11. Hartley
CHAPTER 11
HARTLEY
Day 9—China
I knew going into Xtreme Quest that I’d live in a weird state of isolation for three weeks, where I’d have the world at my fingertips but no contact with anyone back home. To be honest, I’d been looking forward to every second of my time away from North Carolina, my well-meaning parents, and a business I said I loved but secretly resented.
Mom was the only one who teared up when they dropped me off at the airport. I tried to summon a few of my own for her sake but couldn’t stop smiling long enough to make it happen.
And now I’m crying over a boat.
Let me explain.
Since the existence of my dad’s and my personal Xtreme Quest itinerary, China has been my dad’s number one country on our list. He’d take a ton of notes any time the show came here and even talked about learning some Mandarin to make our trip easier.
Naturally, when I saw we were stopping here for leg five, I felt a one-two punch of excitement and guilt for experiencing it without him. But rather than marinating in the negative, I focused on my continuing plan of revising our itinerary with wheelchair-friendly options. (Side note: Did you know there’s an accessible bungee jump location not too far from where I jumped in Queenstown? How cool is that?)
Anyway, our clue at Yuantong Temple sent us to Green Lake Park in search of marked boats. This is where the tears kicked in because these boats? They’re pedal-operated. And my body? Utterly exhausted, slightly dehydrated, and likely in need of some fresh vegetables. In other words, primed for a momentary breakdown over the unfairness of my dad losing all function of his legs at the age of forty-six because a careless driver fell asleep at the wheel.
I manage to hide my first few sniffles and eye swipes as we set off, but Court quickly catches on and stops peddling in favor of assessing my physical state.
“You okay? Did you hurt yourself?” He cranes his neck in front of and behind my seat, then runs his hand along the guardrail at my side for good measure.
“I’m fine. Just overly emotional and feeling a little homesick. It’s dumb, really,” I add, embarrassment warming my damp cheeks.
Two days ago, I would’ve expected laughter or a snide retort. Instead, he waits until I give him my eyes to say, “Being homesick isn’t dumb.”
His earnest words and reassuring smile catch me off guard and damned if that doesn’t take another little chunk out of the wall around my heart. What’s even more alarming is that this has happened three other times since we left New Zealand.
The first was on the flight to Japan when I’d woken up to find a bottle of water and airplane snacks arranged on the middle seat-back tray. Court was asleep, but he’d written For you on the napkin tucked under the water bottle. Given that no one was sitting in the middle seat, the process of elimination was easy. The second time was during our layover in Haneda Airport when we’d sprawled out on the floor and he’d loaned me his balled-up fleece jacket to use as a pillow. The third was when he complimented me in the taxi for coming up with our escape plan from the airport in Kunming.
Now the wall around my heart is filled with dents and fissures and I don’t know whether I should repair the damage or sweep away the debris and see what happens.
What I do know is that I don’t have the time or proper headspace to think about it right now, so I blot my face dry and turn my attention to more productive things like double-checking our last clue.
Travel on foot to Green Lake Park. When you arrive ,
use a marked boat to search for your next clue.
“It doesn’t say where to look. It has to be in the water or along the shore though.”
Court scratches his chin as he scans the lake. “Americans tend to travel counterclockwise, so most of the teams would probably go left. If I was a field producer, I’d put the clue that way”—he points off to the right—“because it would take people longer to find it. What do you think?”
“I think you’ve been paying attention to Xtreme Quest strategy, and I agree.”
Despite our difference in height, it doesn’t take long to figure out how to steer the boat and then we’re pedaling past willow trees and water lilies and countless other plants. The whole place reminds me of Central Park with the way it’s tucked neatly in the middle of downtown Kunming.
“Feeling better?” Court asks a few minutes later. The sincerity in his voice is obvious and I bet if I looked at him, I’d see two little lines of concern resting between his brows.
Maybe that’s why I surprise us both by saying, “Yeah, I just didn’t expect to miss my dad this much.”
It’s only one sentence, hardly a blip out of the thousands that will appear in the closed captioning for this episode, but the editors should put a disclaimer on the screen anyway: Warning: Hartley Billings is about to volunteer personal information, which may result in an actual conversation and/or serious regret. Do not try this at home.
After a brief pause in Court’s pedaling, he extends an olive branch of his own. “How is he?”
“Doing good. Still a huge fan of the show, so he can’t wait to tell everyone I’m on it.”
