2. Court
CHAPTER 2
COURT
Day 1—Dallas, Texas
T he women from Holbrooke University have been eye-fucking me for the past fifteen minutes. Based on the number of times they’ve mentioned how close they are and that they don’t mind sharing their supplies— “after all, that’s what friends are for” *insert flirtatious smirk* —I’m pretty sure I have a walk-on role in a threesome.
I pretend to like it, or at least be intrigued by it, because only an idiot would sabotage his chance at laying groundwork for a future alliance on a show with a million-dollar prize. See, that’s the thing about Xtreme Quest: the competition starts long before the race actually begins.
For instance, after my second callback from the audition team six weeks ago, I dove into memorizing each country’s flag because the show is notorious for tossing in a test on the last leg. When I got the official invite four weeks ago, I broke in a pair of new shoes and cross-referenced past race routes with average temperature charts to create a packing list. I even stepped up my cardio to make sure I was in peak shape for running.
Sure, it’s probably overkill—previous seasons have been won by far less prepared teams—but I can’t take any chances. If I don’t win this race, I’ll be forced to return to Green Valley and accept my lot in life. And by lot, I mean the literal parking lot at Studs N Suds .
Technically speaking, I’m the manager of a business owned by my best friend, Rhett. In reality, I work in the office of a car wash. Does it matter that my idea of creating a mobile detail team increased our revenue by thirty percent last year? Or that I helped bring in four thousand dollars in our most recent fundraiser? Not really, and neither does substitute teaching. I’m pretty sure the only ones who would miss me at Green Valley High School are the thirsty single moms.
Basically, I have an unused psychology degree, a burning desire to put Green Valley in my rearview mirror, and no resources to actually make that happen. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man with an impressive cache of failed occupations and one shot at changing it all.
“Hey man, I think your teammate is here,” the guy (Oscar, I think?) from Auchenbach State College says.
I follow the direction of his finger and cough out a strangled gasp.
No .
My head swivels side to side.
Please tell me the woman I gave up everything for isn’t walking toward me.
She stops a few feet away, crosses her arms, and fillets me with a glare. “Hello, Courtney.”
Shit.
I can’t move. Or breathe. Or think. I am a statue, and the Astroturf is now a two-for-one special of body parts: the Giant Eyeball and the Giant Asshole.
Possibly Oscar scoffs. “Your name is Courtney?”
“Is Court a nickname or your full name?” Hartley asks as she perches on her stool.
“It’s short for Courtland.”
She gives an impressed nod. “That sounds so...distinguished. Is there an ‘esquire’ at the end?”
I envision the park ranger uniform my dad wore every day, the elementary school my mom teaches at, the modest three-bedroom house I grew up in, and the station wagon my parents have been driving since I was ten. They keep a roll of duct tape in the glove box at all times. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“And I don’t need to bow in your presence?”
I smirk at her reflection. “I mean, you can if you want.”
She playfully rolls her eyes. “So, what kind of modeling have you done?”
“None. This is a first for me too.”
Her head pops up from the easel. “Really? ”
“Why do you sound surprised?”
“I just figured you would have with...” She waves a hand up and down in my direction. Wait, is she blushing?
“With what?” I glance down and pat my torso, then find her eyes in the mirror again. “A body? I suppose that would be helpful in a modeling career.”
Her quiet laughter sparks an unexpected blast of warmth in my chest. “I meant the muscles.”
“These things?” I flex the arm facing her, relishing her sharp intake of breath. Damn, she’s cute. “I picked them up at the model store before I came over tonight. I’m lucky they had my size.”
On the word size , Hartley’s gaze drops several inches. She clears her throat and starts inspecting a stick of charcoal. “And when you’re not modeling with store-bought muscles, what do you do with your time?”
“Work, mostly. I’m in a toxic relationship with my car so I’m saving for a new one. Well, newer one, anyway.” Hence me being here tonight. A hundred bucks to stand naked for four hours seemed like a no-brainer. I’ve certainly done far more for far less.
“Where do you work?”
