I look past him at the cliff across the cove. Another jumper goes, hitting the water cleanly. The cheers rise again. I feel that strange pull inside … the one that brought me too close to the edge in the first place.
“You want to jump?”
I should say no and laugh this whole situation off. I can go back to my cabin, make tea, and read one of my three books like a normal woman on vacation. Instead, honesty slips out.
“Yes.”
His gaze sharpens. The single word feels like its own kind of leap.
I swallow. “I don’t know why.”
“Yes, you do.”
I stare at him. The breeze moves between us. The water below laps softly against stone. Across the cove, the group starts gathering towels, their moment of bravery already done. Mine waits unfinished.
“I just wanted to do one thing that doesn’t feel like me,” I say.
His expression changes then -- not soft exactly, but less guarded.
“What’s your name?”
“Layla.”
He repeats it, and I hate how much I like the sound of it in his voice.
“Layla,” he says, “if you want to jump, you learn the water first. You learn the ledge. You learn where to put your feet and where not to. You don’t walk up to the wrong spot in pretty sandals and dare gravity to be kind.”
Pretty sandals.He didn’t say pretty feet. Obviously not. Still, my cheeks heat.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Hudson.”
Naturally, his name is Hudson. Not a safe name like Harold, all neat and tidy with a retirement account and a dentist appointment scheduled six months in advance.
Hudson sounds like river water and rough hands. Like a man who knows how to build a fire, read a storm, and kiss a woman until she forgets why she was scared.
I need to stop. Immediately.
“Well, Hudson,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice, “thank you for the rescue and the lecture.”
“You’re welcome for the rescue.”
I wait, but he doesn’t add anything.
“And the lecture?” I prompt.
“That was a bonus.”
This time I really do laugh. Hudson smiles -- big -- and I turn, tripping over the smallest stone. I reach out, trying to find something to keep from falling. Unfortunately, the nearest thing is him. I take a step back instead. Wrong direction. His hand shoots out again, catching my wrist before my heel reaches loose rocks near the edge. His fingers are warm and firm around my skin.
“Layla.”
I freeze. He gently pulls me toward him, away from the drop. I go because every survival instinct I have apparently trusts thisman more than it trusts me. When I’m safely several feet from the ledge, he releases me.
“You really do need to go back,” he says.
“I know.”
