Ex Marks the Spot (Teachers’ Lounge #3)

1. Hartley

CHAPTER 1

HARTLEY

Day 1—Dallas, Texas

T here’s an eighty-four percent chance I’m going to murder Courtland Mueller in the next twenty-one days.

For starters, he’s ruining the first thing I’ve done for myself in half a decade. And secondly, he was supposed to turn into an ogre after college. How dare he barge onto my favorite TV show with his annoyingly perfect hair and magazine-cover body looking like the new-and-improved version of the man who tossed my heart into a meat grinder six years ago.

The audacity .

And the worst part is, my only shot at winning a million dollars rests in his hands. Scratch that. The worst part is being required to stay within twenty feet of him for the next three weeks while trying to win a million dollars. Screw him for auditioning, and screw the jerk in casting who paired us up. I’m sending a strongly worded email to that department as soon as I’m allowed to have my phone again.

What do I hate most about Court? The obvious answer would be him dumping me with an explanation that reeked of bullshit, though I suspect it had something to do with the bachelor party he’d attended that weekend. But it turns out our breakup was the product of a larger problem: Court Mueller is the lyingest liar who ever existed .

At least I’d gotten some good artwork out of it.

I’d ended up ditching everything I’d prepared for my senior capstone and submitting a new series called The Evolution of a Lie that I’d created in a weeklong breakup-induced state of mania.

Seven pieces of varying mediums—charcoal, pastels, acrylic paints, even a watercolor done with wine—to represent each month of our relationship, with the final piece being a blank canvas because I was so emotionally spent that I’d had nothing left to give.

Until Gallery Night anyway.

An hour into my capstone exhibition, I watched Court walk through the packed gallery with a woman hanging on his arm as if he wanted as many witnesses to my humiliation as possible.

The.

Freaking.

Audacity.

Red (and crimson...and scarlet) clouded my vision and my fist begged for a meeting with his face. Instead, I punched a hole in the center of the blank canvas at the end of my series. Naturally, every head snapped in my direction, so I smiled, took a bow, and thanked the guests for attending my performance of The Evolution of a Lie , then spun on my heel and left the gallery.

That was the last time I saw Court.

“Miss? Is everything okay?”

The taxi driver’s voice brings me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’m shooting daggers out the window at the man in the matching Central Tennessee State College shirt. He’s standing beside a row of hedges with a few other contestants, laughing at something one of them said. My stomach clenches at the sight of his smile.

“Sorry, I’ve just never seen a statue of an eyeball before.” I grab my backpack and slide out of the taxi into the heart of downtown Dallas, Texas. “Thanks for the lift,” I add before stepping aside so a member of the crew can pay the driver.

Along with no cell phones, contestants on Xtreme Quest aren’t allowed to bring cash from home, credit cards, cameras, or smart watches. Everything we are allowed to bring must fit into a backpack that we’ll carry while we’re competing.

This season features eleven teams of two people who graduated from the same college. To make it easier on the crew and viewers at home, the show sent us shirts from our alma matter to wear on the first leg of the race. Some teams already knew each other and auditioned together, and the rest, like me, auditioned by ourselves knowing we’d be partnered with a fellow alum.

If only I’d had a crystal ball.

But at least I have one thing on my side right now—Court hasn’t seen me yet. That means he didn’t witness my moment of panic when I discovered who my partner would be, and more importantly, that means I’ll get to witness his.

Petty? Yes.

Satisfying? Also, yes.

A woman with an iPad and an earpiece greets me on the sidewalk. “Welcome to Xtreme Quest. I’m Fiona.”

“Thanks. I’m Hartley Billings.” My mouth forms its first smile since arriving at the Giant Eyeball, a thirty-foot-tall sculpture plopped at one end of an Astroturf lawn the size of a city block, its massive blue iris staring back at me. I haven’t done much with sculpting, but maybe it’s worth exploring. I could gather junkyard treasures that remind me of Court and shape them into an enormous pile of poop. Working title: The Shit He Says .

For now, I focus on what Fiona is explaining.

“The race itself won’t start until early this afternoon. In addition to getting multiple takes of Paul talking with the contestants, we’ll get shots of each team before the race starts. You can choose your own poses and expressions—some teams keep it light and others prefer to stay serious—but keep in mind this is what will appear in the opening credits, as well as still shots for promo. When we’re done with that, we’ll sit you down for a quick interview for the first episode.”

What’s the best way to stand beside a man I wouldn’t spit on if he was burning alive? Is wringing his neck suitable for primetime TV?

“Your partner is already here. Let’s get you two—” Fiona swipes her finger across the iPad screen. “Ohhh.” She tries (and fails) to hide a snicker. “You’re the exes. Looks like introductions aren’t necessary.”

A light knock on the front door interrupts the romantic comedy my roommates and I are watching.

