13. Hartley
CHAPTER 13
HARTLEY
Day 11—Nepal
T he Shortcut is still in the clue box when we make it to the shrine called Swayambhunath Stupa, which tells us that the A Team and the Alaska Girls didn’t use it. After reading the task, it’s easy to see why.
Take the Nepal Mathematical Society’s twenty-five question test. If your team passes with a minimum score of ninety percent, you can proceed directly to the checkpoint. If you don’t pass, you must return to this box to receive your next clue.
“Does every country have a mathematical society, or is this a Nepal thing?” Alexis asks.
“Don’t ask me, I’m allergic to numbers,” Haylee replies, retrieving a challenge envelope from the box.
Court reaches around me and grabs an envelope for our team. “I can handle subbing for high school calculus in a small town, but there’s no way I can hang with the Nepal Mathematical Society.”
The Bombshells take a clue of their own and we spread out enough to get the required shot of each team reading it.
Forge: Create a kukri knife blade.
Forage: Search a bazaar for ingredients and cook a full-course Nepalese meal.
“So basically, do we want to rely on ourselves, or do we want to work with other people?” Court asks.
I’ve seen so many challenges go wrong when contestants get lost inside markets or can’t find items. Add that to the unpredictability of cooking something we’ve never even seen before, and it becomes a recipe for disaster (no pun intended).
“I vote for relying on ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
I’m stuffing the clue in my fanny pack when Old Bay approaches. “What did you decide?” Kadeeja asks.
“We’re forging.’”
“We’re going to forage.”
“That’s because she’s hungry,” Haylee adds.
“How about you two?” Court says to the Bombshells.
They exchange a look before Gianna says, “We’re not sure yet.”
“Well, good luck, whatever you decide. We’re gonna head out,” Kadeeja says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder.
After waving them off, we join Gianna and Alexis, whose clue envelope is still sealed.
“Those work better when you open them,” Court jokes.
“About that . . . ,” Alexis says. “We’re going to try the Shortcut.”
His brows inch upward. “You’re doing the math test?”
A smile slowly blooms on my face as I think back to my initial impression of them in Dallas and how over-the-top they’ve acted since then. “I freaking knew it !”
“Knew what?” Court asks.
“That the stereotypical bombshell thing was an act. Which you pulled off quite well, I might add.”
Gianna shrugs. “It’s pretty easy to show people what they expect to see. ”
Damn.
“That’s a heavy statement, and one worth unpacking in a later discussion, but right now I want to know how you plan on passing this test.”
She smiles and extends her hand. “Hi, I’m Gianna, PhD in biochemical engineering, adjunct professor, member of the Society of Cosmetic Chemists, two patents pending.”
While I stand there gaping like a fish, Alexis points to Gianna and says, “Same as her.”
Well.
Okay then.
“I’d like to go on record and say this is the last time I forge anything,” I say two hours later. Court and I are drenched in sweat, I have a blister on my thumb, and we’re only halfway finished with this damn knife blade.
“I’m trying to remind myself that we’re not even making the whole thing but it’s not helping much,” he says.
During our demo, the team of bladesmiths showed us how to chisel the basic shape of the kukri blade from a piece of flat steel and then pound it with a six-pound hammer, all while making regular trips to the charcoal oven that’s approximately a bajillion degrees to keep the steel hot. Once we’re done with that, we’ll hand it over to the bladesmiths so they can finish the knife-making process and they’ll give us our next clue.
There’s just one problem.
“What does it mean when you can’t feel your arms?” It’s my turn to wield the hammer while Court mans the metal tongs, except I’ve missed the last three times I’ve aimed for the blade.
“It means it’s time for a break.”
“Fabulous.” The hammer falls to the packed dirt floor with a soft thud and I plop down beside it.
Court makes a quick detour to our backpacks to retrieve our water, then joins me, uncapping my bottle. “Can you hold this?”
“I think so.” It takes a few seconds to get my fingers to cooperate, but I’m eventually able to down about half of the bottle while Court drains the rest of his.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t come to Nepal first,” he says, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth in a move that’s entirely too sexy given our current circumstances .
“Why’s that?”
He draws his legs up and rests his arms on his knees. “Because this place is filled with knives, fires, and sledgehammers. You could’ve killed me three different ways in a matter of minutes.”
“Damn,” I say, fighting a smile. “Such a missed opportunity.”
“You’ll have to file a complaint with the production team when we get home.”
Despite his lighthearted tone, his comment takes me back to day one and the scathing email I planned on sending to the casting team after the race ended. How was that only ten days ago? And if what Alexis said is true, why did Court let me think the worst of him this whole time? It’s almost as if...
“You did the same thing as the Bombshells.”
