Chapter 2 #2
“It has oats.”
“That’s still not breakfast.”
Her mouth tightens like she’s trying not to smile. “Are you always this bossy in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
I glance down at the water shoes. “Put those on. Trail’s rough past the cove.”
She obeys, but not before turning slightly away like I might be scandalized by the sight of her toes. I crouch before I can think better of it. She freezes.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Checking the soles.”
“While they’re on my feet?”
“That’s usually how soles work.”
Her skin is soft and warm beneath my fingers.
Her ankle is delicate in my grip, the arch of her foot high, her toes curling as if they can hide from me by sheer force of will.
I turn her foot slightly, checking the tread.
Good enough for the dry rock. Not perfect if moss is wet. I’ll keep her on the cleaner path.
“These will work,” I say.
She doesn’t answer. I look up. Her face is pink. Her green eyes are locked on me, wide and startled, as if no man has touched her ankle in broad daylight and lived to tell about it.
My body reacts like an idiot. I release her and stand. Distance. Keep distance. I’m not taking her to the cliffs with my head full of her skin.
“You nervous?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She frowns. “Good?”
“Nerves keep you careful.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m not here to comfort you.”
The second I say it, I know it’s not true.
Not fully. Because I want to comfort her.
I want to put my hands on her hips and tell her she doesn’t have to prove anything to me, the lake, gravity, or whoever made her feel like the only choices in life were safe or sorry.
Instead, I adjust the strap of the first-aid kit across my shoulder and nod toward the trail.
“I’m here to teach you where to step.”
She looks toward the water, then back at me. There it is again -- that fear teetering against the want. The combination is a dangerous thing on a woman like her.
“You can still change your mind,” I say.
Her chin lifts another inch. “I know.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She swallows. For a second, I think she’ll give me some easy answer. Vacation. Bucket list. Curiosity.
Instead, she says, “Because I’m tired of promising myself I’ll do things later.”
I know a woman’s confession when I hear one, even if she doesn’t mean to offer it. I keep my eyes on Layla.
Later -- that word has killed more dreams than fear ever did.
I nod once. “Then we go slow.”
Layla lets out a breath. “Okay.”
“And you listen.”
“I’m a teacher, Hudson. I’m very good at listening.”
“Teachers are usually better at talking.”
Her eyes narrow. “You really do enjoy being irritating, don’t you?”
“Only when it works.”
She makes a sound that might be annoyance and might be a laugh. Either way, it loosens something in her shoulders. That’s good. A scared body is a stiff body. Stiff bodies make bad jumps.
I start down the trail, and after a second, she follows.
The path curves along the lake, still damp with morning.
Birds move in the brush. Sunlight flashes between pine trunks and throws pieces of gold across Layla’s hair every time I glance back.
I should not keep glancing back. But I do, noticing where she steps, the way her hands clutch the straps of her backpack, the sway of her hips.
It’s enough to make a man forget all kinds of practical things, so I force myself to focus on the trail.
“Loose rock near the bend,” I call out to her. “And watch the exposed root just before the rise.”
Behind me, Layla clears her throat. “So, is this your job?”
“One of them. I help keep the cabins running in summer. Docks, trails, kayaks, firewood, safety checks. Guide work when people request it. Repair work when something breaks.”
“That sounds like several jobs.”
“It is.”
“And the rest of the year?”
I step over the root and turn, holding out a hand before she reaches it. She looks at my hand like it’s a dare all by itself. Then she takes it. Her fingers are small in mine. I help her over the root and let go before I want to.
“Depends on the season,” I say. “Winter work down south most years. Trail contracts. Water recreation. Outfitting. Repairs. Whatever pays and keeps me outside.”
“You travel a lot?”
“Every six months or so.”
“That sounds…”
I wait. She searches for the word. Most women say exciting at first, then unstable later.
Layla says, “Free.”
I stop walking. She nearly runs into me. For one moment, neither of us moves.
Free.
Layla said the word quietly, almost to herself, like the concept tastes unfamiliar.
That is the exact moment I know this woman understands a big part of what makes me tick. It could be she craves some sort of freedom she’s never experienced before. Maybe that reveals why she wants to jump. I turn back toward the trail before she can read too much on my face.
“It can be,” I say.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“No.”
She goes quiet behind me. I don’t explain.
People who don’t live this way think movement means you never get lonely.
That’s not true. Sometimes movement is the only thing that keeps loneliness from catching you by the throat.
But I’m not saying that to a woman I met yesterday -- especially one who looks like she should be kissed slowly on a porch swing by a man who knows how to stay around.
The trail rises, and the cove begins to show through the trees. The hidden swimming hole is quiet this early. No teenagers. No bachelor parties. No cheering. Just rock, water, morning light, and the ledge across the way waiting like a promise.
Layla steps beside me. Her breath changes when she sees it.
“Still want to do this?” I ask.
She stares at the water.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I see it all -- the fear and the want right there in her face. I look at the safe ledge, then at the dark water below it, already calculating angles, depth, wind, her size, her nerves, how far I need to be when she surfaces.
I tell myself this is just a lesson. Just one jump with a female tourist passing through. But when she turns those green eyes on me, I already know I’m lying.
I nod toward the ledge.
“Then stay close,” I say. “And when I tell you where to put your feet, you trust me.”
Layla swallows, then gives me one small nod.
“I trust you.”
She says it like she means the cliff. I hear it like something else. Something I want and have no business wanting. I turn away and start toward the rocks before I do something stupid, like touch her again just because she’s close enough.
Behind me, Layla follows.
We’re approaching the edge -- the point where people risk everything for the feeling of exhilaration, or the edge they approach and shy away from.
Which one will Layla be?