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The ground suddenly turns squishy under my new boots. "Oh!" I take another step and feel the earth give way. "Definitely not solid!"

"That's what I was trying to tell you." Rowan's already moving toward us, looking thoroughly done with my existence. "It's a seasonal creek bed. The ground's still saturated from?—"

Rascal chooses this moment to spot something fascinating in the bushes. He lunges forward, yanking the leash from my surprised grip. I wobble, arms windmilling, and then?—

"Eep!"

Strong arms catch me as my feet slide out from under me. For a brief, mortifying moment, I'm pressed against Rowan's chest, my hands clutching his flannel shirt while my boots make sad squelching noises in the mud.

"Are you physically incapable of following directions?" He steadies me but doesn't immediately let go, probably because I'm still swaying like a drunk penguin. "Or do you just enjoy testing my reflexes?"

"Would you believe me if I said this was for research?" I try for an innocent smile. "You know, experiencing nature up close and personal?"

He makes that sound that's half groan, half laugh. "The only thing you're experiencing is mud. He looks over my shoulder and sighs heavily. "Your dog is tangled in brambles."

Sure enough, Rascal's managed to weave himself into what looks like the world's most complicated macramé project, his leash creating an impressive web through thorny bushes. He gives us his best 'I regret nothing' expression, tail still wagging.

"Oh, sweetie." I take a step toward him and nearly slip again.

"Stay." Rowan's command freezes me in place. "Don't move. At all. Let me handle this before you both end up requiring actual rescue."

I watch as he carefully picks his way through the boggy ground, moving with an ease that makes me deeply jealous. He reaches Rascal and starts gently working him free, those big hands impossibly careful with my tiny dog.

"You're kind of good at this," I observe, unable to help myself. "The whole rescuing thing. Very heroic. Like a rugged mountain version of a knight in shining?—"

"If you finish that sentence with 'armor,' I'm leaving you both out here."

"Flannel," I amend, grinning. "I was going to say flannel."

He shoots me a look that probably sends bears running for cover, but I notice he's still being incredibly gentle as he untangles Rascal's leash from the brambles.

"There should be a warning sign," I say, partly to distract myself from how attractive his competence is. "You know, 'Beware of Deceptively Squishy Ground' or 'Here There Be Mud' or?—"

"There is a sign." He points to a marker I definitely didn't notice earlier. "And a clearly marked path. Which you ignored."

"In my defense, the light really is better over here."

"The light." He finally frees Rascal, who immediately tries to chase a butterfly. "You left the safe, dry path for better light."

"I'm an artist! Light is important for capturing the magic of the forest. Why are you looking at me like that?"

His expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation. "I've known you for exactly three days, and I've already had to rescue you from getting lost, falling down a ravine, and now drowning in mud. How are you still alive?"

"Luck and charm?" I offer brightly. When his frown deepens, I add, "And apparently a very dedicated wilderness guide with excellent reflexes?"

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. "Back to the path. Now. And this time, try to remember that nature isn't actually a storybook setting. It's real, and occasionally dangerous, and—are you writing this down?"

I pause in my frantic scribbling. "Sorry! It's just that the way you said that was perfect. All growly and protective. My readers will love it when the forest guardian warns the young animals about?—"

"I'm not going in your book."

"You kind of already are." I hold up my sketch of a particularly grumpy-looking bear wearing flannel and hiking boots. "See? I captured your essence perfectly."

For a moment, I think I've finally pushed him too far. But then I catch it. That tiny quirk of his lips that he tries so hard to suppress.

"The path," he says firmly, holding out his hand to help me back to solid ground. "Now."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Forest Guardian, sir!" I salute with my pen, then promptly stumble again as my mud-caked boot slides.