5. Hartley
CHAPTER 5
HARTLEY
Day 1—Dallas, Texas
T hey weren’t kidding about doing multiple takes before the race started. The last few hours have been a craze of booms and jibs and Steadicam shots from every angle imaginable. Thankfully, I didn’t have to talk to Court for any of them.
The other bonus is that I’ve had a front-row view of Xtreme Quest’s extremely hot host, Paul Rutherford. Corrina joked that getting to meet him was the only reason I applied for the show. She’s not entirely wrong.
“Good afternoon and welcome to downtown Dallas, Texas, and season seventeen of Xtreme Quest!” Paul says to the contestants and the crowd of onlookers flanking the lawn of the Giant Eyeball. Everyone cheers, but this time there’s an undercurrent of excitement buzzing through the atmosphere because it’s the last take. When he says “go,” the race will officially start.
“In just a few moments, you’ll begin an international race across thousands of miles for a chance to win one million dollars. But to do that”—he gestures to a massive Xtreme Quest curtain about a hundred feet down the Astroturf—“you’ll need your first clue.”
The curtain opens, revealing eleven waist-high plexiglass cubes filled with multicolored plastic balls. For obvious reasons, this is the only part we didn’t shoot earlier during filming .
“Each ball pit contains one thousand plastic footballs.” Paul accepts an example ball from a crew member and holds it up. “Nine hundred ninety of them say Xtreme Quest, and ten of them have the name of your university or college. When I say ‘go,’ one person from your team will run down and climb into your assigned box. When you find a football with your school’s name, bring it to me in exchange for your clue.”
“It’s too bad they won’t let me keep the football and leave you with Paul instead,” I say to Court through a camera-worthy smile.
“You mean leave me and the football and take Paul instead, right?”
“That works too.”
Paul lifts his arm. “Good luck, have fun, and I’ll see you at the first checkpoint. Go!”
Court surges forward as soon as Paul’s arm drops and quickly takes the lead, vaulting into our ball pit several seconds before the other teams. I want to be irritated that he took off without discussing it with me first, but one, that seems to be his MO, and two, the ball pit looks to be about four feet high so sending the tallest teammate in is the logical option.
While he hunts for our football, I grab our backpacks and move up closer to Paul. Less than a minute later Mitchell from Dixon University hollers, “Found it!” and sprints back up to the starting line. His teammate, Kennedy, meets him with his pack, and after a quick detour to Paul, they run off to the side with their film crew to read the clue.
Worry doesn’t set in until the fifth team turns in their football. By the eighth team, I’m livid. The remaining alums are still shouting encouraging messages to their teammates, but all I can muster is, “Use your eyes, Courtney!” and, “Did you forget how to read?”
That one makes the sound guy laugh.
Just as I’m about to go down there and force him out of the box so I can take over, his fist shoots in the air. “Got it!”
“Took you long enough!” I don my backpack and shove Court’s into his chest when he gets back to the Giant Eyeball. “Are you blind?”
“Shut up. That was a lot harder than it looks.”
“So’s your head,” I mutter as he slings his pack over his shoulder and exchanges our football for a clue. Per our earlier instructions, we move off to the side and read it aloud together.
Fly to San Jose, Costa Rica. When you arrive, make your way to Juan Santamaria Park to find your next clue .
For one millisecond, we pause our feud to share a smile because HOLY CRAP THIS IS IT! And then I remember I’m stuck with him twenty-four hours a day for the next three weeks and mentally curse the casting department all over again.
“I’ll hold on to the clue,” I say, hand outstretched. I’d practically squealed when I’d discovered my backpack came with a waterproof fanny pack that clips to the top when you’re not wearing it. One thing I’ve learned as an Xtreme Quest superfan is to always keep your passport and clues on your person. Sounds paranoid, but Victoria from season nine and Max from season fourteen are proof of the consequences.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it.” Court swings his pack around and shoves the envelope into the main compartment.
“It wasn’t a request. I have a safe spot for it.”
“So do I.” He pats the backpack.
“And what happens when you leave your backpack somewhere or it gets stolen, and we lose the clue and our travel money?”
He has the audacity to sigh. “I’m not going to leave it, and no one can take it if I’m wearing it. Now let’s go.”
As we begin to jog toward the fence, the team from the Rockville Institute of Technology and their crew fly by us in a streak of purple and black, respectively. That’s when I notice the Holbrooke team diving into a cab out on the street. When the hell did they get past us?
