Me.
Now.
“That’s good,” he parrots, smirking. He slides his thumbs under the waistbandof his boxers, which, coincidentally, is the exact moment I remember to double-check the supplies on my easel.
Graphite pencil for sketching, assorted charcoals, kneaded eraser, chalk, paper towels...yep, all right where I left them earlier today.
“It’s safe to look now.”
It’s worth repeating that although Court is my first private model, I’ve used male models in class before. I’ve also previously seen naked men during recreational bedroom activities. But none of those experiences have prepared me for what I see when I peer across the room.
Court Mueller is the most gorgeous human being I have ever laid eyes on.
And for the next four hours, he’s all mine.
“Have you talked to him since the breakup?” Fiona asks as we pass through a gate onto the artificial grass.
“The last time we spoke was the day he walked out of my bedroom.”
I drop my backpack under a pop-up canopy aptly named Backpack Drop-Off and continue toward the small cluster of castmates near the hedges. When we get close enough to hear his voice, the part of my brain reserved for bad ideas and self-destruction shouts,Maybe he’s changed!
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
Court Mueller is the human equivalent of shrimp—my favorite food until the day it almost killed me.
And as with most allergies, he can’t hurt me again if I don’t let him in.
CHAPTER 2
COURT
Day 1—Dallas, Texas
The women from Holbrooke University have been eye-fucking me for the past fifteen minutes. Based on the number of times they’ve mentioned how close they are and that they don’t mind sharing their supplies—“after all, that’s what friends are for” *insert flirtatious smirk*—I’m pretty sure I have a walk-on role in a threesome.
I pretend to like it, or at least be intrigued by it, because only an idiot would sabotage his chance at laying groundwork for a future alliance on a show with a million-dollar prize. See, that’s the thing about Xtreme Quest: the competition starts long before the race actually begins.
For instance, after my second callback from the audition team six weeks ago, I dove into memorizing each country’s flag because the show is notorious for tossing in a test on the last leg. When I got the official invite four weeks ago, I broke in a pair of new shoes and cross-referenced past race routes with average temperature charts to create a packing list. I even stepped up my cardio to make sure I was in peak shape for running.
Sure, it’s probably overkill—previous seasons have been won by far less prepared teams—but I can’t take any chances. If I don’t win this race, I’ll be forced to return to Green Valley and accept my lot in life. And by lot, I mean the literal parking lot at Studs N Suds.
Technically speaking, I’m the manager of a business owned by my best friend, Rhett. In reality, I work in the office of a car wash. Does it matter that my idea of creating a mobile detail team increased our revenue by thirty percent last year? Or that I helped bring in four thousand dollars in our most recent fundraiser? Not really, and neither does substitute teaching. I’m pretty sure the only ones who would miss me at Green Valley High School are the thirsty single moms.
Basically, I have an unused psychology degree, a burning desire to put Green Valley in my rearview mirror, and no resources to actually make that happen. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man with an impressive cache of failed occupations and one shot at changing it all.
“Hey man, I think your teammate is here,” the guy (Oscar, I think?) from Auchenbach State College says.
I follow the direction of his finger and cough out a strangled gasp.
No.
My head swivels side to side.
Please tell me the woman I gave up everything for isn’t walking toward me.
She stops a few feet away, crosses her arms, and fillets me with a glare. “Hello, Courtney.”