Page 11 of Shipwrecked

Darren snorts.

I redden. “Seán said—”

“Seán is the one sending us up.”

Seán is driving the yacht, so it’s Cillian sending us up.

“Darren,” Mathieu says, all traces of his ever-flowing humour gone, “stop being a dickhead.”

Darren freezes. A beat later, he smiles, all charm. “Sorry, I don’t mean to wind you up, Jules. You don’t have to go up if you don’t want to.”

Cillian finishes arranging the sails and harnesses. He’s in the shelter of the cabin wall. I don’t think he can feel the wind from the angle it’s coming in.

I stride over before I can back out, heart thundering in my chest. Cillian scans my face as he helps me into the harness. “Are you sure you want to go up?”

“Yes,” I say curtly. The world is wavy around the edges. The others exchange stories about their exhilarating experience while Darren attempts to smooth things over with Mathieu. Judging by Mathieu’s expression, it’s not going well. Have they slept together? I have a feeling Mathieu’s preferences might clash with Darren’s.

Cillian tightens the strap around my waist, then around each thigh. The feeling of his strong hands and the constricting straps draws me into my body, out of my head. “I’m sorry.”

“You apologise a lot.” Cillian smooths out where my shorts ruck up under a thigh strap. “Are you sure?” he repeats.

“Will you keep it quick? And not as high as the others went?”

“I can do that. And if you change your mind at any time, tell me.” He checks the strap on my waist, jerking me forward a step. I catch his arm for balance, distracted momentarily by how firm it is.

“I’ve been out with Seán dozens of times, and people change their minds at the last second all the time. It’s not a big deal.”

“Thank you.”

Cillian tugs the strap on my waist again, pulling me forward another step. “Alright. Your harness is good.”

Mathieu comes over. Behind him, Darren is scowling. He fixes me with a heated, irritated look before joining the others, snatching his bottle of water from the deck.

There’s a tug on my waist. I turn a questioning look on Cillian, whose gaze slides from my eyes to where I’m still clutching his arm. I let him go.

“What did you say to him?” Cillian asks as Mathieu slips into a harness.

“I pointed out how nice everyone was to him yesterday despite how bad a swimmer he is,” Mathieu says. “And how he’s acting like a mouldy banana in a bowl of perfectly ripe fruit.”

Cillian’s lips quirk up. “Good.”

“I’m the ripe fruit in this analogy?” I ask.

“We all are.”

“Except Darren, who is a mouldy banana,” Cillian says. He tightens Mathieu’s straps, doing the check like he did with me. Mathieu’s heels stay planted, and he raises an amused brow. Cillian’s eyes glimmer. His hand lingers on the waist strap.

The image of the two of them making eye contact like that over my back flashes in my mind. Spit-roast? Mathieu had suggested it so casually. He plays the field. He has to.

My cock twitches, and I turn away. I do not want to sport a semi in a pair of swim shorts. I focus on the fact that I’m about to be ten thousand feet in the air and the hot feeling turns wholly unpleasant. Do I want to do this? Just because Darren’s being a dickhead?

I pick up the clip that Cillian attached to the harness for the others. It connects to a very complicated tangle of ropes that branch out to dozens of places on the sail. The cord is thin. The edge of the sail on one side is flapping wildly. Was it doing that before?

I look at the ocean. The sun is shining, but past the cabin, there’s a wall of dark clouds. Alarm fills me. The clouds I was studying only a few minutes ago have grown into a monster.

“There’s a waterspout.” My voice comes out faint.

“Is there now?” Darren says.