“Seriously? We’re last now, thanks to you.”
“I’m not the one who overreacted about where to store a clue.”
“That’s called logic, not overreacting.”
He ignores me in favor of beating me to the sidewalk to hail a taxi, except all the oncoming traffic is now stuck at a red light a block down the street.
The Rockville team has the same problem, so they opt for running to the cabs parked in front of a hotel farther down the road.
“Let’s follow them,” I say.
“We don’t have time to go down there.”
“But we have time to wait on a red light?”
“It’ll change in a second.”
“Oh, now you control traffic signals? What other magical powers do you have?”
Before he can reply, the light flips to green. Court shoots a smirk at me and lifts his arm. “You were saying? ”
Ugh! I hate him so, so much. It’s too bad I can’t push him in front of the bright yellow sedan that rolls to a stop in front of us. I duck my head to see the driver through the open passenger window. “Can you take us to the airport?”
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one?” I look at Court. “Did you know that?”
He shrugs. “I’ve never been to Dallas.”
“What does your ticket say?”
“We don’t have them yet. We’re buying them at the airport,” Court says.
The driver spots the cameraman maneuvering to my side. “This is for TV?”
“A travel documentary,” I reply, sticking to the rules of the NDA we signed.
“Where are you flying to?”
“Costa Rica.”
“Okay. DFW.” He puts the car in park and pops the trunk.
Finally.
After stowing our bags, we sardine ourselves into the back seat—Court behind the driver, me in the middle, and the sound guy behind the cameraman, who’s sitting in the front passenger seat.
As we pull away from the Giant Eyeball and pass the hotel down the street, Court nudges me and points out the window. Rockville’s cab is stuck behind an SUV unloading what looks to be an entire household onto several luggage carts.
“We’re not in last place anymore.”
I ignore his cocky grin and keep my attention on the view from the windshield instead.
I’m in deep shit.
The deepest of shits.
The Mariana Trench of Stench if you will, because our thirty-minute drive to the airport sparked an unexpected internal battle between biology, psychology, and physics.
Basically, my traitorous body has either forgotten what Court did or absolved him of it and is now fully on board with the Law of Attraction.
It didn’t help that I was practically sitting on top of him in the back seat. Or that he had to rest his right arm behind my head to make room for the left half of my body. Or that on at least three occasions, his fingertips brushed the back of my neck, thus causing a biological response that thoroughly tested the limits of my lightly lined sports bra.
So yeah.
Deep shit.
“Are you okay?” comes a sweet voice from the sink to my left.
I blink and discover a bewildered version of myself in the bathroom mirror. I’m far, far from okay, but at least my mini breakdown wasn’t being filmed.
Shoving all thoughts of Court aside, I smile and say, “Sorry, I must’ve zoned out there for a second.”
I finish rinsing the soap from my hands and press them against my flushed cheeks before pulling a paper towel from the dispenser. “You’re Haylee, right?”
She nods. We didn’t get much time to chat earlier between her interview, my interview, and my subsequent cool-off period after Court’s asinine display of martyrdom. I plan on using our pre-flight downtime for intel gathering so I can write notes on the plane.
So far, I’ve talked to:
Treva, a self-proclaimed “crunchy” mom (whatever that means) on a strangers team from Aspen Creek University. Her partner is Boyd, who loves Egypt and is desperately hoping we’ll make a stop there this season. He even has a basenji named King Muttankhamun, AKA: King Mutt. His reason for being on the show is to prove to his ex-boyfriend that he’s not a homebody who’s incapable of being spontaneous. Treva dubbed them Team Kick Asspen, but I think that’s just her way of trying to boost Boyd’s confidence.
Team Loud and Proud is a friends team from Auchenbach State College. Despite his loud Boston accent and type A personality (I heard, “I’m a real go-gettah” about six times in less than five minutes), Oscar’s handshake was akin to a holding a limp fish. His teammate is Janessa, who went in for an unexpected double-cheek kiss during our introduction to “prepare for Europe,” although I think it was an excuse to sort-of kiss Court. She’s been covertly checking him out ever since.
And lastly, friends Alexis and Gianna from Holbrooke University, who have been openly checking him out too (along with Paul Rutherford, a couple of other competitors, and a handful of crew members). Of course, both women have bleach-blond hair, amazing eyelashes, and killer bodies, but something tells me they’re leaning into the stereotype. Team Bombshell is definitely worth keeping a close eye on.
