Chapter 7
Layla
At three-thirty, I start getting ready, which is absurd because Hudson said trail check, small waterfall, swimming hole, not a date.
Not a date. I repeat this while changing clothes three times. The sundress is too much. The denim shorts from this morning are still damp. The black athletic shorts make me look like I am trying to be someone who says words like cardio on purpose.
I settle on soft navy shorts, a pale pink tank, and the open blue shirt from earlier because it seems practical without admitting I care.
Then I put on my water shoes for the trail.
I also pack sandals. And a towel. And sunscreen.
And a granola bar, which I hide at the bottom of my backpack because Hudson does not need more ammunition.
At four exactly, a knock sounds on my cabin door. My pulse answers before I do. I open it.
Hudson stands on the porch with one hand braced against the doorframe.
He has changed too. Dry shirt, dark green this time.
Cargo shorts. Hiking boots. A small pack slung over one shoulder.
His hair is still unruly, his blue eyes still impossible, his mouth still something I should not be thinking about.
His gaze moves over me. Not rudely, but slowly enough to let me accuse him of anything. But enough. Enough that my skin warms everywhere his eyes touch.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
His mouth curves.
I lift my chin. “But I’m coming anyway.”
“That works.”
I step onto the porch and lock the door behind me. The sky above the trees is bright, but in the distance, beyond the far ridge, a line of darker clouds gathers like a secret. I notice them. So does Hudson.
“Storm?” I ask.
“Maybe later.”
“Maybe?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Spoken like a man who jumps off cliffs before breakfast.”
“Spoken like a woman who lived to do the same.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling when I do it.
We start down the cabin path together. This time, I do not walk behind him because I’m afraid of where to step. I walk beside him.
The trail toward Willow Falls begins past the main cabins, curves through pines, then rises into thicker woods where the lake slips in and out of view between the trees.
The air changes as we climb. Warmer in the open places.
Cooler beneath the branches. The scent of pine deepens, mixing with damp earth and sun-warmed stone.
Hudson moves easily, but he slows his stride to match mine without making a show of it. I notice. Of course I notice. Every woman notices when a man makes room for her without making her feel like she is slowing him down.
For a while, we walk without talking, and it is not awkward. That surprises me. Silence with Harold was always filled with the soft clicking of his keyboard, the rustle of tax documents, the muted television, the hum of appliances in a house where we had both run out of things to say.
Silence with Hudson feels different. It feels like being allowed to listen. Birds. Leaves. His boots on the trail. My own breath. The distant hush of water somewhere ahead.
Eventually, I say, “What is Willow Falls?”
“Small waterfall up the ridge. Feeds into a creek that runs down toward the lake. There’s a pool beneath it, but it’s shallow this time of year.”
“Safe?”
He glances at me. “I wouldn’t take you if it wasn’t.”
I believe him. That may be the most alarming part of all.
“Do you bring guests there often?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
My pulse jumps. “No?”
“It’s not part of the cabin activities.”
“Then why are you taking me?”
He steps over a fallen branch, then turns and holds out his hand. I take it. This time, I do not pause first. His fingers close around mine as he helps me over the branch.
“Because I thought you’d like it,” he says.
My foot lands on the other side of the branch. His hand stays around mine for one extra second. Or maybe mine stays in his. It is hard to assign blame when neither of us moves. Then he lets go because he is decent, or because he is trying very hard to be.
The trail narrows after that, forcing me behind him. I watch the flex of his shoulders beneath his shirt and silently ask every sensible part of myself why it has abandoned me in my hour of need.
No answer. Typical.
The sound of water grows louder. Not lake water. Moving water. Rushing. Falling. Hitting stone. The trees open suddenly, and Willow Falls appears.
It is not enormous, not some grand tourist waterfall with railings, warning signs and a gift shop selling magnets.
It is smaller, tucked into the mountain like a secret.
