Chapter 6
Layla
My hair is still damp from the cove, though I’ve changed into dry clothes.
Denim shorts. A soft yellow T-shirt. Sandals.
My water shoes are drying on the porch rail like evidence from a crime scene.
The crime being that I jumped off a cliff twice before nine in the morning and then almost let a younger mountain man kiss me beside a kayak rack.
I press my fingers to my lips and immediately tell myself to stop it.
In a new place, the old rules do not know where to find you right away.
That has to be the explanation, because I am still Layla Whitman.
Still thirty-seven and divorced. Still a woman who cannot have children.
Still a woman whose marriage ended quietly, not explosively, which somehow made it harder to explain.
Still a woman who married safe and discovered safety could starve you slowly if nothing inside it ever surprised you.
But I am also a woman who jumped from the cliff barefoot… twice.
Hudson was there when I surfaced, and for one wild, impossible moment, I laughed like I had never been hurt in my life. Then he nearly kissed me. Or I nearly kissed him. Or we nearly kissed each other, which is worse because it means there is mutual blame.
From my porch, I can see pieces of the dock through the trees. Hudson is there with the Morrison family. The little boy in the blue life jacket is sitting in the front of a kayak, talking with his whole body while Hudson crouches beside him, adjusting the straps across his small chest.
I cannot hear what they are saying, but I can see the boy’s hands waving. Hudson nods solemnly, as if whatever the child is explaining deserves full respect. That’s surprising.
I expected Hudson to be good with cliffs and rugged outdoor things that make sense for a man with muscles, sun-browned skin, and dark hair that refuses to behave. I did not expect him to be patient with children.
Not because he seems unkind. He doesn’t.
He seems the opposite of unkind. But there is a particular kind of gentleness required with children, and I recognize it immediately.
The ability to lower yourself without shrinking your authority.
The ability to listen to a long, winding story about a frog, a sandwich, or a blue life jacket as though the fate of the world might be hidden somewhere in the telling.
Hudson has that.
The boy says something else. Hudson’s head tips back, and even from this distance, I can tell he is laughing. My stomach does something foolish.
“No,” I tell it. My stomach ignores me.
This is risky. Not the obvious kind. Not slick rock or hidden shelf danger. Hudson taught me how to avoid that. This is the kind where a man looks at all the parts of you that feel complicated and makes your heart start building reckless little plans.
I stand abruptly and enter the cabin. My phone sits on the small kitchen counter where I left it, and the screen lights when I get close.
One message from Marla, my friend back home.
The woman who bought me the floppy post-divorce awakening hat and threatened to drive me to Cady Springs herself if I tried to cancel.
Marla: Proof of life, please. Did you arrive? Are you relaxing? Have you done anything wild yet?
I glance toward the porch and the dock where Hudson is launching kayaks.
Me: I jumped off a cliff.
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then appear again.
Marla: I’m sorry, WHAT?
I smile despite myself.
Me: Safely. With a guide. Sort of.
Marla: Sort of? Layla Whitman, do not “sort of” anything involving cliffs.
Me: He knows what he’s doing.
I stare at that sentence for three full seconds before sending it. He knows what he’s doing. Unfortunately, he does. With water, ropes, and children. With my stupid toes and almost kissing me.
Marla responds almost instantly.
Marla: HE?
I put the phone face down on the counter. Nope. I am not ready to explain Hudson to anyone. I cannot even explain Hudson to myself.
For the next hour, I try to behave like a normal woman on vacation.
I unpack the rest of my suitcase. I put my books on the nightstand.
I hang my sundresses in the tiny closet.
I sit in one of the porch chairs with a novel open in my lap and read the same paragraph six times without absorbing a single word.
A laugh carries from the lake. His laugh.
I close the book. “Fine.”
To be clear, I do not go down to the dock because of Hudson.
I go because I am on vacation, the lake is lovely, and sitting on a porch pretending not to look toward a man is deeply pathetic.
Also, I need more ice. The fact that the ice machine is near the office and the office is near the dock is not my fault.
I grab my ice bucket, and follow the path through the trees. The day has warmed quickly. Sunlight spills across the grass around the cabins. Families move between porches and the lake.
Near the kayak rack, Hudson is unloading paddles while the Morrison family laughs their way toward the cabins. The little boy in blue is walking backward, still talking to him.
“You said traffic cones are alive,” the boy calls.
“I said orange keeps traffic cones alive,” Hudson answers.
“But blue kept me alive too.”
“Because it fit.”
“So blue is better.”
“Today, blue was better.”
The boy seems satisfied and runs after his family.
Hudson turns back toward the kayaks. His shirt is on now, which should help, but it doesn’t.
The fabric clings damply to his shoulders and chest, making me far too aware of what I know is underneath.
His dark hair is pushed back, still messy from the lake.
His skin is sun-warmed, his forearms flexing as he lifts one end of a kayak and slides it into place.
Then he sees me and his gaze locks on mine. The morning rushes back so fast I can almost feel his hand at my waist again.
I lift the ice bucket. “Just getting some ice.”
He comes toward me and takes the ice bucket from my hand.
“I can carry my own ice,” I say.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep needing to hear it.”
That shuts me up, which is unfair. He walks toward the office path, bucket in hand, and after a second I follow because apparently my self-respect has decided to take the morning off.
Kelsey is standing on the porch with a clipboard. She looks from Hudson to me, then to the ice bucket, then back to Hudson. Her expression is entirely too informed.
