“I told you. Clits are magic.”
She laughs again, loose and joyful and satisfied. “I feel like I should thank you.”
It takes approximately seven seconds for my lust-fueled mind to think of a dozen raunchy ways she could thank me. None of which I can actually say aloud.
“You’re welcome.” I shift, trying to get comfortable. “Next time I give you life-changing advice, just bring me a cupcake or something.”
“I’ll get you a whole damn cake.”
I snuggle down beside her, both of us still a little breathless.
Emily murmurs, “You’re a really good friend.”
I glance over at the beauty beside me. “That’s one word for it.”
She nudges me with her foot under the blanket, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Shut up.”
As I slip into sleep, her foot is still touching mine.
25
DECLAN
The fitness zone of the ship is a glass-walled haven perched high above the ocean, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch the length of the room and give the illusion of running straight into the horizon. Everything smells faintly of salty air and sweat, the good kind—like effort, not athlete’s foot and armpit funk. The machines are top-tier, sleek and modern, polished chrome and matte black. There’s a row of treadmills lined up like soldiers, each with a screen playing silent loops of tropical destinations. The free weights section has dumbbells ranging from I’ve-got-this to I-hate-myself.
There’s a group of guys grunting near the squat racks and a woman in navy leggings meandering on the treadmill with a can of beer in the water bottle holder. It’s loud with effort and clanking iron, but somehow peaceful. Just me, my muscles, and the view of the man in front of me pulling all my focus.
“Good morning,” Lucas grunts when he sees me.
He’s got his shoulders on a bench, feet on the floor, doing hip thrusts with two hundred-pound plates. There’s a yoga mat tucked under the weights to protect his hip bones. Impressive. Guess this is how he maintains those glutes.
Watching him heft that weight around, I can’t help but notice the occasional sway of the ship. It’s subtle, but enough to make every one of his reps all the more remarkable. Mesmerized by the movement, I don’t realize I’m still standing in the doorway until a man with a tomato-red sunburn nudges past, mumbling, “Excuse me.”
Lucas casts me a small smirk as he finishes his last thrust and lowers himself to the floor. I move to the freestanding weights next to him, picking up a respectable fifty to start. Squatting with the weight, I watch him in the mirror as he does another set.
There’s something about Lucas that draws me. It’s different from the immediate pull I felt with Emily, or the pure attraction I’ve been trying to deny I have with Ava—since it’s clear that particular beta wants nothing to do with me. And it’s definitely different from the fucking annoyance I feel toward Knox. Lucas is the one member of the group I’m entirely comfortable with. There’s something about him that puts me at ease.
“So, what’s it like being an Olympic athlete?” I ask once I finish my first set. I’m partly curious about this man who invited four strangers to join him on a cruise he clearly intended for someone else, and partly asking because I want to understand Emily better. I want to understand all of them better.
I’ve always been athletic, but nothing compared to Lucas, Emily, and Ava. Competing in the Olympics is next-level athleticism. It’s not just talent—it’s borderline obsession striving for a goal of that magnitude. Discipline so sharp it cuts into their social life, sleep, maybe even their sanity on some days. Early mornings, double sessions, pain so constant you stop noticing it. They don’t just train—theylivetheir sport. Every macro of protein, every hour of rest, so many decisions probably filter through one question: will this make me faster, stronger, better, a winner?
That’s how I picture it from the outside, and I wish I knew more about it on the inside. Watching Em devour bowls of sugary cereal gets me wondering if she ate like that leading up to Paris, or was it all egg whites and protein shakes? Does Ava always wear her beloved heels, or when she's getting ready for a competition are sneakers better for her calves and arches? Is a two-hundred-pound hip thrust Lucas’soff seasonworkout?
Lucas shrugs, joining me at the free weights and re-racking his plates. “It is challenging, but rewarding.”
“Did you medal?” I ask, then immediately second-guess myself. It feels like a lazy question, something people ask when they want to sound interested without putting in the effort.
“Bronze,” he answers with something sad in his tone. I feel like a bit of an ass for asking, as if leaving with a medal is the only way the Olympic experience is validated.
“Third best rugby team in the world isn’t anything to brush off. And there’s always next time for the gold, right?” I’m not usually one to push a conversation, but there’s something about seeing Lucas wearing a downcast look that doesn’t quite fit his face. It’s like watching a sunrise through fog. Off. Dimmed. And it makes me want to offer him something, but I don’t know what. Reassurance? Respect? Quiet company? I’m out of practice being a good friend since Kyle.
What Kyle and I had wasn’t friendship, though.
Are Lucas and I friends?Thatfeels like a weird question to ask as a grown ass man.
“I won’t be competing in the next Olympics. My pa—team kicked me off.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Do you know what you’ll do now?”