“I what?” Court asks, brows pushed together.
Shit. Do I ignore the fact that we’re wearing mics and talk to him now or wait for tonight? Except there’s no guarantee we’ll be in a hotel room tonight, let alone in the same room, and maybe the rest of America will want to hear this too.
I take a fortifying breath and shift to face him.
“You let me use my assumption as the truth. The Bombshells did it as part of their strategy for the race, but I haven’t figured out why you’d want to do the same thing.”
His brows remain in place. “I’m not quite following you.”
“Last night in the pool bathroom, Alexis said you didn’t cheat on me and told me to ask you who the woman was at the gallery.”
“Damn traitors,” Court mutters to himself, though his small smile tells me there’s no heat behind his words. “And I’m guessing this is what you wanted to talk about this morning?”
I nod. “That’s why I couldn’t sleep last night.” Well, one of the reasons, but America doesn’t need to know about my fantasy about Court in his swim trunks. “At first, I struggled with whether to believe her because they constantly flirted with you. It doesn’t make sense that they’d want us to smooth things over if they were trying to get in your pants.”
“So what made you believe her?”
“When I was drawing in my notebook at the Sydney airport, they mentioned the idea of you not being over me. When I look back, I realized that’s around the time they stopped flirting. I guess it felt like they respected the possibility of us calling a truce and being friends and didn’t want to get in the way of that.”
It’s Court’s turn to nod. “Gianna talked to me about the breakup on the flight to Japan while you were sleeping. She said I should tell you the full story about Gallery Night.”
“So why haven’t you yet?” Of all the questions that have run through my head, this is the one I can’t figure out. At any point, he could’ve set the record straight instead of allowing the first week and a half of the race to be unnecessarily miserable.
Court stares at the ground for several moments before checking his watch. “We should get back to work. Do you think you can hold the tongs?”
I flex my fingers and find them functioning better now that we’ve had a short break. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He rises and extends a hand to pull me onto my feet, then passes the tongs to me. “If we’re going to stay ahead of the Wise Guys, we need to work while we talk.”
We’re drenched and a little muddy when we roll into our hotel room at almost two in the morning. My mind is still reeling from the day’s events. Or is it the night’s events? In any case, here’s a recap:
Court brought his sister, Ella, to the art gallery.
I kind of yelled at him for continuing to make decisions for me (more on that in a moment).
Operation: Elimination backfired because the Alaska Girls’ taxi driver took off with their backpacks, leaving Marcail and Stephanie without passports. In related news, Court agreed to stop teasing me about my fanny pack.
Anyway, the only plan that actually worked today was the Bombshells winning the Shortcut. Paul gave us the news on their behalf when we checked in, but Court, Gianna, Alexis, and I have decided to keep that under wraps. Everyone else thinks they came in first after catching a lucky break on the forage challenge.
And as far as me yelling at Court goes, it was more like me using his full name and refuting every stupid conclusion he’s jumped to on my behalf. For example, he doesn’t get to decide that I wouldn’t believe him if he told me the truth about Ella, or that he’s a failure because of something as ridiculous as his current profession, or that I wouldn’t want to be friends with him for any other dumb reason his brain concocted.
Last I checked, I’m a grown woman who’s completely capable of determining who I want to have in my life. I cemented my point by telling him I fully expect us to stay in contact with each other once the race is over whether he likes it or not.
“Since I got the first shower last time, it’s your turn tonight,” he says, kicking the door shut and toeing off his shoes.
After setting my shoes by his, I snag two hangers from the closet and pass one to him so we can hang our waterproof backpack covers to dry. Apparently, July is Kathmandu’s rainiest month, a fact I wasn’t upset about when Court and I finally finished that damn knife blade and got a chance to cool off courtesy of Mother Nature. The downside is that the rain continued all evening and we rolled into tonight’s checkpoint looking like drowned rats.
Well, I did anyway. Court looked like he stepped off a photo shoot for an aquatic wear campaign.
“Do you need the bathroom before I shower?” I ask.
“Nah, I’m good.” He peels off his wet shirt and drapes it over the back of the wooden chair next to the desk.
To keep from ogling him, I focus on chores. “I can do a load of sink laundry while I’m showering. Want me to add your shirt?”
“Sure,” he says before glancing at his shorts. “Might as well save soap and give you this stuff too.”
He grabs his shirt, makes his way to the bathroom, and emerges a few seconds later with a towel cinched around his waist. “I left everything in the sink, and I can do the next load so we’re even.”
At least that’s what I think he said. It’s hard to concentrate when every cell in my body is on fire. To be safe, I settle on a generic, “Mm-hmm,” as he passes me on the way to his backpack. The view from behind is just as glorious as his front, especially when he bends down to retrieve his notebook and a pen.