Water spills over dark rock in silver ribbons, dropping into a clear pool surrounded by moss, ferns, and flat stones that look made for sitting.
Sunlight filters through the trees overhead, catching the mist.
For a moment, I forget to speak. Hudson stands beside me, watching my face instead of the waterfall. I can feel him doing it.
“You were right,” I say softly.
“About?”
“I like it.”
His expression shifts. That quiet thing again. The one that looks almost like pleasure before he hides it.
He nods toward the pool. “Water’s cold. Rocks are slick near the edge. Don’t step where it’s green.”
“Anything else?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Only for a second. But I feel it.
“Probably.”
The air changes again. I wish I understood how he does that. How a man can say one ordinary word and make it feel like a hand sliding along my spine. I turn away first, because one of us has to remember we are not here to finish what almost happened beside the kayak rack.
Hudson walks toward the pool, crouching to inspect something near the rocks. I watch him clear a small branch from the water flow, test a damp stone with his boot, and scan the surrounding slope where runoff has dragged gravel across the path.
He moves through the space like he knows it intimately. Like he belongs everywhere and nowhere.
“Do you miss this place when you leave?” I ask.
He pauses with one hand on a rock. “Yes.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “Then why leave?”
He straightens slowly. “Because I miss leaving when I stay.”
This is the truth of him. Not immaturity or some younger man refusing responsibility because freedom sounds sexier than commitment. It is deeper than that. Movement is how he breathes.
I understand that more than I should. Not because I have lived it, but because I haven’t. Because staying in one place, one marriage, one role, one quiet version of myself nearly erased me.
“Does that make sense?” he asks.
I look at him. “Yes.”
The single word seems to hit him harder than I expect. He takes one step toward me. Then another. The waterfall rushes beside us. Mist touches my skin. Somewhere overhead, thunder rolls so faintly I almost convince myself I imagined it. Hudson looks up. So do I. The darker clouds have moved closer.
“That was quick,” I say.
“Mountain weather.”
“Should we head back?”
He studies the sky, then the trail. “Soon.”
Hudson looks at the pool. “You want to get in first?”
I laugh. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether this is a trick question where you tell me the safest way into freezing mountain water is to surrender my dignity.”
“No trick.”
“No cliff?”
“No cliff.”
“No jumping?”
“Not unless you count stepping off that rock.”
I follow his gaze to a flat stone barely a foot above the pool.
“Daring,” I say.
His mouth curves. “You survived bigger.”
“Yes, and I’d like a plaque.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Another low rumble of thunder rolls beyond the ridge, and Hudson’s smile fades.
“Five minutes,” he says.
“In the water?”
“If you want.”
I look at the pool, then at him, then at the sky.
A responsible woman would say no. A responsible woman would suggest we head back immediately before the storm catches us.
A responsible woman would not strip down to her bathing suit at a hidden waterfall with a younger man who has already almost kissed her twice in one day.
I am so tired of being only responsible.
“I want,” I say.
Hudson goes very still. Two words. Not even the whole truth. Still, his eyes darken like he hears everything beneath them.
I turn before I lose my nerve and unbutton the blue shirt, folding it carefully onto a dry rock. My hands tremble a little when I reach for the hem of my tank. This is not seduction. This is swimming. Technically.
I keep my back to him as I strip down to the black one-piece I wore beneath my clothes, but I feel his attention like sunlight. Warm. Intense. Everywhere.
When I turn around, Hudson is looking at the trees. Too deliberately.
It makes me smile. “You’re very focused on nature.”
His jaw works once. “Trying to be.”
My smile slips into something softer. There is power in that. Not the kind I expected. Not the power of being younger or prettier or less scarred by life than I am. It’s the power of knowing a man wants to look and watching him choose respect anyway.
Hudson pulls off his shirt, and my thoughts scatter. Fine. Respect is lovely, but I am only human.
