Near the kayak rack, Hudson is unloading paddles while the Morrison family laughs their way toward the cabins. The little boy in blue is walking backward, still talking to him.
“You said traffic cones are alive,” the boy calls.
“I said orange keeps traffic cones alive,” Hudson answers.
“But blue kept me alive too.”
“Because it fit.”
“So blue is better.”
“Today, blue was better.”
The boy seems satisfied and runs after his family. Hudson turns back toward the kayaks. His shirt is on now, which should help, but it doesn’t. The fabric clings damply to his shoulders and chest, making me far too aware of what I know is underneath. His dark hair is pushed back, still messy from the lake. His skin is sun-warmed, his forearms flexing as he lifts one end of a kayak and slides it into place.
Then he sees me and his gaze locks on mine. The morning rushes back so fast I can almost feel his hand at my waist again.
I lift the ice bucket. “Just getting some ice.”
He comes toward me and takes the ice bucket from my hand.
“I can carry my own ice,” I say.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep needing to hear it.”
That shuts me up, which is unfair. He walks toward the office path, bucket in hand, and after a second I follow because apparently my self-respect has decided to take the morning off.
Kelsey is standing on the porch with a clipboard. She looks from Hudson to me, then to the ice bucket, then back to Hudson. Her expression is entirely too informed.
“Layla,” she says brightly. “How was your morning?”
“Educational.”
Hudson makes a sound that could be a cough. Kelsey’s eyes dance and I feel my face flush. Kelsey looks down at her clipboard, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
“Ice machine is around the side.”
“Thank you,” I say, then flee with as much dignity as possible.
Hudson follows. Of course he follows. He has my bucket.
The ice machine groans when he presses the lever, cubes clattering into the metal container. For several seconds, that is the only sound between us.
Then he says, “You should be careful with responses like that.”
My pulse jumps. “Responses like what?”
He releases the lever and turns to face me. “You know what.”
The space beside the office is shaded, cooler than the grass near the lake. Pine branches move overhead. The hum of the ice machine fades into the background, and I should make a joke. I am good at jokes when I’m nervous. Polite jokes. Teacher jokes. Mildly self-deprecating jokes designed to keep people from seeing the soft parts. But Hudson has a terrible habit of looking like he already sees them. So I choose something else. Truth, maybe.
“I’m not used to this,” I say.
His gaze sharpens. “This?”
