“Yes,” she says quietly. “It bothers me that it doesn’t bother me enough.”
My hand tightens on the shelf edge.
“Layla.”
“I know.” Her voice trembles, but she keeps going. “I know all the reasons I should be sensible. I’ve listed them several times in great detail.”
I smile despite myself.
“Sounds like you.”
“It is me. Or it used to be.”
That wipes the smile off my face. I turn. She’s wearing my sweatshirt. It hangs big on her, slipping off one shoulder, the hem brushing high on her thighs. Her wet hair is pushed back from her face. Her cheeks are pink. Her green eyes are too honest.
My body reacts first. My heart follows right after. The sweatshirt was supposed to make this easier. It doesn’t. It makes her look like she belongs in my life -- in my cabin, in my mornings, in my truck with her bare feet on the dash while we drive south before the first snow. I shove the thought away hard.
“You should sit,” I say.
She looks at the narrow workbench, then back at me. “I’m fine standing.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You point that out a lot.”
“Because you lie when you say it.”
Her lips part, but no argument comes. Instead, her expression shifts. She takes one step closer.
“Do you want me to sit because you’re worried about me,” she asks, “or because standing this close is making you nervous?”
I stare at her. There’s the brave woman from the cliff. Not fearless. Better than that – honest.
“I don’t get nervous,” I say.
Layla gives a raised eyebrow with a smile. “Liar.”
That does it. Not the word. The smile. The challenge in it. The way she’s still shaking but stepping closer anyway. I close the distance between us, slow enough for her to move back if she wants. She doesn’t. When I stop in front of her, there’s barely any air left.
“Standing this close to you is making me want things I should be smart enough not to want,” I say.
Her breath catches. “What things?”
My hand lifts. I give her plenty of time to stop me. She doesn’t. I touch her cheek, my palm against soft, rain-cooled skin. My thumb brushes near the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flutter and she leans into my hand before she can think better of it.
“You,” I say, voice rough.
The word comes out lower than I mean it to. Her green eyes open wide – vulnerable but filled with want.
“I’m not good at temporary,” she whispers.
That should stop me. It almost does. I’m good at temporary. Good at leaving. Good at making sure no woman gets too comfortable imagining me in the life she wants when winter comes and I’m already gone.
But Layla isn’t asking me to stay forever. She’s standing here, trembling in my sweatshirt, telling me she doesn’t know how to make this small. Neither do I.
“Then don’t make it temporary,” I say.
Her lips part. The words surprise both of us. I see it in her eyes because I feel it in my chest. I don’t take them back.
