“I’ll be there.”
Three words. Simple, but dangerous as anything.
Before I can answer, he jumps. No running start. No drama. He simply bends his knees, pushes off, and drops through the air like his body knows exactly how to belong to the space between rock and water.
For one suspended second, Hudson is all muscle and sunlight. Then he hits the cove cleanly. Water explodes around him. I gasp.
He disappears beneath the surface, and my heart lurches before I can remind myself this is a thing he does. A thing he has probably done hundreds of times. Then he surfaces, dark hair slicked back, water streaming down his face.
He looks up at me and grins. Oh no. Oh, that is unfair.
“You’re alive,” I call down.
“Disappointed?”
“Still deciding.”
His laugh echoes off the rocks, low and rough, and I feel it in places no laugh should reach. He swims a few yards back, giving me a clear path. Then his expression shifts again.
Hudson’s playfulness disappears.
“Your turn,” he calls.
My whole body goes cold.
“Nope,” I whisper.
Hudson cannot hear me from below, but somehow his eyes narrow like he can read lips, read minds, read whatever panic is currently rewriting my nervous system.
“Layla.”
“I know.”
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I have a very active brain.”
“Tell it to be quiet.”
“Oh, sure. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re thinking too much.”
I make a strangled sound that might be a laugh or a sob. My legs will not move.
I am suddenly certain I have never moved before. Walking was a myth. I was carried here by poor decisions and male confidence. Hudson treads water below me.
“Look across,” he calls.
I force my eyes up. Trees. Light. Water bird. Sky.
“Good,” he says. “Arms close.”
I pull my arms tight.
“Knees soft.”
I bend them slightly.