Chuckling, he says, “Knowing him, he’ll probably cover himself in blue-and-orange body paint for his next marathon, and then when they interview him, the text on the bottom of the TV screen will say, ‘Ryan Billings, whose daughter was on Xtreme Quest.’”
The mental image draws a bittersweet smile because that’s exactly something he’d do if it wasn’t for the accident.
“You’re on the right track, but it’s more like decking out his wheelchair for the adaptive 5K race.”
Court’s head rears back. “He’s in a wheelchair? What happened? ”
“Car accident a few years ago. A semi-truck driver veered into their lane.”
“ Their lane? Your mom was in the car too?”
I nod. “The car rolled off an embankment. She lost some function in her right arm, but she’s okay otherwise. Dad was paralyzed from the waist down though.”
“Damn,” he says, mostly to himself. “That’s...” He blinks and shakes his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was rough for a while, but it could’ve been a lot worse. And thanks to their otherworldly stubbornness, they both made more of a recovery than doctors expected.”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.
“What?”
“Hartley O. Billings, always looking on the bright side.”
Once again, how has he remembered something I’d totally forgotten about?
“It’s Ophelia,” I say, playing into the running joke we shared a million years ago.
“It’s Optimist. They just didn’t know how to spell it.”
I roll my eyes but we’re smiling now, and it’s...pleasant. Easy. Familiar. The last day or so has given me a glimpse into what it might’ve been like if we’d auditioned for the show when we were in college.
Traveling together.
Completing challenges together.
Sightseeing together.
Sleeping together—in hotels, I mean. (Although we probably would’ve done the other kind of sleeping together too.)
The point is, we would’ve had a blast on the show back then, and I’m starting to get the sense that we can have just as much fun now. Minus the non-sleeping sleeping together, of course.
Not that I’ve thought about that.
Okay, I did a few times.
Several times.
Fine, a whole damn lot but can you blame me? Court was insanely gorgeous in college, and the last six years have only served to improve upon his body. His heart, too, for that matter. Even if he was trying to impress the Bombshells when he punched that guy in Argentina, there wasn’t anyone else from the race with us in the jump pod so he didn’t need to be sweet and encouraging unless he’d wanted to.
Unless he’s playing the long game to impress someone back home .
The errant thought from the scorned side of my brain takes root before I can brush it away. It’s a basic fact that women across America will fall in love with Court when the show airs. If he’s trying to win someone over in Green Valley, playing the role of the nice guy hero is a guaranteed way to make that happen.
But what about the airplane snacks? And lending me his jacket? And?—
Duh—didn’t you already say he’s a nice guy? That’s why you fell in love with him in the first place.
I don’t appreciate the tone of voice from the logical side of my brain, but it’s not wrong. Court literally took the phrase “If you love someone, let them go” and broke his own heart so I’d get a shot at a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Then explain the infidelity, smartypants, my Scorned Brain says while illuminating a neon sign that says Cheater! Who was the woman he brought to Gallery Night? Is she the same one he hooked up with during that bachelor party weekend? Did he ? —
Ugh! Enough! I silently shout to both sides of my brain. I already said I’m not dealing with this until I’ve slept, hydrated, and eaten a vegetable, so unless either of you has a cot, a water bottle, and some broccoli, I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.
Silence.
That’s what I thought.
The universe really wants me to think about Court.
I know this because of the two-hour nap I took on the drive to our next location, the bottle of sour plum drink we chugged to get our next clue, and the bamboo basket full of fruit waiting for us at our “What a Teas” challenge. It’s like the universe heard my inner monologue at Green Lake Park and said, “Ask and ye shall receive.”
Well, mostly receive.
I’m not fully hydrated yet and tangerines aren’t a vegetable, but the cosmic nudge gets a solid two and a half out of three. Even so, analyzing how I feel is still going to have to wait until tonight, because right now I’m dividing my attention between what the Bombshells are whispering to each other and how Court has managed to turn the act of rinsing tangerines in a shallow barrel into the kind of forearm porn people pay money to watch.
Focus. You can think about that one later, too .
Fixing my attention on the Bombshells, I lean toward Court and say, “Don’t look now, but are Gianna and Alexis acting weird?”
His head immediately pivots in their direction, earning him a playful whack on the arm from me. “I literally said, ‘Don’t look now.’”
“How was I supposed to tell if they’re acting weird if I can’t look at them?”
“I meant that you should’ve waited a few seconds so it didn’t seem like we were talking about them.”
