Page 70 of Head Over Heels

“My feet are killing me. My hips are killing me. My shoulders are killing me. My neck is killing me.”

“Here. Try this. It’s an old chant, maybe army. It’s supposed to distract you and give you a rhythm. ‘Left. Left. Left my wife and forty-eight kids, right—’ ”

My steps are backwards from his counting, and I almost trip over myself, my feet are so leaden. “It didn’t work out. I was on my left.”

“Just put one foot in front of the other.”

I’m about to protest that I can’t, but it’s impossible to miss the logic of his command. We are in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the wilderness, and we’ve already hiked something like six miles. There’s no going back. Only forward.

Chase resumes the chant. “ ‘Right. Right. Right in the middle of the kitchen floor. Left. Left…’ ”

It’s more like stumbling than walking at this point, each step an act of faith that my foot will actually catch me. And somehow we keep moving forward, and then we emerge into a clearing and—

“Oh. Wow.”

There’s a small rocky beach and a crystal-blue lake, surrounded by spikes of mountain and dark green forest. The surface of the lake is still, and now that we’ve stopped clomping, I can hear all the forest sounds—the wind blowing through the trees, birds chirping, something that sounds like a frog.

He hoists his pack down and helps with mine.

“It’sbeautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

I tear my gaze from the lake to discover his eyes on my face. He takes a step toward me.

I back away. I’m filthy and disheveled. There are leaves in my hair. My gray Lady Gaga shirt is drenched in sweat and smeared with peanut butter and dirt. My socks are damp, my feet blistered—

“Don’t youdaretry to kiss me,” I warn. “I am so disgusting…”

“You are glorious.”

I think he might mean it.

“You’re crazy.”

“You hiked six miles. Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

“No.I’mcrazy, for agreeing to this.”

“Take off your shirt.”

I glare at him.

“Take off all your clothes.”

The bossiness is secretly very sexy, but no way am I admitting that. “Chase, I am the grossest I have ever been in my whole life. There isno way I am having sex with you.”

“We’re not having sex. Take off your clothes.”

When I hesitate, he does it for me, peeling me out of my smelly, awful shirt that I may have to burn in the campfire tonight, rolling down my shorts—because they are so wet and sticky that they won’t slide.

“That isnotcamping underwear.”

I’m wearing black boy shorts with lace trim and a black lace bra.

His voice is stern, but his eyes are approving. It’s a good combo on him.

“I like beautiful things. So sue me.”

---