Page 24 of Ex Marks the Spot
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 teasingme 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 himandmy 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?
CHAPTER 6
COURT
Day 2—Costa Rica
I’m in hell.
Brown-haired, green-eyed, five-foot-five hell.
Do you know how hard it is to remain outwardly unaffected when Hartley Billings is sitting on your lap in a cramped backseat? Or when she changes into a sleep shirt and shorts that are neither sexy nor revealing, but your brain runs a slideshow of what’s underneath? Or when you wake up with morning wood that rivals the sequoias out in California?
Exactly.
So yes, I hogged the bathroom this morning. I had to. It was the only place I could escape to without breaking the proximity rule. The added challenge came when she asked what I’d been doing in there that took so long. After our interview yesterday where she’d thrown the lies I’d told in college back in my face, I made a promise to myself to be truthful for the duration of the race. Of course, I haven’t told her about that because she’s made it abundantly clear that she trusts me about as far as she can throw me. (Side note: the death doodle she drew this morning of her throwing me out our seventh-floor window was my favorite.)
Anyway, the fact remains that I’d made a promise, so when she mentioned bodily functions, I ran with it. I mean, jacking off is technically a bodilyfunction, right? But before you judge me for being a creep, let me ask you which is worse: tending to my physical needs in the privacy of the shower, or having a visible boner in my gym shorts on national TV?
That’s what I thought.
Thankfully, today’s sound guy is about six inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than yesterday’s, so that should reduce the overcrowding if we end up in a taxi. For now, I’m enjoying some extra space in our minibus as we make our way toward La Fortuna.
We were the ninth team to make it to Juan Santamaria Park last night. When we got there, we learned we’d take a shuttle to our first challenge today. Each shuttle holds two teams, and rides departed the hotel in twenty-minute increments. That means we’re an hour and twenty minutes behind the first group and twenty minutes ahead of the last group. Not ideal, but not terrible.