“Duly noted.”
“Well?” I motion for him to continue talking.
“Well, what?”
“Are they acting weird?”
“I’m not sure, since I was only able to look at them for point-two seconds before you smacked me and drenched my shirt.” With a ghost of a smile on his lips, he glances at the wet splotch on his sleeve while he continues swirling his hands among the bright orange fruit.
Today’s challenge brought us to a small village northwest of Kunming, where we’re tasked with making a hundred and fifty pu-erh tea pods out of tangerine husks. Basically, we cut and gut each tangerine like we would a pumpkin, stuff it with tea leaves, and put it on a drying rack. When we’re done with that, we’ll individually wrap a hundred and fifty previously dried tea pods. Once the tea maker approves our paper-wrapping technique, we’ll get our next clue.
But first, we need to finish rinsing the tangerines.
“I hardly drenched your shirt,” I say, mimicking Court’s movements in the barrel of water.
He surveys his sleeve again. “I dunno, seems pretty wet to me.”
“Then maybe you need a refresher on what ‘wet’ actually means.”
Okay, in my defense, that didn’t sound dirty in my head.
Without missing a beat, his gaze rakes over my body in a blatant display of heated appreciation. When he’s taken his fill, he arches a brow and leans in. “Care to jog my memory?”
I open my mouth to tell him there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell, but what comes out instead is, “I would care so hard.”
Those damn lips of his settle into a smirk that begs me to come closer. “And how do you plan on doing that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Mueller.”
Wait. Why am I flirting with Court? And why am I enjoying it so much?
“Actually, I would.” His smirk slowly transforms into a sexy, smoldering thing that cranks up the temperature in ways that have nothing to do with the balmy afternoon sun.
He’s flirting back.
And I’m enjoying that too.
And now I want to touch him.
Don’t you dare, my Scorned Brain says as it gesticulates wildly at the Cheater! sign. You’re supposed to end this race with half a million dollars, not another broken heart.
It’s a valid point, but then my Logical Brain pipes in with, Do you not see the opportunity for a compromise right in front of your face?
Huh?
On cue, my fingers flex in the water and then I’m fighting a grin because yes . It’s the perfect solution.
“How about I show you right now?”
Court swallows thickly as I remove one hand from the barrel and slowly draw it toward my chest. As expected, he tracks the movement, giving me the perfect opportunity to scoop out a handful of water and smear it across his face.
“Now you’re wet.” I finally unleash my grin.
He blinks back at me for several stunned seconds before lifting the bottom of his shirt to dry off. I’m pretty sure the camera guy gets high-definition footage of me ogling his abs, but it seems like a fair trade for a close-up view of this caliber. I should buy a large-screen TV and beg for a copy of the footage.
Reluctantly, I return my gaze to his face as he lowers his shirt.
His expression is equal parts mirth and mischief when he says, “Well done, Miss Billings, but you’re forgetting one very important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Two can play at that game.” Half a second later, he locks one arm around my shoulders and douses me with a giant man-paw full of water that I would’ve seen coming if I hadn’t been ensnared by the wicked gleam in his eyes. I sputter against the onslaught of liquid as he says, “Now we’re even.”
Our proximity means I can’t use my shirt to dry my face, so I snake my arm up between our bodies to clear the water from my lashes. “We are hardly even. If anything, you deserve another round because I’m twice as wet as you.”
There are a million other things I should be focusing on right now (like how we’re technically wasting time and I still don’t know whether the Bombshells are acting weird) but all that takes a back seat when Court murmurs, “What I’m hearing you say is I made you extra wet?”
“You did,” someone says. Me, maybe? The sudden rush of warm buzzing makes it impossible to think. Actually, no. I can think just fine—specifically about how beautiful Court’s lips are and how they’d feel on mine after all these years because my god I want to kiss him .
And he’s so close. All I’d have to do is?—
“Yoooo! Who’s ready for a tea party?”
I startle at Big Mike’s obnoxious greeting, taking one step back like I’ve just been caught with my hand in a cookie jar (or more accurately, splayed across Court’s chest). The upside is I can finally dry my face, which I do while Mike and DeAngelo high-five the group of tea makers and officially announce that “the Wise Guys are in the house.”
“Jackasses is more like it,” Court says, pressing his lips tight. His expression gives no indication he’d been caught up in the moment like I was, and that’s probably an upside too. Getting through the next two weeks will be challenging enough without adding fresh hormones to the mix.
