“I don’t feel like doing jumps today. I wanted to do spins or go down the yellow hill. You said we’d do something new this week.” She stomped her right ski in the snow.

“Jumps are new.” I nudged her with a gloved hand.

“No, they aren’t. I’ve been doing those for weeks. I want to do something cool and fun like you and Coop. I want to do a one-hand jump or go backward.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, because of course she wanted to do something crazy. She’d been pushing my buttons like this since she started here.

“Well, the rest of the class hasn’t learned jumps yet, so why don’t you show them how it’s done?”

Alea perked up a little at that, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.

“I guess I could teach them.” Little show off.

I smiled down at her and backed away to meet Coop up front.

When the kids had practiced the motions sufficiently, I clapped my hands. “Alright. Let’s go try it for real this time.”

***

Two hours, and many words of affirmation later, I slumped against the row of lockers back in the resort. I had one white towel wrapped around my waist and another smaller one rubbing my wet hair to dry. I stopped to check my phone, hoping Olive had replied to my previous text. I may have pushed her a little too far by flirting a tad more this morning, but you couldn’t blame a guy for trying.

I stared at the unanswered message.

Me: Ready for these two turtle doves?

At the time, it seemed cute. Like a reminder of the twelve days of Christmas, but the Finn version. I may or may not have had to look up the lyrics to the original song to find it but oh well. That was over three hours ago, and I still had no response. Maybe if I sent one more…

Me: Not legit doves.

I hit send before I could think. Who says that? Obviously, I’m not bringing her doves. What is it about this girl that makes me lose all of my game?

Okay, let’s try again—some casual damage control.

Me: Unless you want my doves.

Did that sound sexual? Oh no.

Me: By doves I do not mean my balls.

It was official. I was going to die. I would be laid to rest with a tombstone that said cause of death: embarrassment. I used to be so cool with girls. I don’t think I’ve double-texted someone since high school. But here I was, quadruple-texting Olive.

Here was the problem: she was too hot for her own good—and mine. I started to send another to clear up the air when my phone buzzed, screen flashing her name. Frantically, I stabbed the green button to answer.

“Hey, Olive. Sorry about all of that.”