Her smile is bright enough to make the whole damn cove look different.
I’ve brought plenty of people out here -- tourists, locals, teenagers trying to show off, groomsmen with too much beer in them, women who wanted an adventure they could post online before lunch. I’ve heard screaming, swearing, and bragging. I’ve seen people jump for attention, jump because someone dared them, jump because they thought fear was something to beat into submission.
Layla jumps like she’s rescuing herself. That affects me.
A beautiful woman is easy to want. A wounded woman is easy to protect. A woman who is right in front of me becoming herself? That’s intoxicating.
I nod toward the lower rocks. “Come on. We need to get back before I’m late.”
Her smile falters a little. “Late?”
“I’ve got a kayak loop at ten.”
“Oh.” She glances toward the ledge, then back at me. “Right. You have actual work. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
I start swimming toward the sloped rock shelf. She follows. Her feet kick beneath the surface -- useful little things getting her where she needs to go. She doesn’t see herself clearly. She’s worried about her feet and probably a million other little things. She’s perfect just the way she is. I know better than to tell her that. Women don’t usually believe men who say things too soon. And Layla is not the kind of woman I should be trying to make believe anything.
I reach the shelf first and climb out, water running off my shoulders and down my chest. When I turn, she is close enough to reach. I hold out my hand. She looks at it for half a heartbeat, then takes it. Every damn time she does that, something in me tightens. Trust should not be this tempting.
I pull her from the water. Her bare feet land on the rock and she wobbles. My hands go to her waist before I think better of it. She’s wet but soft -- curvy under wet clothes. Her tank top clings to her breasts. Her shorts cling to her hips and thighs. Water slides down her throat, gathers at the hollow beneath it, and disappears under fabric I have no business noticing. I should let go, but I don’t right away.
The cove is quiet around us. No teenagers this time. No one to interrupt the way her fingers lightly catch my forearm, steadying herself, or the way her green eyes lift to mine as if she can feel the same heat gathering under my skin.
Layla is thirty-seven, a divorced teacher, here for a short time.
I am twenty-eight. Seasonal. Restless. Leaving before winter, same as always. All of that should matter more than the way she looks at me.
It doesn’t.
I release her and step back. “You good?”
She blinks, then nods. “I’m good.”
“Stay here,” I say. She looks confused as I take off running up the path to where we left our belongings. Within minutes I return with her water shoes.
I hand them over. “Put these on for the trail back.”
Layla slips on the second shoe and stands. I turn toward the trail. “Come on. I need to check that branch near the northern cove before the kayak group goes out.”
“You’re doing that now?”
“On the way back.”
“Of course you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re very…” She searches for a word as she follows me onto the path. “Responsible.”
I glance back at her. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised.” She steps carefully over a root, one hand brushing a tree trunk for balance. “Maybe I am. A little.”
The trail narrows, so I slow my pace. Layla walks behind me, close enough that I hear her breathing begin to even out after the climb.
Morning heat is starting to rise now, pulling the sharp coolness out of the air. By noon, the rocks will be too hot in places and every guest at the cabins will decide they need towels, ice, sunscreen, directions, or rescuing from a problem they created by ignoring a sign.