“Layla,” she says brightly. “How was your morning?”
“Educational.”
Hudson makes a sound that could be a cough. Kelsey’s eyes dance and I feel my face flush. Kelsey looks down at her clipboard, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
“Ice machine is around the side.”
“Thank you,” I say, then flee with as much dignity as possible.
Hudson follows. Of course he follows. He has my bucket.
The ice machine groans when he presses the lever, cubes clattering into the metal container. For several seconds, that is the only sound between us.
Then he says, “You should be careful with responses like that.”
My pulse jumps. “Responses like what?”
He releases the lever and turns to face me. “You know what.”
The space beside the office is shaded, cooler than the grass near the lake.
Pine branches move overhead. The hum of the ice machine fades into the background, and I should make a joke.
I am good at jokes when I’m nervous. Polite jokes.
Teacher jokes. Mildly self-deprecating jokes designed to keep people from seeing the soft parts.
But Hudson has a terrible habit of looking like he already sees them.
So I choose something else. Truth, maybe.
“I’m not used to this,” I say.
His gaze sharpens. “This?”
“You.”
He does not move, and I immediately regret everything.
“That was not meant to sound dramatic,” I say.
“It didn’t.”
“It felt dramatic.”
“It felt honest.”
There is that word again. Honest.
Before Cady Springs, I would have said honesty was easy.
Tell the truth. Don’t cheat. Don’t lie. Don’t make promises you never intend to keep.
But now I think maybe honesty is harder than that.
Maybe it is also admitting when the life you chose is killing something in you.
Admitting that a man’s age bothers you mostly because you want him anyway.
Admitting that you are less afraid of the jump than of how alive you felt when he held you afterward.
I look down at my sandals. My toes are somewhat hidden, thank God. Hudson notices anyway.
His voice lowers. “You’re doing it again.”
I sigh. “My toes are minding their own business.”
“No, you’re hiding.”
“I am standing beside an ice machine in broad daylight.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. That is the problem. I reach for the bucket because I need something to do with my hands.
“Maybe hiding is underrated.”
“Maybe.”
That surprises me. He lets me take the bucket this time. For a moment, we just stand there. Then a voice calls Hudson’s name from the dock. Someone needs something. Of course someone needs something. Hudson’s world seems to be held together by his willingness to notice things before they break.
He glances toward the lake, then back at me. “I’ve got a couple of things to finish.”
“Of course.”
He steps closer, just enough that I feel the warmth of him. “I’m taking a supply run up to Willow Falls later. Trail check, mostly. Small waterfall. Swimming hole. Not a cliff.”
My heart gives one hard beat. “Oh.”
“You want to come?”
Every reasonable part of my brain sits up straight.
No, thank you, it says. You have already done your reckless thing for the day.
You almost kissed this man twice. Do not go wandering to a hidden waterfall with him like a woman in a paperback who has never seen a warning sign. The rest of me leans forward.
“What time?”
His mouth curves like he heard both parts. “Four.”
“Is this a guided activity?”
“No.”
“Work?”
“Some.”
“Adventure?”
“Depends on your definition.”
“Does it involve jumping off anything?”
“No.”
I relax.
He adds, “Probably.”
My eyes narrow. “Hudson.”
His smile deepens, and there are the younger edges of him again. Not immaturity or carelessness. Just that quick flash of mischief beneath all the competence. Enough to remind me he is twenty-eight, and I am old enough to know better, and apparently neither fact is saving me.
“You can say no,” he says.
“I know.”
“But?”
I grip the handle of the ice bucket. But I want to say yes.
But I like how I feel when I’m near him.
But his life sounds impossible and free, and mine has been possible and suffocating.
But he almost kissed me, and I have spent the entire morning trying not to imagine what would have happened if no one had interrupted.
“But I’ll come,” I say.
His expression shifts. Not triumph. Not surprise exactly. Something quieter.
“Four,” he says.
“Four.”
Someone calls his name again. He looks toward the dock, then back at me. “I’ll meet you at your cabin.”
“My cabin?”
“You want to meet at the office so Kelsey can stare at us?”
I glance toward the porch, where Kelsey is absolutely pretending not to stare.
“No.”
“Then your cabin.”
The way he says it should not feel intimate. It does.
I nod. “Okay.”
Hudson turns and walks back toward the dock, leaving me beside the ice machine like a woman who has just agreed to something much bigger than a waterfall. Because I have. I know I have. By the time I make it back to cabin six, my phone is buzzing on the counter again.
Marla: You cannot text “HE” and then disappear. Details. Immediately.
Me: His name is Hudson.
Marla: Is he hot?
I glance toward the lake through the window. Hudson is back on the dock, kneeling beside a little girl whose paddle appears to be stuck under a kayak strap. He is patient again. Broad-shouldered. Dark-haired. Younger. Strong. Safe in ways that are not safe at all.
Me: Unfortunately.
Marla: How unfortunately?
I think of his hand around my ankle. His voice below the ledge. His almost-kiss. His answer when I asked if he ever got tired of feeling like he didn’t have one home to go to.
Me: Very.
Three dots appear.
Marla: Good. You deserve very.
I stare at those words longer than I expect.
Maybe that is what I came here for. Not Hudson, exactly.
I did not know he existed when I packed my suitcase with three books and too many apologies folded into the seams. But something very.
A very blue lake. A very reckless jump. A very dangerous younger man who looks at me like I am not a failed version of any life, but a woman standing on the edge of her own.