“Better?” he asks, wading toward shore.

“Much,” I manage, though my voice comes out embarrassingly shaky.

He emerges from the stream like some kind of water god, all fluid grace and masculine beauty. I watch, mesmerized, as he runs his hands through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face. Water droplets cling to his eyelashes, and there’s something almost ethereal about the way the fading sunlight plays across his features.

“Your turn to blush,” I say weakly, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“Do I look like someone who blushes?” he asks, moving toward where I’m sitting.

“No,” I say, and then the next words slip out...