“Is anyone else freaking out yet, or is it just me?” Haylee’s teammate Kadeeja asks as she joins us at the sinks .
“I’m right there with you,” Haylee says, laughing. “I wonder when it’ll hit us that we’re actually on the show.”
“My guess is about two weeks after the last leg,” I reply, tossing my paper towel into the trash. “Also, I think you two take the record for cutest day one outfit.”
They pause in front of the full-length mirror to admire their handiwork—blue crab earrings, knee-high Maryland flag socks, and black-and-gold tutus that match their Chesapeake Bay University shirts. Not surprising they’re Team Old Bay, on account of the actual jars of Old Bay seasoning they brought with them.
As for me and Court, shortly before our interview ended, Wendell declared us Team Hartbreak. That’s fine with me since it just reinforces the crap Court put me through.
“Took you long enough,” the devil himself says as we exit the bathroom. “Are you constipated?”
“Au contraire. The only one full of shit is you, Courtney.”
Haylee and Kadeeja laugh and lead the way back to our gate.
It turns out, it didn’t matter who was in last place on the way to the airport. There are two flights going to Costa Rica tonight. The first left fifteen minutes ago with two teams. If they manage to make the thirty-minute connection and successfully change planes, they’ll land in San Jose at 8:15 tonight. The rest of us are on the nonstop flight that gets in at 9:07.
Court pushes off the wall and we follow the girls around the corner and down the concourse. When we pass by the sundry shop, he quietly snorts to himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Something, otherwise you wouldn’t have smirked.”
Holding my gaze, he arcs a brow and points to a display of rubber duck keychains near the entrance.
Oh.
Oh.
Asha plucks two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and gives one to me. “I’d bet half of the people in this room could use hundred-dollar bills as toilet paper and never make a dent in their bank account.”
“True, but someone’s sponsoring the open bar, so I don’t mind. ”
“Well you know what they say—one man’s drunken bid is another school’s treasure.”
“Cheers to that.” I clink my glass against hers.
Proceeds from Central Tennessee State College’s eighth annual New Year’s Eve gala will go to public schools in the Green Valley area with struggling arts programs. Last year, they raised a little over a million dollars thanks to the pay-it-forward premise: everything, from the swanky hotel ballroom itself, to the catered food, to the items up for bid in the silent auction, was donated. That’s where Asha and I (along with a dozen other students) come in—she created two designer dresses, and I painted four canvases. We won’t see any money from the auction, but it’s a hell of a confidence boost to see the current bids for my art running at least seven thousand dollars higher than the rest.
Although I think Court might have something to do with that.
For the last hour, he’s meandered through the crowd of patrons mingling near the pop-up gallery saying things like, “Don’t you just love the way Miss Billings captures the essence of longing for one’s inner potential?” and, “Her brushstrokes and use of texture are absolutely illuminating.” I know this because I was standing next to him trying not to laugh. Eventually, I gave up and excused myself while he continued schmoozing art aficionados for the greater good.
“Have you found your midnight kiss yet?” I ask Asha.
I’m surprised no one has approached her yet, but that could be because this is the first time she’s stood still all night. Objectively speaking, she’s freaking gorgeous—flawless skin, a million-dollar smile, and cheekbones for days—but her heart is equally beautiful and she’s one friend I hope to keep up with after we graduate.
Lips curving into a sly grin, she says, “I have my eye on a couple of prospects.”
“And they are . . . ?”
Before she can reply, my phone buzzes. I set my half-empty champagne glass on a nearby table and open my clutch to find a text from Court.
You are absolutely breathtaking.
Asha reads the message over my shoulder (an easy task given that she’s nearly six-feet tall) and fans herself through a swoon. “If he has any brothers, please send them my way.”
“Just a younger sister,” I reply with a conciliatory smile.
“Figures. Guess that means I should narrow down tonight’s choices before it’s too late.”
I wave her off with a laugh and turn my attention to my phone .
Me: You’re pretty sexy yourself. You should wear a tux more often.
Court: I’m actually looking forward to taking it off. Along with that little black dress of yours.
