Page 2 of Ex Marks the Spot

“The race itself won’t start until early this afternoon. In addition to getting multiple takes of Paul talking with the contestants, we’ll get shots of each team before the race starts. You can choose your own poses and expressions—some teams keep it light and others prefer to stay serious—but keep in mind this is what will appear in the opening credits, as well as still shots for promo. When we’re done with that, we’ll sit you down for a quick interview for the first episode.”

What’s the best way to stand beside a man I wouldn’t spit on if he was burning alive? Is wringing his neck suitable for primetime TV?

“Your partner is already here. Let’s get you two—” Fiona swipes her finger across the iPad screen. “Ohhh.” She tries (and fails) to hide a snicker. “You’re the exes. Looks like introductions aren’t necessary.”

A light knock on the front door interrupts the romantic comedy my roommates and I are watching.

Corrina looks at me and waggles her brows. “Your stripper is here.”

“For the bajillionth time, he’s not a stripper and this is strictly an assignment for Hodson’s class.” I toss my throw pillow in her direction and hop off the couch.

“He’s coming here to take his clothes off in your bedroom. Sounds stripperish to me,” Megan says around a mouthful of popcorn.

Since I’m out of pillows, I flip her the bird on my way to the door.

A few weeks ago, I asked friends if they knew any guys who’d be willing to sit nude for a charcoal drawing. My only requirements were punctuality and not being a sexual predator.

Megan’s boyfriend mentioned his chemistry lab partner who is, and I quote, “not ugly and doesn’t smell weird.” The next day he showed me a photo. The clunky plastic goggles blocked most of the guy’s face, but he had a nice smile and more importantly, he agreed to sign a release in exchange for a (meager) model fee and the promise of snacks. Win-win, right?

I open the door prepared for the usual blast of setting sunlight, so it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the tall figure blocking the golden rays. When they do...

Whoa.

If this is Megan’s boyfriend’s version of “not ugly,” I’d like to be his version of “not poor.” Seriously. On a scale of one to ten, the man on the welcome mat has a preliminary score of twenty. His face is a masterclass on the golden ratio—dark brown eyebrows, a straight nose, a squared jaw, and a perfectly angled chin that would make Fibonacci himself weep—but it’s his beach-glass eyes that steal the show. The left one is seafoam green and the right is cornflower blue.

“Was that a good whoa or a bad whoa?”

It was supposed to be a private whoa, but apparently my mouth didn’t get the memo. “A good one because...” I glance around, desperate for a plausible excuse, and spot the watch on his wrist. Bingo. “You’re on time.” I hold up my own watch as proof.

His lips—full and luscious—purse together in an obvious attempt not to smile. “Are most of your models late?”

“I’ve never done this before. You’re my first.”

Now he’s grinning.

“Private model, that is. Not myactualfirst...” My inward groan comes out as a long breath through my nose. Where’s a freight train when you need one? “Let’s try this again. Hi. I’m Hartley. You must be Court.” I extend a hand like a normal person.

He slides his palm against mine and gently squeezes. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I gesture for him to come inside and shut the door behind him as he toes off his shoes. “I hope you don’t mind working in my bedroom. It’s basically the only available space in this matchbox-sized duplex.” And only available, Imight add, because I disassembled my bed frame and flipped the mattress against the wall earlier this afternoon.

He shrugs. “I’m all yours for the next four hours. Just tell me where to go and what to do.” His eyes hold mine for a beat and then he smiles again. Unlike the one in the chemistry lab photo, this one holds a spark of mischief that my brain interprets as, “I follow directions in the bedroom.”

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

I quietly clear my throat and lead him through the galley kitchen and around the corner into the living room. As soon as my feet hit the carpet, Channing Tatum comes to life on the TV, peeling his shirt off and grinding across the stage to the beat of “Pony” by Ginuwine. Megan and Corrina cackle like traitorous hens and high-five each other.

“Court, these are my soon-to-be former roommates.” I shoot them a playful glare as I snatch the remote from Megan’s hand and hit the red power button. “Formal introductions aren’t necessary because I’m murdering them after you leave.”

He laughs and lifts his palm in a wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“Guess that means I don’t have to clean the bathroom tomorrow.” Corrina steals the remote back with an evil grin. “It’s lovely to meet you, Court. I’m Corrina and that’s Megan. Rest assured, you’re in great hands with Hartley.”

If he heard Corrina’s emphasis on the wordhands, he doesn’t let on. Megan did, though, and she makes a terrible attempt at covering her laugh with a cough. For the past year, my mathematically inclined roommates have been conducting a quasi-formal study on the proportional relationship between a man’s hands and his...yeah.

And Court?

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