I push off the dirt and my body aches as my muscles try to remember the last time they were put to such use. Yoga is great, but not much compares to the steep stairs and rocky trails of Seven Falls.

“If anything, I’m more determined than I was before. I can’t go out like this.”

Because he was sick, I tried very hard to be a decent human and not gawk when he ripped his T-shirt off and was left in nothing but a tank top and his basketball shorts. But now he’s seeming to feel a little bit better and my self-restraint is slipping. I can’t help the way my eyes drop to his biceps and forearms as the muscles flex from his wrist to his shoulder when he pushes his palm against the stone beneath him for leverage.

He’s an author, for goodness’ sake, not a freaking sports star. There’s absolutely no reason his body should be set up this way. It’s rude and unnecessary.

“I made it!” His whoop of excitement drags my attention—kicking and screaming—away from his lean body and up to his face. He’s beaming with pride and not even a little bit green.

I don’t know why I do it, but I tip my imaginary hat and curtsy before saying—in a very terrible Irish accent, by the way—“And congratulations to ye, sir.” Any self-respect I had for myself swan dives into the waterfall.

“Drew.” Jasper stares at me, open disbelief written across his face. There’s no doubt he’s wondering how I was able to out-embarrass him after he threw up multiple times. “Did you just curtsy?”

“You know . . .” I try to think of an excuse that will leave me with even a shred of dignity, but come up empty. “I did. It felt right in the moment but I do have regrets. Let’s leave it alone.”

“Sorry.” He closes some of the distance between us, showing no signs of the dizziness that hit him hard earlier. His steps are no longer wobbly or unsure. “I can’t let it go.”

I groan and look to the heavens. First I cry, then I curtsy. I have zero game. “I was so close to having the upper hand.”

“You still have the upper hand.” I don’t think he meant to say that out loud. His whisper rises just above the sounds of the water rushing downstream.

But instead of following proper social protocol, I don’t drop it. Oh no, no, no. I push. I’m a pusher. “I do? How so?”