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Mathieu retrieves them.

“You’re in worse shape than you keep pretending,” Cillian says.

“Thanks.”

He mutters something that sounds like a curse. I twist to glare at him. He’s already looking at my face, calm but stubborn.

“I’m in charge of first aid,” he says.

I can’t argue against that. “Someone could get hurt and need them. Muscle soreness will pass.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but this is why we have painkillers. The med kit is well-stocked. Willow and Mary both have their own painkiller strips. And look.” Cillian draws my attention to what Mathieu is offering. It’s not a strip of painkillers, but a bottle. “Seán’s uncle lives in America. He always brings back painkillers for us. We’re working with a hundred pills, not twelve.”

Cillian reaches around me to take the bottle and twists off the cap. The bottle is full. He shakes two pills out onto my palm. “Doesn’t even make a dent in our supply.”

Seeing that there’s plenty left, I’m happy to swallow the pills down.

“I know you’re looking out for the group, but you’re a member of that group too.” Cillian hands the bottle back to Mathieu. “Can you pass me the oil? It’s in a brown plastic bottle, should be in the side pocket. Jules, if you don’t mind taking your shirt off? You’ll get more out of this if I can rub your skin.”

I take off my shirt. I have a horrendous farmer’s tan dividing my arms, and I can feel the sunburn across my face. I shouldn’t be so embarrassed. Everyone’s burnt. Everyone’s skin is in desperate need of care…except Mathieu, who’s turning into some sort of golden god, skin evenly tanned.

Cillian sets his oil-soaked fingers against my sore back.

“Seán’s mom is Niamh?” I ask.

“That’s right. Have you met her?”

“At Seán’s graduation last year. You were there too. In the Rocher Hotel. Do you remember?”

Mathieu sits back down, sipping his tea. He watches Cillian’s hands working against my muscles, rolling his own shoulders.

I open my mouth, but Mathieu shakes his head and mouths, “You first.”

“I remember,” Cillian says. “I forgot you were there. I don’t think we talked.” He slides his hands down the inner slope of my shoulder blades and pauses there to focus on a mass of knots.

“I was dating Darren.”

“I just mean ‘talk’.”

Cillian had been wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves folded up to show off his tattooed forearms. And his hair, those gorgeous black waves, had framed his handsome face like a dark halo. The walking embodiment of sin.

“It’s rude to talk to attractive people when you’re in a relationship.”

Mathieu chokes on his tea. Cillian’s massage stops.

“What?” I realise I’ve just admitted that I find Cillian attractive. But surely that’s obvious at this point? Besides, everyone finds him attractive.

“If you’re dating someone you can’t talk to attractive people? At all?” Mathieu asks.

“Ideally not.”

Mathieu looks scandalised. “So if we were to start dating, you’d pretend Cillian doesn’t exist?”