“Shucks.”
Her eyes go wide. “I love that place! Megan, Corrina, and I go there for brunch on Sundays. I’ve never seen you there though.”
“I’m a cook, so I don’t get out of the kitchen much.”
“Maybe that’s why I keep coming back for corn cakes every week.”
I make hundreds of corn pancakes during my weekend shifts, so she’s probably right. “I don’t want to brag, but I’m pretty sure I’m the reason Shucks was voted number one in the county’s non-chain-restaurant category.”
“And yet you’re so humble,” she says, chuckling.
I lift my hand and let it fall to my side. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”
“Are you working this Sunday at ten a.m.?”
I nod.
“Then I expect nothing short of Gordon Ramsay-level corn cakes.”
“Please,” I scoff, hoping it hides my excitement at knowing I’ll get to see her again in two days. “Gordon Ramsay wishes his corn cakes were as good as mine.”
She gives me a look that says, “We’ll see about that,” then turns her attention back to the easel. “So, what’s the best thing that’s happened to you this week and why was it the best?”
That’s easy—tonight, because what started as an easy modeling job for Jace’s girlfriend’s roommate turned into meeting a girl who’s as beautiful as she is talented, which is saying something considering her portfolio on Instagram. But how do I say that without it sounding like a smarmy pickup line?
“That’s an . . . interesting question,” I hedge.
“I already know your campus police information, so I figured I’d jump into something meatier.”
My brows bump together. “My campus police information?”
“From your model release. Court Mueller, twenty-one, junior, psych major,” she says, ticking the facts off her fingertips. “Those are things anyone could learn about you in a ten-second conversation at the grocery store.”
“Don’t tell me you’re anti-small-talk. And here I was thinking we could be friends.” I shake my head in mock dismay.
Hartley’s shoulder bounces in a half shrug. “Life is so much more interesting when you take time to see the details.”
Unwilling to pass up an easy opportunity to make her blush again, I arch a brow, smirking. “What I’m hearing you say is that you want to see my details?”
Her eyes zero in on the lower half of my body. “That’s, uh...” She diverts her gaze to the ceiling, the wall, the floor, and finally, the hem of her shorts. “I just meant...” As she shifts on the stool, her foot slips off the bottom rung and connects with the easel, sending it flying. I pivot on instinct and dive for it while Hartley chases her drawing through the air.
The next few moments play out in slow motion: I catch the easel and perform a half bellyflop onto the carpet. Hartley trips on my leg and lands face-first on my ass. I panic and flip over, subsequently rubbing my penis across her chest and neck. The paper floats down and settles next to the dresser.
I’m lying frozen—which is probably not the best considering the proximity of my genitals to her chin—when Megan pounds on the door.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yep,” Hartley croaks, rolling to her back beside me. “We’re good.”
“What happened?”
“I accidentally kicked the easel and it fell.”
Megan pauses, then loudly whispers, “If that’s code for your stripper was trying to take advantage of you and we need to bust in there with a steak knife, cough once.”
I bark out a laugh as Hartley smacks a palm over her face.
“No steak knives needed,” she says from under her hand. “You can go back to watching Channing twerk. ”
“All right. We’ll keep an ear out though,” Megan says before retreating down the hallway.
The room falls silent. I turn my head in Hartley’s direction to ask if she’s hurt and instantly regret it. From a socially acceptable bubble of two to four feet, her mossy green eyes, messy brown waves, and plump lips are beautiful. From eight inches away, it’s an exercise of self-control not to reach over and touch her. It doesn’t help that we’re horizontal in a dimly lit room and I’m naked. Or that my dick wouldn’t mind ? —
Nope. Uh-uh.
Now is not the time for a boner. I abandon all thoughts of touching Hartley and shift my gaze to the ceiling. The very dark, very blank ceiling. A perfect canvas.
“You should put some glow-in-the-dark stars up there,” I say like we’re two people hanging out on a completely normal Friday evening. “Maybe you could do some van Gogh swirls.”
“Hmm. I never thought about it, but that’s not a bad idea.”
