Page 6 of Ex Marks the Spot

“Please,” I scoff, hoping it hides my excitement at knowing I’ll get to see her again in two days. “Gordon Ramsay wishes his corn cakes were as good as mine.”

She gives me a look that says, “We’ll see about that,” then turns her attention back to the easel. “So, what’s the best thing that’s happened to you this week and why was it the best?”

That’s easy—tonight, because what started as an easy modeling job for Jace’s girlfriend’s roommate turned into meeting a girl who’s as beautiful asshe is talented, which is saying something considering her portfolio on Instagram. But how do I say that without it sounding like a smarmy pickup line?

“That’s an . . . interesting question,” I hedge.

“I already know your campus police information, so I figured I’d jump into something meatier.”

My brows bump together. “My campus police information?”

“From your model release. Court Mueller, twenty-one, junior, psych major,” she says, ticking the facts off her fingertips. “Those are things anyone could learn about you in a ten-second conversation at the grocery store.”

“Don’t tell me you’re anti-small-talk. And here I was thinking we could be friends.” I shake my head in mock dismay.

Hartley’s shoulder bounces in a half shrug. “Life is so much more interesting when you take time to see the details.”

Unwilling to pass up an easy opportunity to make her blush again, I arch a brow, smirking. “What I’m hearing you say is that you want to see my details?”

Her eyes zero in on the lower half of my body. “That’s, uh...” She diverts her gaze to the ceiling, the wall, the floor, and finally, the hem of her shorts. “I just meant...” As she shifts on the stool, her foot slips off the bottom rung and connects with the easel, sending it flying. I pivot on instinct and dive for it while Hartley chases her drawing through the air.

The next few moments play out in slow motion: I catch the easel and perform a half bellyflop onto the carpet. Hartley trips on my leg and lands face-first on my ass. I panic and flip over, subsequently rubbing my penis across her chest and neck. The paper floats down and settles next to the dresser.

I’m lying frozen—which is probably not the best considering the proximity of my genitals to her chin—when Megan pounds on the door.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yep,” Hartley croaks, rolling to her back beside me. “We’re good.”

“What happened?”

“I accidentally kicked the easel and it fell.”

Megan pauses, then loudly whispers, “If that’s code for your stripper was trying to take advantage of you and we need to bust in there with a steak knife, cough once.”

I bark out a laugh as Hartley smacks a palm over her face.

“No steak knives needed,” she says from under her hand. “You can go back to watching Channing twerk.”

“All right. We’ll keep an ear out though,” Megan says before retreating down the hallway.

The room falls silent. I turn my head in Hartley’s direction to ask if she’s hurt and instantly regret it. From a socially acceptable bubble of two to four feet, her mossy green eyes, messy brown waves, and plump lips are beautiful. From eight inches away, it’s an exercise of self-control not to reach over and touch her. It doesn’t help that we’re horizontal in a dimly lit room and I’m naked. Or that my dick wouldn’t mind?—

Nope. Uh-uh.

Now is not the time for a boner. I abandon all thoughts of touching Hartley and shift my gaze to the ceiling. The very dark, very blank ceiling. A perfect canvas.

“You should put some glow-in-the-dark stars up there,” I say like we’re two people hanging out on a completely normal Friday evening. “Maybe you could do some van Gogh swirls.”

“Hmm. I never thought about it, but that’s not a bad idea.”

“You know whatwasa bad idea?” I pause for a beat, then say, “Diving for that damn easel.”

More silence.

Then, laughter.

So much laughter.

---