Corrina looks at me and waggles her brows. “Your stripper is here.”

“For the bajillionth time, he’s not a stripper and this is strictly an assignment for Hodson’s class.” I toss my throw pillow in her direction and hop off the couch.

“He’s coming here to take his clothes off in your bedroom. Sounds stripperish to me,” Megan says around a mouthful of popcorn .

Since I’m out of pillows, I flip her the bird on my way to the door.

A few weeks ago, I asked friends if they knew any guys who’d be willing to sit nude for a charcoal drawing. My only requirements were punctuality and not being a sexual predator.

Megan’s boyfriend mentioned his chemistry lab partner who is, and I quote, “not ugly and doesn’t smell weird.” The next day he showed me a photo. The clunky plastic goggles blocked most of the guy’s face, but he had a nice smile and more importantly, he agreed to sign a release in exchange for a (meager) model fee and the promise of snacks. Win-win, right?

I open the door prepared for the usual blast of setting sunlight, so it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the tall figure blocking the golden rays. When they do...

Whoa.

If this is Megan’s boyfriend’s version of “not ugly,” I’d like to be his version of “not poor.” Seriously. On a scale of one to ten, the man on the welcome mat has a preliminary score of twenty. His face is a masterclass on the golden ratio—dark brown eyebrows, a straight nose, a squared jaw, and a perfectly angled chin that would make Fibonacci himself weep—but it’s his beach-glass eyes that steal the show. The left one is seafoam green and the right is cornflower blue.

“Was that a good whoa or a bad whoa?”

It was supposed to be a private whoa, but apparently my mouth didn’t get the memo. “A good one because...” I glance around, desperate for a plausible excuse, and spot the watch on his wrist. Bingo. “You’re on time.” I hold up my own watch as proof.

His lips—full and luscious—purse together in an obvious attempt not to smile. “Are most of your models late?”

“I’ve never done this before. You’re my first.”

Now he’s grinning.

“Private model, that is. Not my actual first...” My inward groan comes out as a long breath through my nose. Where’s a freight train when you need one? “Let’s try this again. Hi. I’m Hartley. You must be Court.” I extend a hand like a normal person.

He slides his palm against mine and gently squeezes. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I gesture for him to come inside and shut the door behind him as he toes off his shoes. “I hope you don’t mind working in my bedroom. It’s basically the only available space in this matchbox-sized duplex.” And only available, I might add, because I disassembled my bed frame and flipped the mattress against the wall earlier this afternoon.

He shrugs. “I’m all yours for the next four hours. Just tell me where to go and what to do.” His eyes hold mine for a beat and then he smiles again. Unlike the one in the chemistry lab photo, this one holds a spark of mischief that my brain interprets as, “I follow directions in the bedroom.”

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

I quietly clear my throat and lead him through the galley kitchen and around the corner into the living room. As soon as my feet hit the carpet, Channing Tatum comes to life on the TV, peeling his shirt off and grinding across the stage to the beat of “Pony” by Ginuwine. Megan and Corrina cackle like traitorous hens and high-five each other.

“Court, these are my soon-to-be former roommates.” I shoot them a playful glare as I snatch the remote from Megan’s hand and hit the red power button. “Formal introductions aren’t necessary because I’m murdering them after you leave.”

He laughs and lifts his palm in a wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“Guess that means I don’t have to clean the bathroom tomorrow.” Corrina steals the remote back with an evil grin. “It’s lovely to meet you, Court. I’m Corrina and that’s Megan. Rest assured, you’re in great hands with Hartley.”

If he heard Corrina’s emphasis on the word hands , he doesn’t let on. Megan did, though, and she makes a terrible attempt at covering her laugh with a cough. For the past year, my mathematically inclined roommates have been conducting a quasi-formal study on the proportional relationship between a man’s hands and his...yeah.

And Court?

Massive hands.

“Oookay, let’s get to work.” I spin him around and point to my bedroom. “Second door on the left.”

Movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I glance back to Corrina and Megan, who are flailing dramatically on the couch and mouthing, Oh my god!

I don’t bother hiding my smile when I mouth, I know! before heading into the hallway.

Court enters my room two steps in front of me. I flip on the light and watch his jaw fall slack as he turns in a full circle, taking in the blue, yellow, and white swirls sweeping from one wall to the next.

“Wow,” he whispers .

“I take it that’s a good wow?”

“That’s an incredible wow. Van Gogh would be seriously impressed.”

My lens of self-criticism rarely allows me to accept compliments at face value—there’s always something that didn’t transfer correctly from my head to my hand, and my first instinct now is to highlight those flaws. But the quiet wonder in Court’s voice encourages me to see my room through his eyes.