Unfortunately, he stands up and turns around before I can avert my focus. Any hope of feigning casual nonchalance is dashed when his lips curve into a smirk that says, I caught you red-handed .
Payback is the only option now.
With my eyes locked on his, I reach for the hem of my tank top and wrestle it over my head. I’m wearing a black sports bra so it’s not exactly a striptease, but Court immediately loses our staring contest when his gaze slinks down to my chest, my stomach, my legs. His throat moves in a thick swallow, and if it weren’t for my thong, I’d up the ante and take my shorts off too.
I don’t bother hiding my satisfied smile when his eyes finally meet mine again. Whether we both lost the game or won is up for debate, but regardless, I’m feeling victorious as I gather my toiletries and a change of clothes and head for the bathroom.
After dropping my shirt in the sink and starting the water for the shower, I allow the mental image of Court to keep me company while I undo my pigtail French braids and comb through my waves. The last time I saw him in a towel, he was a twenty-one-year-old college kid. Now he’s a full-blown man with a smattering of hair on his pecs and a happy trail I’d surrender my last protein bar to touch.
How in the hell am I supposed to sleep six feet away from him tonight? With my luck, we’ll co-star in the kind of sex dream that comes with real-life, full-body movements and I’ll be forced to leave the race and stay in Nepal out of sheer mortification.
Then again, I could save my pride (and my shot at a million dollars) by taking matters into my own hands in the shower.
But first, laundry.
Court’s already plugged the sink, so I flip the faucet handle, add the rest of my clothes to the pile, and reach for the packet of soap.
That isn’t on the counter.
Or in my toiletry bag.
Or anywhere else in the bathroom.
Which means if the dirty laundry walk of shame isn’t already a thing, it’s about to be.
The plan was simple: wrap myself in a towel (yes, I’m aware of the irony) and make a mad dash to my backpack for the soap.
Except.
EXCEPT.
I get two steps into the room and discover my sex dream has started without me. More specifically, I find Court on his bed, eyes closed and towel undone, working himself in long, steady strokes.
None of my Xtreme Quest research covered what to do when you walk in on your ex-boyfriend jerking off. Logic says I should leave. Turn around and announce myself. Anything other than standing here like a horny voyeur, but instead I remain transfixed on the glorious sight in front of me. It’s like the universe heard my thoughts in the bathroom and decided I could have my protein bar and eat it too.
Court grips the base of his shaft with his right hand while his left slides up to the head, twisting and squeezing in a way I can somehow feel between my thighs even though I’m still across the room.
As he increases the pace, his breathing becomes louder and more pronounced. I can feel that too, just below my ear where my skin prickles with a lethal combination of memory and need.
“Yes, baby. Just like that,” he whispers.
His hand moves faster, and his hips thrust upward, triggering a fiery ache in my center that begs for release.
“Fuck, Hartley.”
That is a fantastic idea.
Also, he said my name . Does that technically count as an invitation? Because I will RSVP to him so hard. And he is so. Very. Hard. I press my legs together and imagine it’s my hand wrapped around him, coaxing the low, raspy growl from his lips. That it’s my mouth causing the muscles in his thighs to flex and quake. That it’s my body seated on top of him, bringing us closer and closer to the edge.
I’m so lost in my fantasy that it takes a few seconds to realize Court’s staring at me. Rather than cover up or tell me to get the hell out of the room, he holds my gaze and resumes touching himself.
“I, uh...forgot...the thing.” I wave a finger in the direction of my backpack. “The soap. For our clothes. I didn’t mean to...” I stop there, because we both know whatever I say next would be a lie. I absolutely meant to, and I enjoyed every long, thick second of it.
His fist moves from base to tip and back down again, and I feel myself take a step in his direction. Then another. And another.
“Don’t do something you’re going to regret.” His words are a warning, but his voice is all gravel and desire, and right now the only thing I’ll regret is not taking off my towel and climbing on top of him.
So I do.
His gaze burns with arousal as I lower myself onto his upper thighs, achingly close to his cock. His hand stills, as if any movement while we’re this close will destroy the final vestiges of his restraint.
“Last chance,” he grits out, proving my point.
I lean forward, rocking against him, and splay my hands on his chest. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. ”
He nods.
“I admire and appreciate your respect for my consent, but if you don’t fuck me in the next ten seconds, I’m going to die and you’ll have to finish this race alone.”
He shifts beneath me, an inch, maybe two, but the friction is enough to ignite the ache of desire between my legs. “We can’t have that, can we?”
I shake my head, relishing the feral smile blooming beneath me. “It would violate at least five contractual agreements.”