He’d said the same thing when he picked me up earlier this evening. Well, it was more like, “I can’t wait to peel off this dress later tonight.” Naturally, I’d considered turning around and making a beeline for my bedroom to get a head start on later tonight. Instead, he’d reminded me that the evening’s cause was important, and my dress—a sequined number with an open back and a thigh-high slit—was worth showing off.
But later tonight is technically now, which means it’s time to go. But first, I need to find Court.
Me: Where are you?
Court: Turn to your left.
I do as I’m told.
Court: Now look up.
Warmth spreads through my chest when I spot him leaning against a column on the mezzanine, where we’d mingled during the cocktail hour. He truly is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And although I’m not a fan of possessiveness in relationships, right now a part of me—a large part, if I’m being honest—revels in the knowledge that Court. Is. Mine.
He holds my gaze for several moments, then taps out another message.
I’m going to duck you so hard.
A giggle bubbles out of me, gathering a few curious looks from people standing nearby. Confused, he checks his phone and slaps a palm over his face.
I’m grinning as I reply with a GIF of a rubber duck.
Now he’s shaking his head, but at least he’s smiling when he types,
All ducks aside, I still want to duck you.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the New Year’s countdown begins in just a few minutes. Please use this time to place your final bids for our silent auction, which ends when the clock strikes midnight,” the emcee says over the speakers.
Most of the attendees head toward the displays, but I return my phone to my clutch and aim for the stairs instead.
“Hiding among the shadows?” I tease when I reach him.
“Just admiring the view.”
“Unless someone goes crazy down there, I’ll be the highest grossing artist tonight.” I deposit my clutch on an empty high-top and snake my arms around his waist. “Thanks for that. ”
“I’m glad to help. I feel like I should thank you for wearing this dress,” he adds with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“It was my pleasure.”
His fingertips graze the exposed skin on my back as he leans in, bringing his lips to my ear. “Miss Billings, your pleasure hasn’t even started yet.”
My entire body shivers, and I exhale a soft moan when his parted lips glide from my jaw to the crook of my neck.
“That sounds promising,” I finally manage to say.
“I think you’ll find I’m full of promises.” With that, he grips my ass and walks me deeper into the shadows, past several cocktail tables and a server’s station, until my back is pressed against a wall in the far corner of the mezzanine.
His hands slide around my hips and up my sides, coming to a rest just below my breasts. Not one to be left out, I unbutton Court’s tuxedo jacket and untuck his dress shirt to find...more fabric. Seriously? How many layers is this man wearing?
A low, quiet laugh rumbles in his chest as I yank his undershirt out of his pants.
“Impatient?”
“I just need—” My fingers finally meet the hard, warm skin of his back. “There.”
“Do you have any idea how torturous it’s been not to be able to touch you all night? Or kiss this pretty, red mouth of yours?”
I lift my chin and arch into him. “You are cordially invited to do both of those things right now. Please and thank you.” My voice is breathy and full of need, but really, can you blame me?
“Tempting,” he murmurs against my neck, “but I must regrettably decline the last portion of your invitation.” Before I can object, he continues with, “Because the last thing I want is for you to walk out of here with smeared lipstick. Also, red’s not my color.”
Okay, he has a point. “I should’ve skipped the lipstick.”
“I disagree. I have plans for that lipstick when we get home.”
“I thought you said red isn’t your color.”
“On my face? No. On my dick while you’re wearing these heels? Yes.”
Sweet mother of Claude Monet.
“But in the meantime,” he says, palming my breasts, “I have other options.”
Yes. Options are good. Great, even. Big fan of options. Except for when they involve Court taking three steps back .
“Wait, where are you going?”
One side of his mouth kicks up in a devilish smirk. “Nowhere.” He slides his arms out of his tuxedo jacket, drapes it over a stack of chairs next to the server’s station, and rolls up his sleeves.
I repeat, HE ROLLS UP HIS SLEEVES.
With nothing to hold on to, I press my fingernails into the textured wallpaper and brace myself for the man who’s pinning me with a gaze that can only be described as primal. Is this what an animal feels moments before it’s eaten?
Because I’m pretty sure I’m about to be eaten.
This assumption is confirmed when he closes the short distance between us and kneels, skimming his palms from my ankles to my hips and back down again, this time with my thong. Seconds later, it’s in his pocket and my leg is draped over his shoulder. He digs his fingers into my flesh and strings a line of biting kisses along my inner thigh but stops several painful inches from where I need him most. I’m just about to voice my protest when he trails his free hand up the inside of my other leg and glides his finger over my wet center.
