“Only what matters.”
“My toes do not matter.”
“They do if they’re about to push you off a cliff.”
I open my mouth. Again, nothing comes out. That is horribly inconvenient because I had several arguments prepared, all of them excellent. Now every single one has been ruined by the image of my toes being responsible for bravery.
Hudson steps toward a flat stretch of rock several feet back from the ledge. “Sit.”
I give him a look. “Do you always issue commands like you’re training rescue dogs?”
“No. Dogs usually listen faster.”
“I am not laughing at that.”
“You almost did.”
“I did not.”
He waits. I last three seconds before a reluctant laugh escapes me. His eyes warm, and that is almost worse than the smile. With as much dignity as a woman can manage before being told to expose her troll feet to a man who looks like a wilderness calendar model, I sit on the rock and unfasten one water shoe. The air touches my foot.
Ridiculous. That’s what this is. Completely ridiculous.
I am thirty-seven years old. I have survived infertility appointments, divorce paperwork, indoor recess during a thunderstorm, and one memorable winter concert where a first grader vomited into a basket of jingle bells.
Bare toes should not undo me. But when I slip off the second shoe, I still tuck one foot beneath the other. Hudson notices.
“Layla.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was.”
“At least you’re honest.”
He crouches in front of me, and my pulse trips over itself. This close, he looks even younger and older at the same time. Younger in the smooth confidence and sun-browned strength of his body. Older in his eyes. In the way he watches the world like it has tried to hurt people before and he has made it his private business to stop it when he can. He holds out his hand.
I stare at it. “What now?”
“Foot.”
“No.”
“Layla.”
“My feet are not emotionally prepared for your inspection.”
“I’m checking for cuts. Not judging a beauty pageant.”
“That is exactly what someone would say before judging a beauty pageant.”
His mouth twitches, but his hand stays open.
With a sigh dramatic enough for a stage production, I place my right foot in his hand. His fingers close around my heel. The contact is practical. My body does not receive it that way.