Refocusing on the logistics of the race, I say, “We should talk to the other teams about working together to eliminate Mike and DeAngelo. I don’t know how much more of them I can take.”
There are twenty-three lounge chairs on the deck of the heated indoor pool at our hotel in Kunming, and each chair has seven slats. That’s what...a hundred and fifty-ish slats? From there, I move on to counting foam chairs on the pool’s Baja shelf (five), lights in the ceiling (sixteen), and artificial topiaries (twelve) to keep from staring at Court’s eight-pack and the generous contents of his swim trunks while he and the other guys from the race play basketball in the deep end with a few tourist families.
I use “deep end” loosely—the pool is only four feet deep, causing Court’s trunks to cling to his groin every time he jumps for the ball...which he’s done at least two dozen times in the last five minutes.
I’m relaxing on the Baja shelf with the other Xtreme Quest women and unfortunately, I can’t turn my foam water chair around without being obvious. Instead, I scan the pool deck for more things to count until it’s time to head upstairs. Tonight is the first time since the race started that the teams are in separate rooms, and I’m kind of looking forward to? —
“Watch out!” Boyd hollers seconds before the basketball smacks my forehead.
Court is out of the water in an instant, rushing to my chair to inspect my face for damage. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”
“I’m okay.” Well, aside from the torture of having his dripping-wet pecs inches from my face.
He lets out a relieved sigh but that doesn’t stop him from gently rubbing where the ball hit me. Although unnecessary, his concern is sweet. I start to say as much, but every word on my tongue evaporates the moment I gaze up at the blue-green irises I can still draw from memory. For a millisecond, I indulge in the fantasy of sinking my fingers into his hair and pulling his lips to mine. There’s no doubt he’d taste just as good, if not better, than he did all those years ago, but one, we’re surrounded by people, and two, indulging in said fantasy would have disastrous consequences.
Holding on to what’s left of my senses, I gently remove his hands from my cheeks and scooch over, putting several necessary inches between us. “I’m good. You can stop worrying.”
“Sorry, Hartley,” Boyd calls from the pool deck, the errant ball now tucked under his arm.
“Sorry yourself. It’s gonna take more than a kid’s toy to knock me out of the race,” I fire back playfully.
With a mischievous grin aimed my way, he says, “Challenge accepted,” and jumps feet first into the water to continue the game.
Court, on the other hand, stays rooted in place, so I nudge him back and push myself out of my chair before he can start assessing me all over again.
“Where are you going?” he asks, immediately rising beside me.
“To the restroom.”
“Come on, Mueller, we need you!” Mitchell says.
“Be right there.” He follows me as I walk to the lounge chair and secure my towel around my waist. “You sure you’re okay?”
“That thing is basically a rubberized beach ball. I promise I’m good.”
I glance back at Court when I reach the restroom and find Gianna locking elbows with him so they can jump into the deep end together. It’s fine. I mean, who cares if we exchanged in some flirty banter earlier today? He’s flirted with the Bombshells since day one, and he and Gianna are two consenting, single adults. If they want to...whatever, that’s fine by me.
Totally, completely fine.
I yank open the door and head to the first stall, hanging my towel from the hook so I can pee .
A few minutes later, I’m at the sink when Alexis breezes into the restroom with Nikki, one of the female crew members, in tow. The twenty-foot proximity requirement is relaxed after checkpoints, but we’re still chaperoned in isolated places when we aren’t wearing mics to ensure we don’t discuss Xtreme Quest matters with other teams.
“It looks like things between you and Court have been going better in the last couple of days,” Alexis says, leaning against an adjacent sink.
Unsure of where the conversation is going, I answer cautiously, “I haven’t wanted to strangle him, so I’d say that’s an improvement.”
“Has he talked to you about anything important recently?”
Wait, does she mean the Wise Guys elimination plan? Because in case she forgot, Nikki is standing right here, and the producers have made it very clear that they have a zero-tolerance policy for cheating.
“Nothing that comes to mind.” I turn on the faucet and work a pump of soap into a lather.
“So he hasn’t mentioned anything about your breakup?”
Surprise has me snapping my eyes to hers in the mirror. “What? No.”
“Stupid boys,” she mutters to herself. “Hartley, Court never cheated on you.”
“That’s impossible. I literally saw it with my own eyes.”
Her expression twists into an odd combination of sympathy and hope. “I think it’s time for you to ask him who he brought to the gallery that night.”