a goddamn thing. I look over and notice that the other teams are having the same luck.
Suddenly, she says, “Luke. Luke!”
I push the water out of my eyes. She’s holding a tiny white canister, only about the size of her thumb.
“Look at that! The lovely doctor may have just been the first person to find a clue!” Will Wang shouts as the cameras zero in on us. The rest of the teams stop what they’re doing and watch as she unscrews the lid and pulls out a long piece of paper.
And just like that . . . we’re in first place.
HEAD OF THE PACK
Nell
It’s funny. Luck brought us to the bottom of the pack that first day. And then luck went and brought us to the top of it. So I guess things are evening out. We’re not ready to go home yet.
—Nell’s Confessional, Day 10
We ended up putting on our snow gear again and taking a speedboat to our next destination, around the glaciers and icy outcroppings in the lake as we sped toward Anchorage for our flight to the next place. Because we were still wet from our dive in the tanks—It. Was. Freezing. I was afraid of Luke getting sick again. At the Anchorage airport, we checked in for our flight to the next place, where we were told that we could lose the coats and boots.
Warmth! Huzzah!
As I came back from washing up in the bathroom and changing into the only clean clothes I had left—the capris, workout bra, and a T-shirt—I saw Ace and Marta running in wearing their winter gear. Ace looked at me and said, “You were lucky, Poindexter. You ain’t gonna be lucky for long.”
Poindexter? Really? I’d thought about giving him the middle finger like Luke showed me, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Besides, just being in first place should’ve been enough. He’s worried. About us. We’re his big competition.
Me. Competition. Hilarious.
Now we’re in another airplane, hopefully headed toward a warmer climate. Our lead isn’t really a lead, because most of the teams, who are on the flight with us, must’ve found their clue right after we did, judging from how quickly they arrived at the airport. I’m trying to read my Les Mis right now in the original French, but I’m keenly aware of Luke’s eyes on me. He’s wearing a T-shirt now, and so his powerful arms are on display, his defined chest muscles peering through the thin black fabric. As big as he is, though, he still lets me have the armrest. I’d let him have it, but then I think neither of us would use it, and I like the feeling of his skin against mine, even if it is just our arms touching. His skin is dark caramel, and I’m light peach. I can’t stop looking at that, the contrast of our skin, pressed together that way. It’s strange, but also natural. The goose bumps on my skin are most pronounced right where our bodies meet. I wonder briefly if he’d have that effect everywhere he touches.
Then . . . right. Victor Hugo. Must concentrate on the reading.
He breathes out, and I venture a look at his face. He’s staring at me, his eyes assessing, framed by lashes so thick and dark I could get lost in them. The setting sun casts an orange hue on his skin and amber flecks into his eyes. His lips are curved in amusement. “Having trouble reading?”
I blush. So he noticed. “Why do you say that?”
He puts a finger on the book. “Because you haven’t turned a page in a while.”
“No.” I turn the page, even though I hadn’t really finished the preceding page.
A small chuckle erupts from his throat, like he’s so onto me.
I close my book and look at him, my eyes shifting over him uncomfortably. If I spend too long on any one part, I worry I might be blatantly staring. But every part of him is so strong and masculine and begs to be adored; he’s raw, dirty sex on a cracker. I bet the camera loves him, and when we watch this season months from now, he’ll make all the females weak in the knees. And they won’t know the half of it, because they can’t smell his delicious, soapy, woodsy smell. They won’t know the way he can make their world quake just by one look in their eyes. They won’t know the way he kisses, or says their name . . .
I need