time. Grin, take his arm, and swing him toward the nearby creek.

Ravi’s face goes a shade lighter from shock as you swing him, his too-easy smile giving way to wide eyes and a gasp. You release him, and he stumbles backwards -- one step, two steps -- tripping finally over a mossy root and falling ass-first into the creek. A loud splash punctuates the raucous laughter from above and from -- to your surprise -- Ravi, who holds his arms up to examine how the soaked-in water weighs down his sleeves.

“Touche, Lord Samantha,” he laughs. He brings his hands back down to splash in the creek, sending up droplets that glisten gold in the sunbeams. “Perhaps you can humble me with a hand up?”

Suspicious of his intentions, you step forward, but support yourself on the root he tripped on before offering your hand. He does not try to pull you into the creek. He pulls himself up on your collective strength smiling, and gestures to the trail you came from. “Much obliged. Care to escort me on my walk of shame?”

The people above finally simmer down, but not without a cheer for your good health and fortune as you walk away, side-by-side with Ravi. You walk far enough that, aside from the nearby creek and sounds of wildlife, the only thing you hear is the dripping of his clothes onto the dirt.

“I didn’t expect to find a firebrand so far north,” he says, stopping to wring out his sleeves. His loose, airy clothes release the water easily, leaving him barely damp. “I suppose I wouldn’t be bored with you.”

There’s a slight edge to that, a sliver of hurt pride beneath the bravado.

You cross your arms. “You put a knife to my throat.”

He raises his hands as if in surrender, relenting. “Just a bit of showmanship. Snakeriver loves its showmanship.”

“But you don’t.”

He shrugs, looks around the forest. You’re not sure what he sees, but the longer he watches, the wider he smiles. “I aim for a simpler way of life,” he says quietly. “Nothing wrong with a scuffle now and then, a loud tavern, a good drink, a game of cards gone so well in your favor you have to defend yourself from people accusing you of being a cheater.” His gaze grows sly.

You smirk. “Because you are a cheater.”

Caught, he grins. “Only in cards.” He shuffles a little, from foot to foot, but it’s not a nervous motion, just one of the perpetually-mobile. “I’m sorry about the ambush.”

“I’m sorry about the creek,” you say.

“Let’s be **** to each other next time,” he says, but his grin betrays the slightest edge of mischief. “No knives at the fete. Perhaps a conspicuously-placed banana peel or--”

“Pine tar in the punch,” you suggest.

“Well well, Lord Dragoon. You do impress.” You stare at each other a moment, and he slicks his hand through his wavy hair. “Can’t wait to see what the fete has in store.”

With an agreeing smile, you take your leave, wondering whether it’s time to retire or meet some of the other suitors.