My skin goes hot. My breath gets shallow. His thumb slides gently along the arch of my foot, checking for grit or tiny stones, and I have to look over his shoulder at the trees because looking at his hand wrapped around my foot feels wildly intimate.
“There,” he says. “Looks good.”
“Fantastic. My foot has passed inspection.”
“Other one.”
“Oh, we’re doing both?”
“You usually jump with both feet?”
“Unfortunately.”
I give him the other foot. His hand is warm, firm, careful. He checks quickly, but not carelessly, then sets my foot down on the sun-warmed rock. My toes curl instantly. Hudson looks at them.
I groan. “Can we please not make this a thing?”
“You’re making it a thing.”
“They’re butt-ugly.”
He looks up at me. There is no pity in his expression.
“Can they grip rock?”
I blink. “What?”
“Can they grip rock?”
“I mean… yes?”
“Can they balance you?”
“Yes.”
“Can they get you to the edge?”
My throat tightens, and I hate that. I hate that such a simple question lands somewhere deep inside me that has me wondering how it would feel to go over the edge with Hudson. And I’m not thinking about the cliff.
“Yes,” I say, quieter.
“Then they’re doing their job.”
I look down at my feet. Short, stubborn toes I have hidden in sandals, joked about, polished into respectability, and silently hated since I was old enough to compare myself to women who seemed delicate everywhere.
Hudson sees them as useful. It is a novel approach.
“Good,” he says, standing. “Now walk to the edge.”
My stomach flips. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You know, when people say they want more adventure in life, they usually mean wine tasting or ziplining. Maybe salsa dancing.”
His gaze dips to my mouth for less than half a second. It might as well be a lightning strike.
“You want salsa dancing instead?”