His name comes out in a moan.
“Shh,” he says, bringing that same finger to his lips. Then, with his eyes locked on mine, he lowers his head to carefully and completely devour me.
My back arches and my hands trade the wallpaper for tufts of his dark brown hair, holding him in place while he traces hot swirls around my clit with his magical tongue.
Downstairs, the emcee announces the start of the official countdown to midnight. Without slowing his pace, Court arches a confident eyebrow as if to say, “Challenge accepted.”
“I mean you’re good, but I don’t know if you’re that good,” I tease, mostly because my body is already on fire and begging for release. If he can get me there in ten seconds, I’m all for it.
He responds by plunging his fingers inside me and hooking them forward, expertly massaging my G-spot to the rhythm of his tongue. I try to stay quiet. I really do, but I’m powerless against the exquisite burn building inside me.
I cry out when the crowd reaches “Eight!” and feel more than hear Court’s growl of approval as he inches me closer and closer to the edge.
“God yes, right there.” I’m shamelessly grinding against his face, and he welcomes it with eager licks and encouraging squeezes on my ass with his free hand.
“Four!”
His fingers move faster .
“Three!”
He sucks my clit.
“Two!”
Yes, yes, yes!
“One!”
My climax slams into me everywhere, all at once, robbing me of my breath and my bones and my ability to form words. I sag against Court and surrender to every delicious bolt of lightning coursing through my body as the rest of the attendees welcome the new year.
By the time they shift into “Auld Lang Syne,” he’s slowing the pace of his fingers and praising me between kisses on the inside of my thigh.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“I love making you come.”
“I can’t wait to fuck you when we get home.”
“Don’t you mean ‘duck me’?” I rasp. “Because I was really hoping to see what that’s all about.”
Every now and then, I get what I call a “universe moment” that makes me feel like I’m on the right track. For example, a few years ago, my mom was watching an obscure movie I’d never seen while I worked on a commissioned piece. Nothing I did was right, and after going through three canvases, I was ready to give up and return my client’s payment. Mom told me not to worry because everything would work out and went back to watching her movie.
Near tears and out of supplies, I drove to the craft store and what did I hear? The theme song from Mom’s movie. I chalked it up to coincidence but was forced to change my tune two days later when I heard the song again, this time while waiting for the puck to drop at a Carolina Hurricanes game. I finished the painting a few days after that and wound up with a handwritten thank-you letter and three referrals from my client. But the weirdest part? I haven’t seen Mom’s movie or heard that theme song since then.
I’ve come to appreciate these universe moments for their quiet reassurance that I’m doing the right thing at the right time.
And currently, the universe is encouraging me to murder Court.
In my defense, I didn’t wake up with murder on my mind, just the need to pee. Except Court has been in the bathroom for the last forty-five minutes. I’ve banged on the door in five-minute increments, and each time he’s said, “I’ll be out in a few. ”
The obvious solution would be to venture out of our hotel room and find another bathroom, but one, that’s the equivalent of letting him win, and two, the crew takes the twenty-foot proximity requirement seriously.
With no television in our room and no technology to serve as a distraction, I opened a blank page in my notebook and started doodling the many ways I could kill him. I’d just completed my third sketch (where I commandeered our shuttle and ran him over) when I experienced another universe moment in the form of a crew member knocking on the hotel door to deliver breakfast.
Chorreadas, to be exact.
Translation: Costa Rican corn pancakes with fresh whipped cream.
As if he hadn’t hogged the bathroom all morning, Court saunters out in a shirt and athletic shorts and says, “Who was that?”
I ignore him in favor of finally relieving my bladder but run smack into another problem as I pass him in the tiny entryway.
He smells so. Freaking. Good.
This realization is made worse when I lock myself in a cloud of Eau de Court in the bathroom. Where he was likely standing naked mere minutes ago. Naked and wet. And smelling like God’s gift to anyone who’s attracted to penises.
Exceptttt Court’s penis is attached to a man who completely upended my life without even discussing it with me first, and no amount of voodoo witchcraft cologne is going to change that. But just in case, I mutter, “Behave yourself,” to my crotch before finishing my business and washing my hands.
That’s when I notice his unzipped toiletry bag beside the sink—more specifically, the glint of silver inside it.
No. Freaking. Way.