His body is all hard planes and sun-browned skin, muscle shifting as he drops the shirt beside his pack. I saw him shirtless this morning. Yesterday too. Apparently repetition does not build immunity.
He steps into the pool first, water reaching mid-thigh. He sucks in a breath.
I grin. “Cold?”
His eyes cut to mine. “Refreshing.”
“Liar.”
“Careful.”
“Or what?”
The words are quieter this time. Not accidental. Hudson holds my gaze, and the waterfall fills the silence between us. Thunder murmurs again, closer now. He extends one hand.
I step onto the flat rock at the edge of the pool. My bare toes curl against the stone, but this time I do not hide them. Hudson notices. His expression changes in a way that makes my throat ache. Then I gasp as I take his hand and step down into the cold.
Hudson’s free hand catches my waist before I slip. For one breathless second, I am pressed against him again. Water around my thighs. His hand at my waist. My palm on his bare shoulder.
Cold everywhere except where he touches me.
“You good?” he asks.
His voice is rougher than usual.
“I’m good,” I whisper.
The thunder cracks above us, louder this time, and rain begins all at once. Not a gentle sprinkle. A sudden summer spill through the trees, cold drops striking my shoulders, my face, the surface of the pool. The waterfall roars louder as if answering.
Hudson looks up, then back toward the trail. “We need to move.”
I should be disappointed. I am disappointed, which is ridiculous because weather is not personal. Hudson keeps one hand on my waist as he guides me back to the rock. We climb out fast, grabbing clothes and packs as rain darkens the stone around us. I put the water shoes on.
“Can we make it back?” I ask.
“Not before the heavy part hits.”
“Heavy part?”
As if summoned by his words, rain turns harder, drumming through leaves and splashing into the pool. Hudson grabs his shirt and my blue overshirt, stuffing both into his pack with quick, efficient movements.
“There’s an old maintenance cabin up the slope.”
“A cabin?”
“Small. Dry. Used to store trail tools.”
“That sounds like the beginning of either a horror movie or a romance novel.”
His gaze flashes to mine, and heat cuts through the rain.
“Layla.”
“What? It does.”
Another crack of thunder rolls overhead.
He holds out his hand. “Come on.”
I take it, and we run. At least, I do not run gracefully.
My water shoes slap against mud. Rain plasters my hair to my face.
Hudson keeps hold of my hand, slowing when I need him to, pulling me forward when the trail steepens.
Branches scrape my arms. Laughter bursts out of me once, wild and breathless, because apparently this is my life now.
Cliffs in the morning. Waterfalls in the afternoon. Running through a mountain storm with a man who makes safe feel like something entirely different than I thought it was.
The maintenance cabin appears through the trees, small and weathered, tucked beneath a rocky overhang. Hudson reaches it first, yanks open the door, and pulls me inside.
Dimness closes around us. Rain pounds the roof. For a second, neither of us speaks.
The cabin smells like old wood and a bit musty. A narrow window lets in gray light. Shelves line one wall, stacked with coiled rope, trail markers, a folded tarp, and a rusted lantern. There is barely enough room for both of us to stand without touching. Which means, of course, we are touching.
My back is near the closed door. Hudson stands in front of me, breathing hard, rain running down his face and neck. His shirt is still off. My bathing suit is soaked. My blue overshirt is in his pack. Water slides down my arms, my chest, my legs.
His gaze drops, then jerks back to my face. The restraint in that single movement does something terrible to me. Outside, thunder shakes the little cabin. Inside, Hudson’s hand is still wrapped around mine. Slowly, he lets go.
“Storm should pass fast,” he says.
His voice is rough.
I nod. “Good.”
Neither of us moves. The space between us is almost nothing.
I'm not on a ledge, but I feel like I could fall into something.
And I may not have a choice about it. I hear our breath and feel his blue eyes on mine.
There's a terrible, beautiful realization that the safest place I know right now is alone with the sexiest man I have ever wanted … and that's risky.