Page 66 of Ex Marks the Spot
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 hiscurrent 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 tomy 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.