“You know what was a bad idea?” I pause for a beat, then say, “Diving for that damn easel.”
More silence.
Then, laughter.
So much laughter.
My face hurts and my sides ache and I can honestly say I haven’t had this much fun in a long damn time.
When I finally catch my breath, I sit up and hug my left knee for strategic coverage. “There isn’t a good segue for this part, so I’ll just say I’m sorry for the...detailed view of my details.”
Hartley rises and mimics my position. “Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. I just hope me landing on you didn’t hurt your details.”
I glance down. “I can confirm my details are intact and unharmed.”
She clamps her lips between her teeth but loses the battle and surrenders to a smile. “Good to know.” Her eyes move to the easel, and she lets out a quiet breath. “Should we get back to work?”
“Hang on, you’ve got some charcoal...” I point to a black smudge on the side of her face.
She swipes the back of her hand over her cheek. “Did I get it?”
“Mostly.”
She tries again. “Better?”
Yes, but I lie and shake my head because now I have a perfectly plausible excuse to touch her. I reach out and gently sweep my thumb across soft skin dusted with freckles. Her thick, dark lashes flutter at the contact and she leans into my hand, igniting a spark of electricity in my blood. My fingers itch to yank out her hair tie and sink into her I-just-had-sex-and-now-my-hair-is-a-mess waves.
As if she can read my mind, her gaze slides down to my mouth and back up.
“All set,” I rasp, leaning back. Damn, when did it get so hot in here? I clear my throat and push to my feet, careful to keep my backside facing her.
“Um...thanks. Want some water?” She hops up, snags a bottle off the dresser, and passes it to me without waiting for an answer.
Not yet trusting my voice, I nod in appreciation and twist off the cap. It’s not the bucket of ice I need, but it’ll do for now. I take a long pull as Hartley reassembles her workspace, starting with the easel. When she bends down, her green cotton shorts ride up, up, up the back of her tan, shapely legs.
Damn.
Wanting to plunge my fingers into her hair is nothing compared to the growing desire to grab her by the hips and sink deep inside her. I groan inwardly, but my mouthful of water doesn’t get the message in time and floods my windpipe, sparking a long string of coughs.
Hartley is at my side instantly. “Are you okay?”
My head bobs once and then I’m back to hacking up my wet lungs. She tries to raise my arms over my head, but the ten-ish inches I have on her doesn’t help.
“Get your hands off her, you asshole!” Corrina rushes into the bedroom with a baseball bat at the ready. Megan is on her heels wielding a knife.
Hartley turns, eyes wide and mouth agape, and shoves her hands out. “Stop! I’m fine. He’s the one coughing.”
Dying is more like it. I suck in a strangled breath and expel more water. The floor starts to sway. My vision swirls and my body suddenly feels a hundred pounds lighter. Before I hit the carpet for the second time, Hartley is back in front of me, lifting my arms up.
“Breathe.”
I slowly inhale, relieved that my lungs are tentatively cooperating.
“Good. Again.”
I end up coughing more, but the room finally stops moving and I no longer feel like I’m going to float away. Well, not from lack of oxygen anyway. From the woman blinking up at me? That’s a different story.
“Better?”
I nod and lower my arms .
“Sorry, for trying to kill you,” Megan says, hiding the knife behind her back.
“Yeah, sorry,” Corrina echoes, wincing.
Taking one more deep breath, I turn my head toward my would-be assassins. “I’ve never been that close to being beaten, stabbed, or drowned before—especially all at the same time—but I admire your dedication to Hartley’s safety.”
“More like their dedication to true crime documentaries,” Hartley mutters. “But now that we’ve established no one is being assaulted, it’s time for us to get back to work. I’ll see you two later.” She ushers her roommates toward the door. I swear I hear them whisper something about hands along the way.
The monitor above the stove flashes with an incoming order.
Corn cakes x3, custom: Gordon Ramsay
The last two pixelated words on the screen have me more awake than the two shots of espresso I downed at the start of my shift.
She’s here.