“ The Starry Night has always been my favorite painting. When I was a kid, my parents took my brother and me to New York City. We went to the Museum of Modern Art, and I remember standing in front of the display and telling my mom to be careful because if you looked at the swirls long enough, they’d carry you away to the village in the painting. It’s the first time a piece of art made me feel something. I already loved art class in school, but that was the day I decided to be an artist when I grew up.”

My lips form a soft smile at the memory of seven-year-old me gaping up in wide-eyed wonder at van Gogh’s greatest masterpiece.

“Then I started studying art history and learned that van Gogh painted The Starry Night while he was at an asylum in France. The landscape is based on the view from his window. I mean...to create something as beautiful as that when your mental health is at its lowest point...” I release a breath and let my eyes drift over the life-sized swirls. “It’s like looking at fragments of his soul on a canvas.”

Court tilts his head, studying the wall. “I never thought about it that way, but it makes sense.”

“Yeah, but I tend to get carried away. Sorry for nerding out on you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being passionate. Like your roommates said, that just means I’m in good hands tonight.”

I immediately glance at his crotch. In related news, Megan and Corrina can kiss my classically conditioned ass.

“On that note, let’s get started.” After trapping my rebellious chestnut waves in a hair tie, I twist on the floor lamp beside my easel and kill the overhead light. “Our prompt for this project is ‘rearview mirror.’ We can draw whatever comes to mind, but I’m obviously taking a literal approach.” I cross the room, flip the switch on a small nightstand lamp, and position myself in front of the freestanding mirror I set up earlier.

“You’ll stand like this with your back facing me so I can see your reflection. I taped two lines on the carpet as a mark for your feet when you’re ready for a break. With the way I’ve angled your position and the lighting, I won’t be able to see any of your...front.”

Which is a damn shame .

“Also”—I point to the quilt I tacked over the lone window to prevent rogue shadows and sidewalk voyeurs—“I’ve triple-checked from every angle and no one can see in from outside.”

“Sounds easy enough.” He grips his T-shirt at the back of his neck and tugs it over his head, revealing a body that’s no stranger to lifting heavy things.

I was so captivated by his face (and, subsequently, his hands) that I didn’t notice his physique until this moment. It’s a crime I atone for now. His chest and abdomen are an intoxicating blend of ridges bathed in light and shadow from the floor lamp. If I was a photographer, I’d tell Court to freeze in this exact pose—hair askew, arms slack, and shirt hanging from his right hand—to capture it all.

He folds the shirt and sets it on my dresser, then unbuttons his jeans. It’s like watching Michelangelo’s David undress, if David was six-two and wore denim...and deliciously form-fitting black boxer briefs. Whoa. Whoever gets to see this view every day is—shit!

“I should’ve asked before, but do you have a partner? Or anyone else who might be upset at the idea of you sitting nude for me?” I quickly add, so it doesn’t sound like I’m asking for personal reasons, which I’m (mostly) not. “Because if you do, I’d be happy to talk with them to explain my idea and ensure there are no issues ? —”

He stops me with a shake of his head. “No girlfriend...or anyone else.”

Relief washes over me. “That’s good. Not that it’s any of my business what you do or who you do it with.” I pause, cringing. “Also, I didn’t mean ‘do it with’ like that. Well, sort of, but...” The rest of the sentence dies along with my pride.

Thankfully, Court offers an amused smile instead of looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I understand what you meant. But what about you? Do I need to worry about any jealous lovers coming after me?”

My brain short-circuits watching the word lovers come out of his mouth. Or maybe it’s from him rising to his full height after removing his socks, wearing nothing but the aforementioned boxer briefs.

“I am also single,” I finally manage, the words dropping onto my tongue one at a time like I’m brand-new to speaking English.

Kill.

Me.

Now.

“That’s good,” he parrots, smirking. He slides his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, which, coincidentally, is the exact moment I remember to double-check the supplies on my easel.

Graphite pencil for sketching, assorted charcoals, kneaded eraser, chalk, paper towels...yep, all right where I left them earlier today.

“It’s safe to look now.”

It’s worth repeating that although Court is my first private model, I’ve used male models in class before. I’ve also previously seen naked men during recreational bedroom activities. But none of those experiences have prepared me for what I see when I peer across the room.

Court Mueller is the most gorgeous human being I have ever laid eyes on.

And for the next four hours, he’s all mine.

“Have you talked to him since the breakup?” Fiona asks as we pass through a gate onto the artificial grass.

“The last time we spoke was the day he walked out of my bedroom.”

I drop my backpack under a pop-up canopy aptly named Backpack Drop-Off and continue toward the small cluster of castmates near the hedges. When we get close enough to hear his voice, the part of my brain reserved for bad ideas and self-destruction shouts, Maybe he’s changed!

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

Court Mueller is the human equivalent of shrimp—my favorite food until the day it almost killed me.

And as with most allergies, he can’t hurt me again if I don’t let him in.