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“No.” Unable to repress the full-body shudder that racked through me when he turned on his side and draped his big arm over me, I sucked in a sharp breath and whispered, “I’m frustrated.”
9
Fry-Ups and Flying Off the Handle
CLAIRE
“Morning,” Johnny acknowledged when I unzipped the opening of my tent the following morning and was greeted by the delicious smell of a fry-up cooking. “You look fresh.”
He was right. Not only was I feeling fresh this morning, but I was looking it, too. My hair, for some miraculous reason, had decided to comply with my wishes this morning without a hint of frizz—not a usual occurrence for a girl with my texture. “That’s because I’m made of steel,” I explained, joining him at the makeshift firepit, where he was cooking. “Seriously, I never get hangovers.”
“Because you never drink.”
“I drink.”
He arched a knowing brow.
“Okay,” I conceded with a rueful smile, sitting down. “I’ve drank three times before and I’ve never once had a headache.”
“Well, you might want to pass your secret on to your best friend.” Humor filled his tone as he gestured toward his tent. “Because she’s dying a small death in there.”
I winced in sympathy. “Poor Shan.”
“She’ll be okay.” Chuckling softly, he used a fork to turn the meat on the disposable grill. “Nothing a few sausages won’t cure.”
“Aw. You score tries and make breakfast.” I smiled. “You’re such a keeper.”
“Do I smell sausages?” Clambering out of my tent, Gerard sniffed the air like a deranged Doberman. “Lifesaver, Cap,” he declared, bounding over to us in his underpants. “Fucking lifesaver.”
The moment my eyes landed on him; a ripple of heat ignited inside of my belly.
Johnny might be taller and ripped to within an inch of his life, and Hugh and Patrick might resemble Josh Hartnett and Ryan Phillippe with finely cut, washboard abs, but I swear I’d never seen anything quite like Gerard Gibson.
He was built and broad, with gloriously sun-kissed skin and the most amazing pearly-white smile. His eyes were like pools of gray marble you could fall into, and he was just so downright snuggly.
When we were little, our mothers used to refer to him as a little cherub because he was adorably chubby with blond hair and big ole gray eyes.
And sure, he was big and strong now, with muscles in all the right places, but there still was a slight softness to his physique that made him just that little bit more human.
Unlike the rest of the boys in our group, Gerard wasn’t afraid to break his diet or skip the gym if he felt inclined. He did what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it and made no qualms about it.
Cheat meals and skipped gym sessions aside, he had the best ass of all the boys. Hands down, there was no competition. Gerard Gibson could fill a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts better than any other boy at Tommen.
Johnny, Hugh, and Patrick were all backs in rugby, which meant they needed speed and agility. On the contrary, Gerard played the position of flanker in the forwards, where physical dominance was far more vital than speed. On the team, he was a glorified battering ram and had the stocky build to match the job.
Honestly, I knew I might be biased, but Johnny Kavanagh’s impressive eight-pack or Patrick Feely’s adorable smile didn’t hold a flame to this boy.
Not in my eyes, at least.
Because this boy had always been my favorite boy.
My favorite friend, person, human, everything.
Even when we were little, and even though he despised it, he would humor me by playing Barbies with me. Sure, he would bring along his action figures and cause as much destruction as possible to my Barbie house, but he still played with me.
It never bothered him when his other friends laughed at him for playing with a girl, and he never ignored me.
Not one single time in sixteen years.
