Page 5 of Ex Marks the Spot

Shit.

I can’t move. Or breathe. Or think. I am a statue, and the Astroturf is now a two-for-one special of body parts: the Giant Eyeball and the Giant Asshole.

Possibly Oscar scoffs. “Your name is Courtney?”

“Is Court a nickname or your full name?” Hartley asks as she perches on her stool.

“It’s short for Courtland.”

She gives an impressed nod. “That sounds so...distinguished. Is there an ‘esquire’ at the end?”

I envision the park ranger uniform my dad wore every day, the elementary school my mom teaches at, the modest three-bedroom house I grew up in, and the station wagon my parents have been driving since I was ten. They keep a roll of duct tape in the glove box at all times. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“And I don’t need to bow in your presence?”

I smirk at her reflection. “I mean, you can if you want.”

She playfully rolls her eyes. “So, what kind of modeling have you done?”

“None. This is a first for me too.”

Her head pops up from the easel. “Really?”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“I just figured you would have with...” She waves a hand up and down in my direction. Wait, is she blushing?

“With what?” I glance down and pat my torso, then find her eyes in the mirror again. “A body? I suppose that would be helpful in a modeling career.”

Her quiet laughter sparks an unexpected blast of warmth in my chest. “I meant the muscles.”

“These things?” I flex the arm facing her, relishing her sharp intake of breath. Damn, she’s cute. “I picked them up at the model store before I came over tonight. I’m lucky they had my size.”

On the wordsize, Hartley’s gaze drops several inches. She clears her throat and starts inspecting a stick of charcoal. “And when you’re not modeling with store-bought muscles, what do you do with your time?”

“Work, mostly. I’m in a toxic relationship with my car so I’m saving for a new one. Well, newer one, anyway.” Hence me being here tonight. A hundred bucks to stand naked for four hours seemed like a no-brainer. I’ve certainly done far more for far less.

“Where do you work?”

“Shucks.”

Her eyes go wide. “I love that place! Megan, Corrina, and I go there for brunch on Sundays. I’ve never seen you there though.”

“I’m a cook, so I don’t get out of the kitchen much.”

“Maybe that’s why I keep coming back for corn cakes every week.”

I make hundreds of corn pancakes during my weekend shifts, so she’s probably right. “I don’t want to brag, but I’m pretty sure I’m the reason Shucks was voted number one in the county’s non-chain-restaurant category.”

“And yet you’re so humble,” she says, chuckling.

I lift my hand and let it fall to my side. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“Are you working this Sunday at ten a.m.?”

I nod.

“Then I expect nothing short of Gordon Ramsay-level corn cakes.”

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