Chapter 5
Hudson
The second jump is worse. Not for Layla -- for me.
The first time she jumped, fear drove her over the edge.
I saw it in every tight line of her body, in the way she held her breath, in the way her bare toes curled against the rock like they were trying to talk sense into the rest of her.
She jumped anyway. That should have been enough to impress me. It did.
But the second time is the one that gets under my skin. Because this time she doesn’t look at me like I’m the reason she’s brave. That’s what knocks the breath out of me.
Layla Whitman jumps because she chooses to.
We hit the water together. Cold closes over my head, familiar and sharp. I drop deeper than she does, then kick up fast, turning toward the burst of bubbles where she went under.
She surfaces with a gasp, hair plastered to her cheek, eyes wide, mouth open. Then she laughs like something locked away finally found a way loose.
“You did it again,” I say.
She wipes water from her eyes, still laughing. “I did it again.”
Her smile is bright enough to make the whole damn cove look different.
I’ve brought plenty of people out here -- tourists, locals, teenagers trying to show off, groomsmen with too much beer in them, women who wanted an adventure they could post online before lunch.
I’ve heard screaming, swearing, and bragging.
I’ve seen people jump for attention, jump because someone dared them, jump because they thought fear was something to beat into submission.
Layla jumps like she’s rescuing herself. That affects me.
A beautiful woman is easy to want. A wounded woman is easy to protect. A woman who is right in front of me becoming herself? That’s intoxicating.
I nod toward the lower rocks. “Come on. We need to get back before I’m late.”
Her smile falters a little. “Late?”
“I’ve got a kayak loop at ten.”
“Oh.” She glances toward the ledge, then back at me. “Right. You have actual work. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
I start swimming toward the sloped rock shelf.
She follows. Her feet kick beneath the surface -- useful little things getting her where she needs to go.
She doesn’t see herself clearly. She’s worried about her feet and probably a million other little things.
She’s perfect just the way she is. I know better than to tell her that.
Women don’t usually believe men who say things too soon.
And Layla is not the kind of woman I should be trying to make believe anything.
I reach the shelf first and climb out, water running off my shoulders and down my chest. When I turn, she is close enough to reach. I hold out my hand. She looks at it for half a heartbeat, then takes it. Every damn time she does that, something in me tightens. Trust should not be this tempting.
I pull her from the water. Her bare feet land on the rock and she wobbles.
My hands go to her waist before I think better of it.
She’s wet but soft -- curvy under wet clothes.
Her tank top clings to her breasts. Her shorts cling to her hips and thighs.
Water slides down her throat, gathers at the hollow beneath it, and disappears under fabric I have no business noticing.
I should let go, but I don’t right away.
The cove is quiet around us. No teenagers this time. No one to interrupt the way her fingers lightly catch my forearm, steadying herself, or the way her green eyes lift to mine as if she can feel the same heat gathering under my skin.
Layla is thirty-seven, a divorced teacher, here for a short time.
I am twenty-eight. Seasonal. Restless. Leaving before winter, same as always. All of that should matter more than the way she looks at me.
It doesn’t.
I release her and step back. “You good?”
She blinks, then nods. “I’m good.”
“Stay here,” I say. She looks confused as I take off running up the path to where we left our belongings. Within minutes I return with her water shoes.
I hand them over. “Put these on for the trail back.”
Layla slips on the second shoe and stands. I turn toward the trail. “Come on. I need to check that branch near the northern cove before the kayak group goes out.”
“You’re doing that now?”
“On the way back.”
“Of course you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re very…” She searches for a word as she follows me onto the path. “Responsible.”
I glance back at her. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised.” She steps carefully over a root, one hand brushing a tree trunk for balance. “Maybe I am. A little.”
The trail narrows, so I slow my pace. Layla walks behind me, close enough that I hear her breathing begin to even out after the climb.
Morning heat is starting to rise now, pulling the sharp coolness out of the air. By noon, the rocks will be too hot in places and every guest at the cabins will decide they need towels, ice, sunscreen, directions, or rescuing from a problem they created by ignoring a sign.
“Your work seems like a lot of checking things before people need them,” she says.
That makes me look back. Most people don’t catch that. They see the visible parts -- the kayaks, the shirtless work, the cliff, the rope, the rescue when something goes wrong. Layla sees the before.
