Marla: How unfortunately?
I think of his hand around my ankle. His voice below the ledge. His almost-kiss. His answer when I asked if he ever got tired of feeling like he didn’t have one home to go to.
Me: Very.
Three dots appear.
Marla: Good. You deserve very.
I stare at those words longer than I expect. Maybe that is what I came here for. Not Hudson, exactly. I did not know he existed when I packed my suitcase with three books and too many apologies folded into the seams. But something very. A very blue lake. A very reckless jump. A very dangerous younger man who looks at me like I am not a failed version of any life, but a woman standing on the edge of her own.
Chapter 7
Layla
At three-thirty, I start getting ready, which is absurd because Hudson said trail check, small waterfall, swimming hole, not a date.
Not a date. I repeat this while changing clothes three times. The sundress is too much. The denim shorts from this morning are still damp. The black athletic shorts make me look like I am trying to be someone who says words like cardio on purpose.
I settle on soft navy shorts, a pale pink tank, and the open blue shirt from earlier because it seems practical without admitting I care. Then I put on my water shoes for the trail. I also pack sandals. And a towel. And sunscreen. And a granola bar, which I hide at the bottom of my backpack because Hudson does not need more ammunition.
At four exactly, a knock sounds on my cabin door. My pulse answers before I do. I open it.
Hudson stands on the porch with one hand braced against the doorframe. He has changed too. Dry shirt, dark green this time. Cargo shorts. Hiking boots. A small pack slung over one shoulder. His hair is still unruly, his blue eyes still impossible, his mouth still something I should not be thinking about.
His gaze moves over me. Not rudely, but slowly enough to let me accuse him of anything. But enough. Enough that my skin warms everywhere his eyes touch.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
His mouth curves.
I lift my chin. “But I’m coming anyway.”
“That works.”
I step onto the porch and lock the door behind me. The sky above the trees is bright, but in the distance, beyond the far ridge, a line of darker clouds gathers like a secret. I notice them. So does Hudson.
“Storm?” I ask.
“Maybe later.”
“Maybe?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Spoken like a man who jumps off cliffs before breakfast.”
“Spoken like a woman who lived to do the same.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling when I do it.
We start down the cabin path together. This time, I do not walk behind him because I’m afraid of where to step. I walk beside him.
The trail toward Willow Falls begins past the main cabins, curves through pines, then rises into thicker woods where the lake slips in and out of view between the trees. The air changes as we climb. Warmer in the open places. Cooler beneath the branches. The scent of pine deepens, mixing with damp earth and sun-warmed stone.
Hudson moves easily, but he slows his stride to match mine without making a show of it. I notice. Of course I notice. Every woman notices when a man makes room for her without making her feel like she is slowing him down.