“And the producers would be pissed.” He trades the grip on his cock for greedy handfuls of flesh on my hips, my ass, my thighs, each kneading touch a confirmation that he wants this as much as I do.
Emboldened by this discovery, I take over for him and press the base of his shaft against the wetness pooling between my legs. He rewards me with an ungodly sexy moan that causes my hips to grind against him while I jerk him off. “I’m glad you understand the severity of the situation.”
“I am extremely understanding.” His expert hands travel up my sides and around the front to massage my breasts and pinch my nipples in a way only he has ever mastered.
Arching into his touch, I return my palms to his chest and rock my hips faster and faster as I surrender to the slick friction we’ve created. How it can feel this good when he’s not even inside me yet is anyone’s guess. I should probably fix that, but then I’d have to stop what I’m...I’m...
“That’s it, Hartley. Come for me.”
High-pitched cries echo across the room as my body explodes from the inside out. I feel Court’s arm wrap around my waist, increasing the friction, and my hips buck wildly against each surge of white-hot electricity. It’s been years since an orgasm has rocked me like this—six, to be exact—but the confident look on Court’s face tells me I won’t be waiting long for the next one.
“Lift up.”
Still floating somewhere between earth and oblivion, I happily obey and he rewards me again, this time by teasing my entrance, then sliding up to trace torturous circles around my clit. It’s too much and not enough, which should be impossible, but so was the thought of sex with Court not even two weeks ago. Now we’re naked on a bed in Nepal and I’m halfway to my second orgasm in as many minutes.
The only problem? He’s still not inside me, so I take matters into my own hands—literally—and guide him there myself.
“Fuck,” he says through clenched teeth as I sink down, inch by exquisitely hard inch .
He remains still once I’m fully seated on top of him and uses the pad of his thumb to resume his circles on my clit. If I were with anyone other than Court, I’d be embarrassed by the groans of pleasure he’s coaxing out of me. Then again, if I were with anyone other than Court, I wouldn’t be making these sounds in the first place because no one has ever been able to work my body like him.
I try to savor the moment. To remember the line of contrast where smooth abs meet that sexy-as-hell happy trail. To catalogue the sound of his throaty growls and grunts as he fights the urge to thrust his hips, but his thumb is moving too fast and my breaths are coming too fast and I’m coming again and ohmygod , OHMYGOD .
He anchors his hands around my waist and drives into me from below. By the feel of it, I’ll have ten souvenir bruises tomorrow morning, if I even survive until then, because I’m still coming thanks to the pace and angle of Court’s magical dick. My headstone will say Here lies Hartley. She orgasmed to death.
Seconds later, his thrusts become erratic and he tumbles over the edge with a series of deep, guttural grunts. Boneless and wholly spent, I collapse on top of him and focus on regaining control of my lungs while his hands roam lazily up and down my back.
After I learned Court never cheated on me, my Scorned Brain took its neon cheater sign and went home. My Logical Brain, however, is currently pinching the bridge of its nose and sighing. Whatever. It can sit there waving its giant ball of attachment string and tapping its foot all night if it wants to. Just because I had sex with Court doesn’t mean it has to be a thing , right?
Right.
I should clarify one small detail, though. Especially if we’re going to have a repeat of tonight’s lifesaving performance.
“There’s no good segue for this, but I’m on the pill so you don’t have to worry about the no condom situation.”
“I know.”
“You do?” I push up to look at him.
Hazy eyes and a sated smile greet me when he says, “You’ve left your toiletry bag open a few times.”
Oh. That makes sense. “And all the tests we did for the race mean we’re negative for everything.”
“It does.”
“Yep.” I stupidly nod at my own response and then continue with more verbal diarrhea. “Also, I really was just coming to get the laundry soap. I had no idea you’d be...you know.” I make a circle with my finger in the direction of his dick...which is still inside me. God, why is this so awkward? It’s sex. Something we’ve done hundreds of times before. Who cares if my exceedingly long dry spell means I’m a little out of practice? Court obviously had no complaints. Or maybe he did and he’s just being nice. In that case?—
“Hey.”
“Hmm?” I say to the pillow.
“Please look at me.”
I reluctantly slide my gaze to the right, but only because he asked nicely.
“I can hear you thinking.”
“What? I’m not?—”
“Hartley,” he says, squeezing my upper thighs.
The gesture is as sexy as it is comforting, which makes it a little easier to give him my eyes again.
“I know you didn’t purposely barge in on me, and in case you couldn’t tell, I enjoyed the hell out of that.”
“Thank god, because it’s been a few years for me and I was afraid?—”
This time he cuts me off by bringing his finger to my lips. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re going to get off this bed, take care of the laundry, and get in the shower.”
I swallow. “Together?”
“Together. I’m not done with you yet.”