‘That’s what I meant to do,’ Jack said, struggling through the choppy water towards Declan.
Declan clapped him on the back. ‘Sure, sure.’
Holly and Owen joined them, and they talked about their lives back home, enjoying the peace of not being recorded. Holly told them about her first job tending bar at a wild club, recounting a story about a man offering her a lap dance in exchange for another drink.
‘Holy shit,’ Owen said. ‘That was my mate Cillian. Swear on my life.’
Holly laughed. ‘It’s so refreshing to be with someone who has banter. I just got out of a relationship with a man who never made me laugh.’ She splashed Jack.
‘Hey!’ Jack yelled in mock outrage. ‘I’m funny, take it back!’ He lunged at Holly, lifting her and throwing her into an oncoming wave. Declan and Owen cheered him on as Holly screamed with laughter.
‘Oi!’ Brian called jovially from the beach. ‘Save it for the cameras!’
Jack stuck his tongue out at Holly when she resurfaced, and the group agreed it was time for lunch. The production tent was stocked with snacks and alcohol, and for the first time since the beginning of filming, nobody was cutting the contestants off at two drinks. After they finished eating, Holly poured out tequila shots, and Declan quickly lost count of how many he’d had.
Full and more than a little tipsy, Declan glanced across the beach and noticed Oliver sleeping nearby on a towel. He was curled in on himself, his hands tucked under his chin and his hair mussed by the ocean breeze. Without thinking, Declan walked over.
‘Hey,’ he said, his eyes tracing over Oliver’s bare chest. ‘I think it may be time to reapply.’
Oliver blinked at him sluggishly for a moment before jerking up and adjusting his glasses. ‘Oh shit. I can’t burn. That’d be it for me, I’m sure of it.’
‘Easy,’ Declan said, grabbing the bottle of suncream nestled in the sand between them, his fingers hot from the alcohol pulsing through his veins. ‘I can get your back.’
Oliver raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. ‘All right.’ He turned his back to Declan, who shuffled closer on his knees to get a better angle.
As he rubbed the cream into Oliver’s back, fixating on a small constellation of moles on his left shoulder, Declan realised he was at least three drinks past tipsy and playing a very dangerous game. Remembering why he’d kept away from Oliver in the first place, he gruffly slapped the suncream on in a way that could only be seen as platonic and heterosexual.
‘You should be all good,’ he said stiffly, sitting back and plastering on a smile.
Oliver looked bemused. ‘Cheers.’
Declan cleared his throat. ‘So, uh…’ Words usually came easily to him, but he couldn’t think, the lines of Oliver’s collarbone making him stupid. ‘You a swimmer, then?’
‘Pardon?’ Oliver said, his eyebrows drawing together.
‘I mean,’ Declan backpedalled, waving a hand at Oliver’s lean frame. ‘You’re built for it, right? And you’re cut, so I figured maybe you were a swimmer.’ His cheeks burned as his brain caught up with his words.
‘I don’t know how to swim,’ Oliver said, still frowning. ‘And I’m a ballet dancer.’
‘Oh, right,’ Declan said, nodding.
Oliver didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s the running joke between Owen and Jack right now.’
‘Is that why they were talking about tutus?’
‘You’re not that observant, are you?’ Oliver teased, smiling slyly, and the tension eased from Declan’s shoulders.
‘When it’s not about me?’ he said, droll. ‘Nah, can’t be bothered.’ Oliver let out a loud laugh at that, and Declan grinned. ‘You’re not bad to look at when you lighten up a little,’ he said, without thinking. He blinked, not letting embarrassment show on his face, though he wished he could stop telling Oliver how attractive he was.
‘It’s getting easier,’ Oliver said, seeming not to notice. ‘All the cameras, constantly being recorded, it’s not exactly my thing.’
‘Shouldn’t you be used to performing? You did a good job last week when we were fighting over Zoë.’
‘Like I said, it’s getting easier. Once I realised that’s what it was, a performance, I could go through with it and not worry so much.’ Oliver sighed, swatting some sand off his towel. ‘I guess it’s a little hard to explain, but when I’m dancing, I don’t have to think. There’s the routine, and I follow it. Nothing is up to me.’
Declan nodded along, caught in the striking contrast between Oliver’s green eyes and the bright blue of the sky.
‘But here,’ he continued, ‘I think about everything. I think about how I walk, and sit, and stand, not to mention I’m constantly thinking about the words coming out of my mouth.’