“Better than waiting until after,” I say.
“That sounds like a teacher answer.”
“Maybe teachers and lake guys have more in common than you think.”
That earns a smile.
“Maybe they do.”
We reach the bend where the trail drops closer to the water. A thick branch from the last storm is caught between two rocks near the edge of the cove, half-floating, half-submerged. Not a problem yet, but if the wind shifts, it could drift into the kayak route or the swimming shallows.
Layla stops several feet back. “Do you need help?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
She folds her arms. “That was very automatic.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I didn’t ask if you had it. I asked if you needed help.”
I glance at her. She lifts her brows. Damn woman.
The branch isn’t heavy, just awkward. I could clear it faster alone, but that’s not really the point.
I’ve spent most of my adult life doing things alone because alone means nobody complains about the pace, the weather, the risk, the leaving.
Alone is efficient. It’s also quiet. Too damn quiet sometimes.
I nod toward a smaller limb caught against the rock. “You can hold that end in place while I pull.”
Her face brightens like I’ve given her a gift instead of a wet stick. She steps closer, careful on the slick stones. “Here?”
“Not there. Moss is slick.” I point. “Put your foot on the dry patch.”
She obeys. A moment later, we work the branch free. It takes less than two minutes. Nothing dramatic or difficult. Her hands get wet. Mine get scraped once against a rock. The branch comes loose, and I haul it up onto the bank.
Layla pushes damp hair from her face with the back of her wrist. “There.”
I look at her. She looks proud. Not because clearing a branch is some grand accomplishment, but because she helped. Because I let her. That realization irritates me and softens me at the same time.
“You’re smiling,” she says.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m squinting.”
“At me?”
“The sun’s behind you.”
She turns and looks. The sun is absolutely not behind her.
When she faces me again, her smile has gone smug. “Liar.”
“Careful.”
“Or what?”
The words leave her mouth before she can think through them. I see the moment she hears herself. Her eyes widen a little. Color climbs her throat.
Or what.
A thousand answers move through my head, none of them safe.
Or I’ll kiss that smug look right off your mouth.
Or I’ll put my hands on your hips and show you how careful I’m not.
Or I’ll forget every reason this should stop at one jump and one morning.
“Or you’ll be late for lunch,” I say.
Her shoulders drop in what might be relief and might be disappointment. I don’t ask which. We keep walking.
By the time we reach the main dock near Eight Pines Cabins, the place has started waking up.
A little boy in dinosaur swim trunks sprints across the grass with a towel trailing behind him like a cape.
His mother calls for him to slow down. Two older men stand near the kayak rack, arguing good-naturedly over which paddle belongs to whom.
Kelsey is on the office porch with a clipboard. She spots me and points to cabin four.
“Bumper rope,” she calls.
“I know.”
“Board by the kayak rack.”
“I know.”
“Morrison loop at ten.”
“I know.”
Layla looks between us, amused. “Is this how the two of you communicate? She lists problems and you growl?”
“I don’t growl.”
Kelsey snorts from the porch. Layla’s eyes dance. I should be annoyed, but I’m not. I lead her to the dock and grab the replacement rope from the storage bench. The loose bumper hangs half in the water, thumping gently against the side of the dock with each ripple.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell her.
“I know.”
She sits on the edge of the dock anyway, far enough from where I’m working to be out of the way, close enough that I’m aware of her with every breath. I kneel, cut the old rope loose, and thread the new one through the metal ring. Layla watches my hands. I notice because I am not dead.
“You always this interested in rope?” I ask.
Her gaze snaps up. “I was watching the knot.”
“Sure.”
“I was.”
“What kind of knot is it?”
She pauses.
I wait.
“A… dock knot.”
A laugh breaks out of me.
She points at me. “That one was your fault.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. You ambushed me with nautical vocabulary.”
“Nautical?”
“Lake vocabulary. Outdoor vocabulary. Whatever language this is.”
I finish the knot, pull it tight, and give the bumper a hard tug. Solid.
“This is a cleat hitch,” I say.
She leans forward. “That sounds made up.”
“It isn’t.”
“Teach me.”
The request is simple. I look at her hands resting in her lap. Small hands. Teacher hands. Capable hands. Hands that probably tie shoes and open juice boxes and smooth little heads when children are crying. Hands that could learn my knots. My ropes. My life.