I should be disappointed. I am disappointed, which is ridiculous because weather is not personal. Hudson keeps one hand on my waist as he guides me back to the rock. We climb out fast, grabbing clothes and packs as rain darkens the stone around us. I put the water shoes on.
“Can we make it back?” I ask.
“Not before the heavy part hits.”
“Heavy part?”
As if summoned by his words, rain turns harder, drumming through leaves and splashing into the pool. Hudson grabs his shirt and my blue overshirt, stuffing both into his pack with quick, efficient movements.
“There’s an old maintenance cabin up the slope.”
“A cabin?”
“Small. Dry. Used to store trail tools.”
“That sounds like the beginning of either a horror movie or a romance novel.”
His gaze flashes to mine, and heat cuts through the rain.
“Layla.”
“What? It does.”
Another crack of thunder rolls overhead.
He holds out his hand. “Come on.”
I take it, and we run. At least, I do not run gracefully. My water shoes slap against mud. Rain plasters my hair to my face. Hudson keeps hold of my hand, slowing when I need him to, pulling me forward when the trail steepens. Branches scrape my arms. Laughter bursts out of me once, wild and breathless, because apparently this is my life now.
Cliffs in the morning. Waterfalls in the afternoon. Running through a mountain storm with a man who makes safe feel like something entirely different than I thought it was.
The maintenance cabin appears through the trees, small and weathered, tucked beneath a rocky overhang. Hudson reaches it first, yanks open the door, and pulls me inside.
Dimness closes around us. Rain pounds the roof. For a second, neither of us speaks.
The cabin smells like old wood and a bit musty. A narrow window lets in gray light. Shelves line one wall, stacked with coiled rope, trail markers, a folded tarp, and a rusted lantern. There is barely enough room for both of us to stand without touching. Which means, of course, we are touching.
My back is near the closed door. Hudson stands in front of me, breathing hard, rain running down his face and neck. His shirt is still off. My bathing suit is soaked. My blue overshirt is in his pack. Water slides down my arms, my chest, my legs.
His gaze drops, then jerks back to my face. The restraint in that single movement does something terrible to me. Outside, thunder shakes the little cabin. Inside, Hudson’s hand is still wrapped around mine. Slowly, he lets go.
“Storm should pass fast,” he says.
His voice is rough.
I nod. “Good.”
Neither of us moves. The space between us is almost nothing. I'm not on a ledge, but I feel like I could fall into something. And I may not have a choice about it. I hear our breath and feel his blue eyes on mine. There's a terrible, beautiful realization that the safest place I know right now is alone with the sexiest man I have ever wanted … and that's risky.
Chapter 8
Hudson
The maintenance cabin isn’t built for temptation. It’s built for shovels, trail markers, rope, old lanterns, and the kind of emergency supplies tourists never think anyone needs until the weather turns mean. Right now, it’s failing at its job. Badly.
Rain hammers the roof hard enough to drown out half the thoughts I should be having. Wind shoves branches against the small window with a scraping sound. Thunder rolls over the ridge, still too close for comfort.
The storm came in fast. Too fast. I should have turned us around sooner. I should have watched the clouds instead of watching Layla’s face when she saw the waterfall. Instead of noticing the way she said “I want” like she didn’t realize those two words could take a man apart.