Alice, a fiftysomething waitress who takes her role as work-mom-of-college-students seriously, pops into the kitchen. “The trio of young ladies at table sixteen assured me you’d know what they meant.”
I hide my shit-eating grin with a fake yawn, but Alice’s smirk tells me she’s not buying it.
“Which one is she?”
“Which one is who?”
“The girl making you smile like it’s ‘buy one, get a hundred free’ day at the candy store.”
I peek through the doorway into the dining room. Hartley and Corrina are listening to Megan’s animated monologue about a large fish, if I’m correctly interpreting her wild gestures. They both laugh when Megan mimics an explosion. I can’t hear them from across the room, but the sound of Hartley’s laugh echoes through my head anyway.
The rest of Friday night went much smoother than it started. Specifically, everyone remained upright and there were no more threats of death. My only complaint is that four hours went by way too fast. I bought another twenty minutes with her by insisting that I help reassemble her bed before I left, but time has dragged more than a one-legged elephant since then.
As if she can feel my gaze from the kitchen, Hartley turns her head and locks eyes with me. A shy smile emerges on her face as she lifts her hand in a tiny wave. Seeing the gesture, Megan immediately pauses and follows Hartley’s line of sight. Her smile is much bigger. Corrina’s too. Megan says something and playfully nudges Hartley, who bites her bottom lip and ducks her head.
“She’s pretty,” Alice says beside me.
And smart. And talented. And so damn funny.
Alice laughs and guides me back to the stove. “Get to work, Gordon. I’ll be back in a few.”
I’m putting the finishing touches on Hartley’s plate when Alice returns. Corn cakes are normally served stacked with ramekins of whipped cream and blueberry syrup on the side. I arranged Hartley’s in a row, spread the whipped cream across the tops, and added van Gogh swirls of blueberry syrup. Not gallery worthy by any means, but an honest effort from a psych major who specializes in stick figures.
Alice takes one look at the plate and grips me by the shoulders. “Open the door for her, don’t leave her on ‘read,’ and for Pete’s sake, use a condom.”
My mouth hangs open. “We’re not ? —”
Her pointed look silences me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Confident I’ve absorbed her instructions, she transfers the order onto a tray and starts for the dining room.
“Wait!” I rush to the wall of lockers to retrieve a small package. “Give this to her?” I ask, setting it beside Hartley’s plate.
“Oh, Court.” Alice shakes her head and laughs all the way to table sixteen.
I move to the doorway and watch Hartley’s hand fly to her face when she sees her breakfast. She looks back and forth between me and her plate, then removes her hand to mouth Thank you while Megan and Corrina practically ooze out of their chairs.
I smile back, my heart feeling like I just summited a mountain.
When Alice delivers the package, Hartley’s eyes find mine again and she raises her brows. I’m just about to motion for her to open it when Megan grabs her by the arm and tells her the same thing.
Laughing, Hartley slides her fingers under the tape and removes the grocery store paper bag wrapping in one piece. She reads the note and holds up the package of glow-in-the-dark stars. And then she’s beaming—at me, her roommates, her breakfast, and the family one table over. But most importantly, she’s nodding.
Which means I officially have a date on Friday to hang stars on Hartley Billings’s ceiling.
“Courtney over here is already lying to us,” Possibly Oscar says to the Holbrooke girls and the guy from Dixon State. “He didn’t even tell us his real name.”
“Courtland is my real name. I go by Court. She calls me Courtney when she’s mad at me.”
“But you said you were on a strangers team, so you are lying to us,” Holbrooke Girl Number One says. She adds a dramatic finger point like she just uncovered the last clue in a cold case.
“I thought I was. They told me I was,” I clarify.
Hartley turns to the woman from the crew. “Is that why there were so many questions about my college relationships in my callback? Were they planning this all along?”
She shrugs. “I don’t work in that area, but anything’s possible on Xtreme Quest.” With that, she heads toward a tent, leaving me to face four skeptical competitors and one very pissed off ex-girlfriend.
Fuck.
Me.