With curiosity vastly outweighing my conscience, I peek into the bag and extract the weighty handle of the safety razor I bought Court. I’d gone to the mall to buy a pebbled leather crossbody purse I’d been drooling over, but had gotten distracted when I’d passed by what can only be described as an upscale beauty boutique for men—artisan soaps, lotions, colognes, shaving supplies...and all of it packaged in expensive-looking boxes with sophisticated labels.
The display of old-fashioned razor sets reminded me of a picture Court had shown me of him as a three-year-old pretend-shaving with his grandfather, who’d promised him the razor after he passed. When that time came, his grandmother couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing it on the bathroom counter anymore, so Court said he didn’t mind letting her hold on to it. That’s just the kind of guy he was, though—thoughtful and selfless even when it meant he had to wait longer to get something he wanted. In that moment, foregoing my purse to get a new safety razor set for Court had been an astonishingly easy decision.
And right now, it’s just as easy to put the razor back and pretend I never saw it because I don’t have the emotional time or energy to sort through the fact that he still has it six years later.
Court’s halfway done with his breakfast when I grab my plate and return to my bed. The slight flare in his nostrils tells me he knows exactly what we’re eating, so of course I quietly moan and say, “These are the best corn pancakes I’ve ever had,” when I’m finished with my first bite. It’s not quite a true statement, more like Court’s are the best American version and these are the best international version, but I still enjoy watching him release his annoyance when he stabs his next bite of food.
Boosted by a dose of petty satisfaction, I continue with, “We need some ground rules.”
“Um . . . okay?”
“First, you can’t hog the bathroom in the morning. It’s not fair to those of us who need to take care of bodily functions. What were you even doing that took forty-five minutes?”
His gaze drops to my chest for a split second and then he says, “I was also taking care of bodily functions, but fine.”
Holy shit. Did he . . . ? Was that . . . ?
Was he having bodily functions about me?
“What else?”
“Huh?” I blink and nearly miss putting my fork in my mouth. Thankfully Court is looking at his plate and didn’t see it.
“You said ground rules. That implies you have more than one.”
Oh. Right. Well, forbidding him from wearing voodoo cologne would be great, but I can’t say that without providing an explanation. Also, when did bare feet become sexy? Is that a thing? Are other strangers teams embracing the intimacy of walking around their hotel room in bare feet?
Probably not, ergo my next rule is, “Socks.”
Court’s brow furrows. “Socks?”
“Do you want athlete’s foot taking you out of the race?” Ha! I mentally pat myself on the back because that was a pretty good save.
His focus falls to my chest (again) and then to my feet. “I see you still haven’t figured out how to work a sock drawer.”
I frown, not because of the remark itself but from the memories it brings to the surface. Memories of Court and I doing laundry together. Of him teasing me because I always wore mismatched socks. Of him attempting to organize my sock drawer but getting distracted by the thongs I kept in there, then requesting a topless fashion show so I could model each one. For obvious reasons, his favorite was the pair with a rubber duck print, but we are NOT going there again.
For the record, I ducking hate him and my stupid stomach, which is now abuzz with warm waves of anticipation. Needing something to do that doesn’t involve sitting three feet away from Court, I abandon the last of my breakfast and dig today’s outfit and my toiletry bag out of my backpack. “I’m taking a shower.” A cold one.
“Wait.”
“What?” I say with a frustrated sigh.
He sets his plate on the nightstand and leans back on the bed, resting his arms behind his head and crossing his dumb bare feet like he’s a model for athletic wear. “What about my rules?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Fine, Courtney. What are your rules?”
His jaw moves to one side in contemplation and his gaze intensifies as if he’s challenging me to see which of us looks away first. Jokes on him, though. I’ll stand here all morning, starting time be damned.
“I haven’t thought of any yet, but I’ll let you know when I do.” And then he loses his own game with another glance at my boobs.
“I can’t wait.”
The good news is the bathroom has aired out a little, but I still make a mental note to shower before him as much as possible. Ladies first and whatnot.
Plan in place, I set my supplies on the counter and flip the lock. That’s when I see the splotch of whipped cream in the center of my shirt. Which means Court wasn’t looking at my chest, he was looking at a damn stain.
Hot prickles of delayed embarrassment creep up my neck and across my cheeks as I start the shower.
I’m such an idiot. Of course he wasn’t checking me out. Why would I even think that?
And furthermore . . . why am I disappointed?