“Your work seems like a lot of checking things before people need them,” she says.
That makes me look back. Most people don’t catch that. They see the visible parts -- the kayaks, the shirtless work, the cliff, the rope, the rescue when something goes wrong. Layla sees the before.
“Better than waiting until after,” I say.
“That sounds like a teacher answer.”
“Maybe teachers and lake guys have more in common than you think.”
That earns a smile.
“Maybe they do.”
We reach the bend where the trail drops closer to the water. A thick branch from the last storm is caught between two rocks near the edge of the cove, half-floating, half-submerged. Not a problem yet, but if the wind shifts, it could drift into the kayak route or the swimming shallows.
Layla stops several feet back. “Do you need help?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
She folds her arms. “That was very automatic.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I didn’t ask if you had it. I asked if you needed help.”
I glance at her. She lifts her brows. Damn woman.
The branch isn’t heavy, just awkward. I could clear it faster alone, but that’s not really the point. I’ve spent most of my adult life doing things alone because alone means nobody complains about the pace, the weather, the risk, the leaving. Alone is efficient. It’s also quiet. Too damn quiet sometimes.
I nod toward a smaller limb caught against the rock. “You can hold that end in place while I pull.”
Her face brightens like I’ve given her a gift instead of a wet stick. She steps closer, careful on the slick stones. “Here?”
“Not there. Moss is slick.” I point. “Put your foot on the dry patch.”
She obeys. A moment later, we work the branch free. It takes less than two minutes. Nothing dramatic or difficult. Her hands get wet. Mine get scraped once against a rock. The branch comes loose, and I haul it up onto the bank.
Layla pushes damp hair from her face with the back of her wrist. “There.”
I look at her. She looks proud. Not because clearing a branch is some grand accomplishment, but because she helped. Because I let her. That realization irritates me and softens me at the same time.
“You’re smiling,” she says.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m squinting.”
“At me?”
“The sun’s behind you.”
She turns and looks. The sun is absolutely not behind her.
When she faces me again, her smile has gone smug. “Liar.”
