Now we’re here – alone and wet. Probably standing too close. And I’m trying to remember every reason I should keep my hands to myself.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
I look down. A thin red line runs across the back of my hand, probably from a branch during the run up here. Nothing deep.
“It’s nothing.”
Layla gives me that look. The teacher look.
“It is not nothing. It’s blood.”
“Barely blood.”
“Barely blood is still blood.”
“Is that an official medical category?”
“No, but it should be.”
She glances around the cabin. “Do you have a first-aid kit in here?”
“Top shelf. Blue box.”
She turns toward the shelves, and watching her move in that black bathing suit is not helping me become a better man. The suit clings to her curves like it was made to punish me. The wet fabric follows every soft line of her body -- the dip of her waist, the fullness of her hips, the generous curve of her breasts. Her blond hair is darker from the rain, strands sticking to her cheek and throat.
She reaches for the kit, stretching onto her toes, but she can’t quite get it. I move before she can try again.
“Here.”
She turns at the same time I step in behind her. My chest brushes her back. Both of us go still. The shelf is right there. Thekit is right there. All I have to do is reach over her head, grab it, and step away like a responsible man.
My arm lifts and my body leans in just enough to catch the box. Her breath catches -- soft and sharp -- and that tiny sound goes through me like heat lightning.
I pull the first-aid kit down and force myself to step back. One full step. Maybe two. Not enough.
Layla turns slowly. “Thank you.”
Her voice is quieter now.
“You’re welcome.”
She takes the kit from my hand and sets it on an overturned crate. When she opens it, her fingers tremble. Not from the cold. I know cold. This isn’t that.
She pulls out an antiseptic wipe and a small bandage.
“Hand.”
“Layla.”
“Hudson.”
I hold it out anyway. She takes it, turning my hand palm-down. The wipe stings when she cleans the cut, but I barely feel it because her thumb rests near my knuckles and her brow is furrowed in concentration.
She touches me like I matter. Not like I’m useful or a temporary thrill in a mountain town. Her touch is like I matter. That’s a dangerous thing to think about while rain traps us in this cabin.
“It really isn’t bad,” she says.
“I told you.”
